The Dragon Thief (Sorcery and Sin Book 1)

by Justin DePaoli

  Across from him was Raegon Gravendeer, fingers full of rings.

  “You invite me to renegotiate trade terms,” Maren said, “and instead I come here to find a bloody festival underway.”

  “With your king missing, I worried that mention of a mere festival wouldn’t be enough to bring us together. But I do intend to make good on my promise of economic renegotiation, so long as you agree to discuss”—he swirled his ringed fingers in the air—“worldly matters on behalf of Valios’s Council.”

  Maren wore a stone-smooth face that said nothing about a Council whose heads had been recently removed from their bodies. He lifted himself halfway out of the chair, rummaging in a pocket. He slapped a messily folded parchment on the table. “Valios’s proposed terms. You’ll find all necessary information included within.”

  He slid the parchment across the table but found it sliding back toward him when he took his hand away.

  “Not now, Maren,” Raegon said. “Tomorrow we will discuss this matter. Tonight we feast and the powers of Avestas talk of their troubles and ice their tempers.”

  “It wasn’t in my intentions to stay long, Raegon.”

  Raegon crouched forward. “Let me ask you something. Little Lavery… are you certain he wouldn’t have abdicated? Or more or less run away? He’s a child, after all.”

  “I’m fairly certain that didn’t happen.”

  Raegon sighed. “I doubted it too, but—look, I’ve been racking my brains over this, Maren. Kidnapping a king is no small task. Either Valios suffered a catastrophic failure in security, or—and please understand, I mean no insult—the kidnappers had inside help.”

  What a goddamned introduction to the world stage, Maren thought. Someone of rash decision making and ill temperament might have fixed a scowl on his face and lashed out at Raegon Gravendeer for his insinuations. Someone who was insecure and anxious might have begun wondering if he knew something, if the big secret had gotten out.

  But Maren O’Keefe was neither of those people. Raegon couldn’t have had knowledge of Maren’s plot, and his brazen suggestion that a corruptness lingered within Valios was meant to unhinge Maren, knock him off-balance so that when the talks of renegotiation came, his mind would be elsewhere.

  “I have my evidence,” Maren said calmly.

  “And?”

  “And it’s mounting. I am continuing to gather it. If that will be all, Raegon, I’d appreciate an escort to my quarters. Long excursion from Valios, wouldn’t you know?”

  With a hand on his mouth, Raegon smiled. “Of course. I’ll send a servant up later to provide you with a more… fitting choice of attire for a feast.”

  Maren looked at his dingy tunic and the dented and marred gray steel that wrapped around him. “I’m a military man. What can I say?”

  “What do you think?” Oriana said, crossing her arms over the front of a tight-fitting dress made of midnight-blue silk with crushed sapphires sparkling across the plunging neckline.

  Rol stood back and whistled sharply. “That’s what I think.”

  She snapped her head to the side in a you-can’t-be-serious gesture.

  “What?” Rol said innocently. “You look damn fine, that’s all.”

  “I’m not talking about the way I look! I mean our plan. Think we can pull it off?”

  Rol went over to the cottage window. He pulled aside the drapes and peered out into the bustling estate. Cages of chickens were being stacked ten high, bound by rope. Foodstuffs were being hauled out of the enormous root cellar and packed tightly into wagon beds. Both blacksmiths—doubling as carpenters—and all three leatherworkers were busy fixing up reins, cobbling together wagons and wheels, stitching tarps to cover perishables in case of rain.

  “Never seen the place so lively,” Rol remarked.

  “Me either. Everyone seems to have bought in.”

  Rol closed the drapes. “For now. But we’ll need a better plan than taking a long walk to the Blue Coast and sitting by the waves all day.”

  That was the plan she’d told Rol: they’d travel east, till they reached the Blue Coast, some hundred miles from Torbinen. The journey would take almost two months. She would cast an illusion there, keep them safe for a while. The Blue Coast, she’d said, offered them warmth and plenty of food. What she maybe hadn’t confessed to Rol was that the second part of her plan would begin from there.

  The illusion was to be a temporary hovel, not a permanent one. As soon as they were settled, she’d fly across the sea on the wings of Sarpella and land on Baelous’s shore. With any luck, her good friend Catali—the rogue member of the Conclave—would still be alive, and she could learn what the clutches were planning. That they’d look to reclaim their whelps was obvious, and their intention of invading Avestas was as close to obvious as you could get without slipping into sure thing territory.

  But Oriana needed to know the hows. Would they come for their babies first, or would the assault take place at the same time? Would they look to take Avestas or scorch it? Most importantly, would Avestas face only the wrath of dragons, or had the clutches subjugated the Conclave to bring with them sorcery? Neither option was particularly appealing, but the latter would be far more harrowing.

  “Okay,” Oriana said, putting both hands on Rol’s shoulders. “I better get going. Maybe I’ll bring back a piece of duck or a chunk of mutton if no one’s looking.” She winked and smiled.

  Rol clapped his hands and boinged. “Oh my! You know me so well.”

  Oriana laughed, leaned onto the tips of her toes and kissed Rol’s cheek. “I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Hopefully the feast doesn’t end in five different declarations of war.”

  She chuckled. “As long as that doesn’t happen and no one dies, I’ll consider the night to have gone well.”

  Olyssi hated complimenting others. It hurt her—physically and mentally. And while she refused to say anything nice to Custodian Yvondre, she did muse to herself that no extravagance was spared.

  Yvondre had ordered bricklayers to rebuild the old dais upon which the Great Table sat. Over the years, the dais’s wood had become warped and stained. Now it’d been transformed into a pedestal of royalty, crafted of immaculate lake stone.

  New chandeliers had been hung, and the pillars had been scrubbed vigorously. The marble floor shined like a placid lake, and banners featuring the Gravendeer sunwolf had been smoothed free of all wrinkles and draped from the balcony.

  Covered plates and bowls began to arrive from the kitchen, set in orderly fashion on the buffets. Servants milled about as the last dishes of the first meal were brought out. Lemon and thyme and pepper and vinegar and oil swirled as one invisible cloud of heavenly perfume.

  Maren O’Keefe sat across from Olyssi. He made the mistake of looking at her.

  “I think, Master O’Keefe, that you’ll find even our salads are more delectable than anything your tongue has tasted.” She knew his title was Lord O’Keefe, which was exactly why she addressed him as Master; people hate when you mix up their titles.

  He smiled weakly. “Well, then. Maybe I’ll have to purchase your recipes.”

  Olyssi frowned. She’d heard it was difficult to goad Maren. He was a boring man. She wished she’d sat across the fiery and delectably impassioned Bastion Rook, but of course her sister had that privilege.

  Her father headed the table, and then came Farris Torbinen in her many flowing silks. Despite her saggy jowls and deep wrinkles, she was a lively woman who wouldn’t hesitate to give you an honest assessment of your manners and your appearance.

  Across from her sat Emmil Wrokklen, a man with receding hair and an equally receding passion for life. He rarely talked, opting to find enjoyment in his drink. He likely plotted ways in which he could murder Maren O’Keefe and spark a war that would benefit his kingdom.

  And then came Oriana and Bastion, who always wore a wry smile that twisted beneath his thin mustache, and Olyssi and Maren.

  The servants arranged
themselves in a neat, orderly row that stretched from the first buffet to the last. Everyone quieted.

  “My lord,” Yvondre announced, “the feast is ready.”

  Raegon Gravendeer stood, ancient chalice in hand. Over a hundred years ago, the first king of Haeglin had held that cup high above his head as he held a toast for the entire kingdom—a celebration of capturing a sorceress who, he claimed, had cursed him and forced him to have sex with sixteen other women, all to spite his wife.

  The chalice had been gold then, but dust and dirt and cold and warmth had long ago stripped it down to the copper it’d been crafted from.

  Raegon clanged a spoon against the stem. “Lords and ladies, kings and queens and”—he aimed the chalice in Maren O’Keefe’s direction—“those so unfortunate as to be without one, these are delicate times. I am not a man of many words, and speeches have never moved me, so allow me to conclude with a simple wish for us all: eat good food, drink good wine, and spill your grievances so that we may all heal. So that Avestas may heal.”

  Bastion Rook and Farris Torbinen and Emmil Wrokklen and Maren O’Keefe and the Gravendeer sisters all raised their silver cups with gold rims, and then they drank.

  Some drank little, some drank much. Olyssi drank until the last drop had slid into her mouth.

  And she stared over the edge of her cup with creased eyes. With unblinking eyes. With furious blue eyes. Maren O’Keefe didn’t acknowledge her, but he saw her.

  He most certainly saw her. She adjusted the handheld crossbow around her waist and sipped.

  Against his better judgment, Lavery Walked from the Peak. He’d begun putting pieces of the puzzle together since the Sanctum Woods and discovered that Walking was a matter of will. When he wanted to leave the present, he did so, though he had no way of controlling where and how far into the past or future he went.

  He’d also learned Walking meant he no longer existed in the present. Sort of. While he’d intended to ignore Baern forevermore out of anger, his curiosity had gotten the best of him. He’d asked what happened to his body in the present when he went to the past or future. Baern said he took it with him and that yes, dying six thousand years ago was entirely possible and if you did so, you could kiss the present goodbye because you’d no longer be a part of it.

  Baern also told him that while his life remained forever in peril while Walking, he could not affect the lives of others. Or rather, he could not murder them. Baern figured Lavery would never attempt such a thing, but one cannot predict future killers.

  Lavery returned to the Peak a short while later, afraid that he’d be stuck forever in the past; that was what the man who gave him the torch had said happened to Wraith Walkers who didn’t leave quickly enough.

  Lavery hoped he’d find something he could use to free himself. But no, he returned with only a bad case of exhaustion. He regretted giving Baern the silent treatment. He had so many questions about being a Wraith Walker. Could he travel anywhere in the past, to any time in the future? Did he have control over it? Was that man with the torches right? Did he have limited time before his gateway to the present sealed shut? And what was with the fatigue?

  He figured that last part was pretty easily explainable. Traveling is hungry, tiring work. A jaunt through time must be even more extreme than your run-of-the-mill journey.

  He puffed out his cheeks. Vibrated his lips. Clucked to himself. He wished to count the stars, but none were out tonight. He should have slept. Nothing would be gained by fighting sleep. He was chained to an anvil, and anvils don’t move very easily. Those were both verifiable facts that weren’t changing anytime soon.

  Still, sleep felt weirdly like giving up. So he stayed awake, looked around. Sang songs in his head, thought far too much and worried even more.

  Then, at some point—not very late into the night, but not early either—he heard a strange noise. A gurgle of sorts.

  Then a second noise. This one more guttural, forceful. No, he thought, more desperate. Someone choking, that was the sound he heard. And not an oops-that-went-down-the-wrong-way kind of choking, either. This was a help-I’m-dying kind of choking.

  The noises stopped abruptly. For a while, everything was silent. Actually, not true. Everything sounded louder: branches arching under crisscrossing winds, faraway coughs and conversations, the distant caw of a raven. Lavery’s own heart beating in his throat.

  But the frightening choking noises had stopped.

  Lavery suddenly wished he heard them again. That would have been preferable to the crunch, the thump, the tap of feet wading through the jungle of weeds and brush.

  It’s a terrible thing when fight or flight kicks in and you can do neither. Lavery scooted back, but accomplished only bonking his head on the anvil.

  The footsteps neared. There were several.

  Leafy vines that crossed the archway leading into his makeshift prison shuddered. They were moving away from him, in the manner of someone shoving them aside.

  He saw a hand first, concealed in plate. Then a head, which ducked under the arch. A moment later, Lavery watched as the first of two Jackals positioned themselves inside the room. Neither were wearing helmets. Both had faces that were… different. Their cheeks were pallid, eyes withdrawn.

  A third man entered behind the guards. Lavery had never seen him before. He had long hair, a bit grungy. His arms were so thin you could see a vast network of blue veins branching off, some pulsing as if his blood wished to escape his body.

  “Lavery Opsillian?” the man said, his voice boorish.

  Lavery didn’t know if he should nod, shake his head, or stay silent. Before he could make a decision, the man crouched before him and flashed him a smile. His lips bled, as if he’d never smiled before, never allowed the skin to stretch in such ways.

  “I’m here to save you,” he said.

  “And then she tells him, I’ve seen more impressive cocks in a chicken coop!”

  Even Maren O’Keefe roared at that one, pounding the table in laughter as Raegon told another of his stories. As he embarked on yet another tale, capturing his audience of kings and queens, Olyssi emerged from the kitchen, a gingerbread crisp dangling from her mouth. She sat beside her sister, away from the volley of laughter and bursts of stale ale breath.

  “Delicious,” she said, biting the gingerbread crisp in half. “Have you tried one yet?”

  Oriana gave her sister a sidelong glance. “Since when you do fetch your own food?”

  Olyssi wiped her tongue across the crumbs of her bottom lip. “The servants deserve to rest for a while. They did well tonight. Not one spill. Nothing burnt. Nothing cold. Couldn’t have gone better, if I say so myself.”

  “If you say so yourself”—Oriana rolled her eyes—“you didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “I invited everyone. And they all came.”

  “Wow, you’re special, Olyssi. Fantastic skill there, inviting kings and queens to a feast. I’m leaving soon; isn’t it time for the Sunset Frost yet?”

  Olyssi took another bite, catching the crumbs in her hand. “They say patience is—”

  “Not my virtue at the moment,” Oriana interrupted.

  “I was going to say a good trait for queens to have. Maybe that’s why I’ll be sitting on the throne one day, hmm?”

  Oriana yawned, held her sister’s eyes for a while, then laughed. “Betting on Death to take Father and me?”

  “You’re so cute,” Olyssi said, scrunching up her nose like she was talking to a young girl making adorable faces, “thinking you’re still his chosen daughter. Anyways, if you’re tired, then leave. I’ll be the mature one. The responsible one who stays until the festivities are finished.”

  Oriana sighed. “I would lift my middle finger up right now, but you’re not really worth the effort.” She got up and moved several chairs down, by her lonesome.

  Goodness, I’m effective, Olyssi said. She finished her gingerbread crisp and sipped her watered-down wine. She laughed as the ot
hers laughed, shook her head to sad stories and ones meant to infuriate and sow unity amongst the lords and ladies. She raised her cup to the many toasts that Bastion or Farris or her father would spontaneously initiate.

  As the enervation from puddling wine in bellies began producing yawns and watery eyes and dulled the conversation, Maren O’Keefe relieved himself from the table to go relieve himself in a chamber pot.

  Olyssi watched him leave, then she stretched her arms high in the air and washed a hand down her face. She glanced at the banister, to where Gimble Rivace had positioned himself the entire night. The tail of his cloak swished away as he walked toward the spiral staircase.

  Gimble strolled down the steps, one relaxed hand grasping the banister as he went. He seemed in a jovial mood as he made way toward the arched doorway where Yvondre stood.

  He leaned in, whispered something. She acknowledged him with a nod, then ambled over to Raegon Gravendeer and waited patiently for him to finish a story involving himself, a sheep and lots of misadventures. When he did, she bent down, cupped a hand around her mouth and spoke softly.

  Mouth gaping, he drunkenly reached for her arm and yanked her in closer. “Is it? That late already? Well, bring her in, then! We’ll not wake up till dusk if we don’t put the kibosh on this night soon.”

  The her he referred to was neither a her nor him, for drinks do have not genders. Yvondre had told the king it was nearing midnight and asked if he wished for the Sunset Frost to be brought out.

  Sunset Frost had been a Gravendeer tradition since Raegon’s father had decided feasts ought to end not with the humdrum of yawns and heavy eyes, but with a fire in your belly and flames shooting out your eyes—and, if you weren’t acquainted with spicy liquor, an inferno cooking your colon.

  It came in a crystal goblet, and through it you would see what appeared to be a rainbow shrunken and compressed and liquefied to form a six-layered drink of varying colors. There was rum and vodka, ale and mead, brandy and gin. Raspberries and lemons and cucumbers and watermelons and honeydews, or whatever was in season and available, infused it. The juice of wide-ranging peppers, from sweet to cut-off-my-tongue hot were mixed in. Add a dash of salt, a pinch of pepper, and a flick of whatever herbs you’ve on hand, and you have yourself Sunset Frost. Don’t forget to add a drizzle of cream, though, or you’ll have yourself a Sunset Without Frost.