Legends of Ahn (King's Dark Tidings Book 3)

by Kel Kade

  “You’re no help. Go away, Tam. I’ll take care of her,” Reaylin said in a huff.

  Ilanet was disappointed when Tam left, but she was also thankful that he would not be around to see her lose her stomach. She lay back against the wall and looked up at Reaylin. Ilanet did not think Reaylin to be much older than she.

  “You are a healer?” Ilanet asked.

  Reaylin rolled her eyes and said, “I guess. An apprentice anyway. It won’t help, you know—lying down. You were probably better off on deck where you could see the horizon and breathe the fresh air. Took me a while to learn that. Don’t worry, though. I can already help with the sea sickness. I’ve been doing it a lot.”

  Tam wandered the short distance toward his own berth, one he shared with Wesson, Jimson, Drascon, and Millins. A few of the foreign former tournament competitors had also been sharing the space, but they had disembarked in Serret. His new bunkmates would be settling in, and he intended to see if they needed anything. Before he made it to the room, however, he was set upon by a band of unscrupulous nobles. They yanked him into their own berth and tossed him to a bed. Malcius, Brandt, and Tieran surrounded him. Waylen watched from across the small room, but the baron was not to be seen. It was too bad, Tam thought. The baron might have talked them out of whatever troublesome antics they intended.

  “Well,” Tieran said as he crossed his arms imperiously. “How did it go?”

  Tam glanced between their fervent gazes. “How did what go?”

  Brandt popped him upside the head and said, “With Lady Netty, you twit. You two were up there for a while—alone.”

  Tam scowled at the insinuation. “We weren’t alone. Lus was guarding her the whole time.” He straightened his tunic and said, “We just talked.”

  “Yes, but what did you talk about?” Malcius asked with a grin. “Is she besotted already?”

  “Probably. She asked a lot of questions—about Rezkin.” Tam knew they could hear his disappointment.

  Tieran rolled his eyes. “Of course she did. They all want to know about Rezkin. She came to you, though. Soon enough she will realize she cannot have him, and she will look elsewhere.”

  “Who knows?” Tam asked. “She might have him. She’s gorgeous … and refined. She seems really nice, too. I don’t think things are too good with him and Frisha. He might choose someone else.”

  Shaking his head, Tieran said, “Even if he and Frisha do not wed, he would not marry Lady Netty. Frisha was never an appropriate choice for a king. We have only been forced to accept her because he wanted her. Now, he is to be king of Cael, at the least, and eventually Ashai. If he chooses someone else, she must be of appropriate standing, someone of good breeding—a princess or duchess most likely.”

  “Or a master mage,” Waylen added.

  “Right,” said Tieran. “Lady Netty obviously lacks importance. She has no wealth that I have seen, and I have asked around. Nobody recognizes her.”

  Brandt said, “And, come on. Nobody names their child Netty. Terrible! Obviously a false name. She does not wish us to know who she is.”

  “She is probably a runaway,” said Tieran, “a stray that he picked up along the way. You know how he is. He thinks he needs to save everyone.”

  “Until he gets them killed,” Malcius muttered. “But seriously, Tam. Lady Netty has been traveling alone with Lus and Rezkin. If nothing else, her virtue is in question. If the healers cannot be satisfied, then she holds little or no value to any noble who cares for his reputation.”

  “You shouldn’t say such things,” Tam snapped. “You don’t know anything about her.”

  “That is the point,” Tieran said. “And it is to your advantage.”

  “How is it to my advantage? I’m a commoner. She’s a noblewoman. Even disgraced nobles don’t marry commoners.”

  “Aunt Terissa did,” Malcius said. “You know her—Frisha’s mother—and she certainly was not in disgrace.”

  “That was different,” Tam argued. “She was in love, and Frisha’s father is as wealthy and successful as a commoner can be. What am I? I have nothing to offer.”

  “You are the king’s apprentice and his friend besides,” Malcius said. “He has made it clear to us more than once that you are to be treated with respect. I think he would give you anything if you only ask, including permission to marry a noble lady.”

  “So you think I actually have a chance with her?” Tam asked, still utterly confused about the turn of events. It had not been that long ago that these same people were berating Palis for pursuing a commoner. Although he was buoyed by their support, he was hesitant to get his hopes up for something too fantastical to consider.

  “Unless you screw it up,” Brandt said as he popped Tam in the head again.

  “It is best you move quickly,” Malcius added.

  “Why is that?” Tam asked as he rubbed his crown. “She is only sixteen, not even of age.”

  “That hardly matters. She will be of age next year. It is common for these details to be arranged ahead of time. Besides, if she is pregnant, you will want people to assume it is yours.”

  “What?” Tam asked in horror. “Why would I want people to think I knocked up a young girl?”

  “Because then you can marry her, and the babe will be thought legitimate,” Brandt said as he moved to strike Tam in the head again.

  This time Tam ducked. Brandt fell forward with the failed attack, and Tam’s palm came down on Brandt’s shoulder. With a shout, the young lord fell, his face smashing into the planks. Tam jumped to help upon realizing what he had just done.

  “I’m so sorry, Lord Gerrand. It just happened, I swear! I didn’t mean to …”

  He was cut off when Brandt broke into boisterous laughter. “Stop your blubbering, Tam. You got me by rights.” He rolled over and pushed to his feet. “Nobody messes with the king’s apprentice. You can tell Lady Netty that you laid me out.”

  Tam blinked at the grinning faces and asked, “Why are you doing this? Why would you help me?”

  “Protect and honor your friends,” Tieran said. “It is the first rule, Tam. King’s orders.”

  Chapter 10

  Adsden watched the door shut behind the latest messenger and then sat back in his chair contemplating the turn of events. He surveyed his office in the Serpents’ guildhall as he tried to piece together the intent behind the orders he had received the previous day. For the life of him, though, he could not figure out the Raven’s plans. Adsden rather liked puzzles—anything to keep his overactive mind intrigued, and the Raven had become something of an obsession. The first messenger had been a runner from Drennil, a life mage with the ability to drive his horse faster than was naturally possible. The cost of procuring such a messenger was not insignificant, so the directive had to be important.

  “Were the orders from the Raven?” Benni asked.

  “I do not believe so, though I cannot say for sure. Reports place the Raven all over Ashai. One even claims he has begun an assault on the Channerían King’s Seat in Serret. I think that overreaching. It is more likely the Raven was responsible for the recent annexation of the guilds in Vogn.”

  “That’s in the southern peninsula, right?”

  “Yes, and it would make more sense with these orders. By all accounts, Duke Ytrevius, who presided over the southern peninsula, fell under Caydean’s assault. There have been reports of refugees, or traitors as the king is calling them, fleeing east to Channería. The Raven could take advantage of the unrest and go west to Vogn. He could then travel up the western coast to Atressian lands in the north, hence the interest in the Mulnak brothers.”

  “What if he did go east?” Benni asked.

  “I admit, I have not yet determined the Raven’s motives, but I can think of nothing that would draw him east when so much is to be had here. Now, move to your position. The messenger said that Lord Fierdon Mulnak will be here shortly.”

  He did not have long to wait. Duke Atressian’s eldest son did not ask for p
ermission to enter, nor had Adsden expected it. Fierdon might be considered the black sheep of the family, but he was still an Atressian. He swept into the room wrapped in the rags of a beggar.

  “Guildmaster Adsden, your men may go.”

  Fierdon’s shoulders appeared tense, and he had the countenance of a man prepared to defend himself—perhaps more from verbal onslaught than a physical one, Adsden thought. He motioned for the man at the door to leave but did not acknowledge his protégé hiding in the rafters. Benni was to prove that he could remain undetected and remember most of the conversation. The Raven had seen promise in the boy, and he had not been wrong. Benni was quickly becoming one of the Serpent Guild’s best sneaks.

  The door shut softy, and Adsden motioned to the settee. “Lord Fierdon, would you care for a drink? I recently acquired a Leréshi red-gold that is rare in these parts. It is both sweet and bold.”

  Fierdon paused and eyed the crystal decanter that sat amongst the goblets on a silver tray. “I … yes, that would be fine.”

  Adsden poured the proffered spirits as he spoke. “Please, let us sit. I trust you are not in a hurry? May I take your coat?”

  Fierdon glanced down at the rags he wore over his tunic. “Yes … I … it is a disguise.”

  “Of course,” Adsden said as he handed the goblet to Fierdon with a practiced smile. The man was truly hideous, but he could not be blamed for his appearance. Adsden had been informed of the circumstances surrounding the man’s deformities. “You wear it well,” he said. Fierdon looked at him questioningly. “I hope you take these words as the compliment they are intended to be. As guildmaster of a prominent thieves’ guild, I am practiced at recognizing talent. You would have made an excellent thief or assassin had you not been born to privilege. Obviously, it is far below your station, but …”

  “No, I appreciate your candor, Guildmaster, and your recognition of my efforts. My … appearance has been both a boon and a hindrance. Obviously, I draw attention, but most people would rather not see.”

  Adsden watched as Fierdon’s eyes were drawn to a sculpture that had been conspicuously positioned on a side table for this meeting. It was a dreadful rendition of a bestial man ravaging an ancient goddess.

  “It is unfortunate,” Adsden said.

  Fierdon blinked, and his attention snapped away from the sculpture. “What is?”

  “That we should live today in this place. Long ago existed a people called the Svellites. Have you heard of them?”

  “No, I cannot say that I have,” said Fierdon as the took the goblet and tested its contents.

  “The Svellites were a unique culture,” Adsden said. He paced toward the side table and paused, as if admiring the sculpture. “They were first and foremost artists, but their culture was strongly immersed in an unusual perception of beauty. They believed that aesthetically pleasing things, those that we today consider beautiful, were incomplete. They felt that true beauty could only be achieved in balance—a juxtaposition of light and dark, good and evil,”—he waved a hand over the sculpture—“desirable and appalling. They were fascinated by extremes. The more attractive, the more adored. The more grotesque, the more respected. To be included in a union of the two was their greatest privilege and honor. After all, a lady was not considered to be truly beautiful if she was not accompanied by horror.”

  Fierdon had been captivated by the sculpture, but he now looked to Adsden uncertainly. “It seems unfair,” he said, “to curse someone so lovely with something so hideous.”

  “Someone, something?” Adsden mused as he took a seat in the high-back chair across from Fierdon. He held his goblet with the refinement Adsden had observed of the aristocracy. “Their contemporaries felt as you say. They called the Svellites heathens and even accused them of demon worship. Eventually, the Svellites were slaughtered by their enlightened neighbors, and most of their abundant artwork was destroyed. But, consider this—not everything that is beautiful on the outside is beautiful on the inside, and not everything that is ugly is a demon. I, personally, think the Svellites sought to see the truth in things. In the balance, they were acknowledging the beauty and ugliness that exists in all things and sought to bring them to the fore.”

  Fierdon’s gaze swept back to the statue, and Adsden knew he had the man’s attention. A knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter,” he said.

  Attica strolled into the room with a swaggering gait and a smirk on her lips. Her confidence faltered briefly when her gaze landed on Fierdon, but she recovered so quickly one might have thought to have imagined it. Fierdon probably had not noticed because as soon as the woman stepped into the room, he became preoccupied with raising his hood, which, in present lighting, could not possibly conceal his face. One of Attica’s enforcers, Kendt, surveyed the area before closing the door with his departure.

  Adsden rose to greet the woman properly and make the introduction. “Lord Fierdon, this is Attica, guildmaster of the Diamond Claws. Attica, this is Lord Fierdon Mulnak of Atressian.”

  Attica crossed her arms beneath her breasts and cocked a hip to one side. “Pleasure.”

  The woman appeared different every time Adsden saw her. One day she would be dressed as a seamstress or scullery maid and the next, a mercenary. Today, she was wearing a fitted shirt, indecently unlaced to a point below her bosom, tucked into pants that hugged her curves. Knee-high boots graced her calves over raised heels that made her already long legs seem endless, and her raven-black hair was pulled back tight, emphasizing large green-brown eyes. Her strong nose and sharp chin rendered her striking, if not exactly beautiful.

  “You are a guildmaster?” Fierdon said. “It cannot be.”

  Attica grinned and said, “That’s what I keep saying.” She strolled forward and plopped into a chair in a very unladylike fashion. She crossed her legs, looked up at the men, and said, “Well?”

  “Do not be fooled by her appearance, Lord Fierdon,” Adsden said. “Attica was hand-picked by the Raven to run her guild, and she is ruthless.”

  He poured the woman a drink, and then both men took their seats. Fierdon seemed to be looking for a shadow in which to hide.

  He kept his face averted as he said, “Forgive me, Madam Attica … Guildmaster. I did not intend insult.”

  “No forgiveness necessary, and it’s mistress, not madam. I don’t run a brothel, and I’m not married,” she said with a wink.

  Fierdon finally met her gaze and ventured, “You are not disgusted by my appearance?”

  Attica shrugged. “So your face is a bit melted. You seem like a nice enough guy.”

  “Attica, you are talking to a lord of Atressian,” Adsden said.

  Attica raised a brow and smirked. “Right. Sorry, Lord Fierdon. I’m not used to talking to important people.”

  “I—do not claim to be important, exactly. It is true that I am a Mulnak, but any significance I held burned away with my flesh.” He gritted his teeth and said, “Hespion is heir.”

  Attica laughed. “And we are heirs to nothing. Are we not important? We’ve survived, made our own ways, impressed the right people. Besides, Hespion’s a fraud. From what I hear, you’re the brains of the family. Oh, sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t mean to disrespect the future duke and all.”

  Fierdon appeared mesmerized, and Adsden thought the woman was delivering a magnificent performance.

  After an uncomfortable silence, Attica said, “What?”

  Fierdon blinked several times and glanced away. “I apologize. I did not mean to stare. It is just that … well, I have never spoken to a woman for so long. They usually run away, screaming in terror.”

  This last he said with a lift of his lips that Adsden thought to be a smile, but it tugged the skin around his eyes and twisted his face into an almost menacing expression. Still, Adsden admired the man for his ability to find humor in the darkness.

  “A terror?” Attica said with a chuckle. “No, you are not a terror.” Her smirk fell, and her eye
s lit with intensity. “I have seen terror. I have met the Raven, and nothing is so terrifying as he.”

  This, Adsden knew to be a truth and found no fault in her words. He stared into the red-gold liquid in his glass, swirling it as he once had another goblet in the demon’s very presence.

  “And yet he is so beautiful,” he mused.

  Attica raised a brow and said, “I can’t seem to remember.”

  Adsden looked up. “Nor can I … and neither can any of my men, for that matter. But I remember how I felt. He is enticing, yet horrifying,” he said as his gaze wandered to the statue on the table. He looked back to his guest and said, “What may we do for you, Lord Fierdon.”

  Fierdon glanced between the two. “I was under the impression the guilds were at odds.”

  Attica grinned. “We are.”

  Adsden added, “But we are united under the Raven.”

  Fierdon paused, and Adsden saw the realization dawn. “You knew I was coming.”

  Smiling, Adsden said, “The Raven knew.”

  “But how? I found out only a few days ago, and I was very careful not to be noticed on the way here.”

  “The Raven’s network is extensive,” Adsden said. “I think greater than any of us realize.”

  “What does he want with me?” Fierdon asked.

  Attica said, “The question is, what is it you want?”

  Fierdon’s gaze grazed the woman’s form, and he quickly glanced away. “I need funds—and protection. I need to return home.”

  “Do you?” Adsden asked as he refilled Fierdon’s glass.

  “What do you mean? Of course I do. I will not be safe until I am back on Atressian lands. Caydean’s forces are everywhere.”

  “Yes, that is true,” Adsden said. “Though, not everyone is loyal to Caydean.”

  “That hardly matters in my case.” He motioned to his face. “Anyone would be glad to see me captured, and the promise of a reward is more than enough incentive.”

  “You are probably right,” Adsden said. “I imagine the son of a duke might find it difficult to make genuine friends, friends on whom you may depend in difficult times. As you say, it is likely more difficult in your case. Fear drives Caydean’s forces, though. Their hearts are not in it. Caydean’s greatest adversary is not your father or any of the dukes. It is not even his own madness. It is hope. So long as his people have hope of redemption, his power will never be consolidated.”