by Queen, Nyna
How hard could it be to detain one man, anyway? It wasn’t like he had anywhere to go. The entire Order was on high alert, dozens of Forfeits had been put on him in all the different provinces throughout Arcadia, and yet he was still running free.
But then, of course, Darken wasn’t just any man. He was one of the Bloodravens, an assassin of the Order, trained to be a Jester-forsaken ghost. And Darken had always been one of his most capable subjects.
Of course, if everything had gone according to plan, Darken wouldn’t have escaped in the first place. If not for subject D73’s betrayal, Darken would be stone-cold dead by now, and he wouldn’t have to worry himself sick.
A thin scowl flattened the Provost’s lips.
Subject D73—the one called Belaris. One of his borderlines. Highly unstable and exceptionally brutal even for Forfeit standards. Eloquent and charming when he wanted to, but if let loose, he’d killed with a vicious delight and reining him in had proved increasingly difficult. Yet he had never disobeyed a direct command before, had never shown the same tendency to insubordination as Darken had.
Oh, Falcrum had known that the two men considered each other friends—a constant source of dissatisfaction among his superiors—though he wouldn’t have thought … would never have expected…
He closed his eyes and gnashed his teeth. Not only had Subject D73 refused to obey his order, but worse, he had sided with Darken against them. The audacity. It was simply unthought of.
Falcrum knew that his superiors weren’t happy with him. They considered this whole mess to be his fault. But how could he have anticipated that subject D73 would disobey a direct order?
It had been a miscalculation on his part. A very unfortunate one. An oversight he would have to live with, and with its consequences.
The pictures he’d received from the guardaí headquarters popped up in front of his eyes again. His gorge rose and he pressed his lips together to keep bile from spilling out. Belaris had killed twenty-seven guardaí—twenty-seven!—and two unfortunate staff members who’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time before they finally managed to bring him down. So much destruction in so short a time. And the pictures… Great Mother, they still gave him nightmares.
Falcrum hadn’t been told what Belaris had sought at the guardaí headquarters, and he didn’t care enough to ask. He only wished he could wipe those images from his memory, afraid that they would haunt him for the rest of his life. Not to say anything of how the entire affair would look in his records. Not just one but two compromised subjects within a couple of days. It had given rise to the impression that he didn’t have his convent under control. All he could do now to stop the whispers and rumors in the corridors was to make Darken’s execution as swift and brutal as possible.
And as if that wasn’t enough, his superiors wanted him to make inquiries as to whether there were comparable relationships among the other Forfeits under his command and, if so, deal with them appropriately. There could simply be no doubt concerning the unwavering loyalty of the Forfeit.
Falcrum swallowed a sigh. Such an inquiry was the last thing he needed right about now. As if his job wasn’t burdensome enough already.
Just a couple more years, he reminded himself. Just a couple more years, and he would live in clover and never have to set another foot in a convent, would never have to deal with their kind again. He just had to hang on for a while.
The manor’s gate peeled out of the dark, flanked by two massive, magic-fueled torches.
Shaky with relief, Falcrum clumsily placed his right hand on the identification panel, keyed the ward with a spark of his magic and admitted himself into his property. Bobbing in place with impatience, he waited until the gate had closed behind him with a click, and the magic ward flared up like a reassuring shield of iridescent armor.
He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and walked up the path between the trimmed flower beds to the front door with a bit more spring in his step, inhaling the evening air which suddenly seemed a lot sweeter. That ward had cost him a small fortune, but he hadn’t hesitated to install it the moment he’d heard of Darken’s escape. Better safe than sorry, eh?
The Provost opened the door, entered the house, and locked it behind him, even adding the strong bolt for good measure.
Home at last.
Should really add a butler to the staff, Falcrum thought peevishly for the dozenth time as he hung his cashmere jacket on the rack and slipped his feet into his comfortable sheep skin house slippers. His lower back cracked when he straightened, and a low moan escaped his lips. The Great Mother have mercy on him, he felt jaded. The work at the Order was wearing him out, a little more each day. He rubbed his temples. No surprise really. That constant feel of suppressed violence and bloodlust in the air, the ever-present whisper of death around his ‘charges’, it would weigh upon any gentler soul.
Perhaps a long bath would do the trick. And maybe a massage. He could call upon one of the servant girls. Lina was quite nimble-fingered. She would be annoyed to be recalled to the manor after hours, and more so because such a task wasn't considered part of her general duties, yet she wouldn’t refuse his bidding, and a generous tip would keep that annoyance behind sealed lips. Yes, yes, that would be just the thing right now.
But first he needed a drink.
Leaving the entrance hall, he plodded down the long stone tile corridor toward the kitchen at its end. A little bite wouldn’t hurt either. Surely, his cook had prepared something delicious and kept it warm for him in the oven.
After a couple of steps, he paused and rubbed his arms. It was quite cold in the corridor, unpleasantly so, in fact. His servants really should be more observant. True, the house was built from ancient stone and cooled rather quickly, but it was midsummer for heaven’s sake.
With an irritated shake of his head, he walked on. He appreciated them not being wasteful with his money, but this? Mother’s mercy and Jester’s grace, it wasn’t just cold, it was freezing. How had the staff managed to let it get so cold in here? Tomorrow, he’d give them a good piece of his mind.
Irritation blossoming into real annoyance, Falcrum stepped into the kitchen and raised a hand to activate the lights with a flicker of magic.
Soft golden light spilled from the antique-style bronze chandelier over the red-brown tiles, the surface of the dark pine table—and the man standing behind it.
Falcrum’s heart jumped to the ceiling, and he almost fell over his feet as he stumbled backward against the wall, a scream catching in his throat.
Dressed completely in black and knitted from the yarn of night, the man fused with the shadows behind the table, the light of the chandelier barely able to untangle him from the swirling darkness. He stood with his back to the door, looking out of the window, his hands loosely clasped behind the back the way soldiers stood at ease. Falcrum new that posture. He knew it only too well.
His heart pounded in his throat, trying to push out of his chest as he pressed himself against the wall.
The man pivoted slowly on the balls of his feet, a graceful dancer’s move that reminded Falcrum too much of a blade being drawn from its sheath. Dark, cold eyes took his measure, boring through his skin right into his soul.
Falcrum shivered under the sleepy, glazed look from those eyes. He wanted to move or scream, but he was frozen, solidified. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. His entire body was rigid with fear like that of a small frightened animal cowering before a hungry predator. Cold sweat built on his forehead as he fought against the paralyzing effect of the Forfeit’s magic, which he, unlike so many others, never seemed to get quite immune against even after all the time he spent in their proximity.
His mental gears slowly reeled into action. How had he gotten in here? The military elite of the entire realm was on the lookout for this man, and he was here! Here! In his kitchen!
Come to kill him. The realization stabbed Falcrum in the gut like an icy dagger.
No. It s
houldn’t be possible for him to be inside this house, to come even close to it. The protective wards, the guards—
The guards! A tiny spark of hope hummed through the paralyzing mist that shrouded his nerves. He needed to call the guards. They were his only chance against the Forfeit.
After Darken’s escape, his employers had been gracious enough to assign a handful of guards to his house who patrolled the land around it and whom he could summon in case of an emergency. It was why he carried the vocarum with him whenever he left the house, a portable emitter to send a locatable distress signal to the guards.
The vocarum! The Great Mother have mercy on him, he’d left the blasted thing in the pocket of his jacket!
No problem, he tried to calm himself. No problem at all. There was an emergency button in every room of the house. In fact, there was one right under the kitchen table. He could activate it with a concentrated discharge of his magic. Except that there was no way Darken wouldn’t notice the use of magic, and if he did…
Falcrum swallowed, calculating his chances. Perhaps he would be able to fend the Forfeit off until the guards arrived.
One look into those cold, glazed eyes told him with chilling clarity that he wouldn’t. The guards wouldn’t even be able to identify his remains when they arrived. No, he couldn’t risk to magically activate the button, he had to activate it manually without Darken noticing.
Summon them quietly and stall Darken until they were here. Yes. He could do that. He knew how to handle his kind, and he only had to survive a couple of minutes. He could do it. He wouldn’t die tonight.
Lord Falcrum forced a bit of breath back into his lungs and wrenched his numb lips open.
“D-Darken.” His voice was at least one octave higher than usual, but he couldn’t help it.
Darken smiled. It was a chilling smile that froze his blood.
“Provost,” he said with mocking formality and hinted a bow.
“What—” Falcrum swallowed so hard it hurt. “What brings you here? I-I didn’t expect you.”
“Didn’t you?” Darken lifted an eyebrow. He took a step forward, and Falcrum flinched involuntarily. “I was hoping to get a word—if your lordship can make the time, that is.”
“A word?” the Provost echoed, slightly surprised, then quickly hastened to add, “Of course, of course.” Anything that would keep Darken from making the kill.
He pointed a trembling hand at the table. “Why don’t we sit down?” It would bring him in range of the emergency button and would also put the table more squarely between them. Not that it would provide much of a protection if Darken decided to attack, but it was far better than nothing.
Darken obliged him with an inviting sweep of his hand as if it were for him to offer the table. He settled in a chair with predatory grace, rested his elbows on the polished pine wood and steepled his fingers, watching Falcrum over the fingertips with an unreadable expression.
The Provost crossed the small distance to the table on wobbly legs and gratefully slid into the opposite chair, not sure if his legs would have supported him any second longer.
Now that he was seated behind the table, he realized how small it was. How feeble a protection in the face of one of Death’s Servants. His chest trembled.
Concentrate. Keep him occupied.
“So, what”—he cleared his throat several times—“what can I possibly do for you?” He kept his gaze firmly on Darken, feigning attention while his left hand reached under the table and fumbled for the emergency button. The moment his shaking fingers found it, he sent out the silent call for help.
Darken’s mouth twitched a little as if he were amused by something, but Falcrum was too relieved to give it a second thought. Only a few more moments and the guards would burst through the door and come for his rescue. Just a few more moments.
Darken’s eyes fixed him, burning into him, dismantling his soul and tearing it to shreds. “You signed an order that put me on the blacklist.”
The Provost played with a bread crumb on the wooden table top, giving Darken a small sideglance from the corner of his eye. “I … did sign an order a couple of days ago,” he said evasively, feeling a little more confident now that he knew that help was on its way.
“We both know perfectly well that what is written about me therein is a lie.” Darken’s voice was flat, yet nobody would have missed the soft, threatening thunder rumbling below the words.
Falcrum shivered again. Of course, when he had deployed that order, he had known it was a lie. Now that he was staring into those glazed, sleepy eyes, he feared that it wasn’t.
Somehow, he managed to find his voice underneath his fear. “I-I was just f-following orders m-myself,” he stammered. “I have superiors, too, you know.”
“How convenient,” Darken said quietly. “That’s how people always like to justify their actions, isn’t it? That they were ‘just following orders’.” He balanced the words on the tip of his tongue. “Is that what you keep telling yourself so that you can sleep better at night?”
Falcrum pressed his fingers against the table top, fighting the panic buckling inside him. “When I received m-my instructions, I had no reason to doubt them,” he gushed, the words blending into each other in their haste to escape his lips. “After all, you weren’t there, were you? So how was I supposed to v-verify? And you wouldn’t deny that it happens to all of you one day, would you? The madness. The k-killing frenzy.”
A muscle jerked in Darken’s jaw.
Lord Falcrum felt a small, perverse sense of triumph. He’d touched on a raw nerve. It gave him the audacity to add, “And I, on my part, do not question the orders of my superiors.”
He regretted the words as soon as they were out. You want to stall him, fool, not provoke him into killing you!
Holding his breath, he flickered a quick glance toward the door. The guards should be here by now. What in the Great Mother's name was taking them so long?
“I’m here now.” Darken’s deep voice curled around him like cold, deadly silk wrapping around his neck. “And you are still alive.” He lingered a little too long on the word ‘still’. “So are you going to revoke that order?”
The Provost struggled against a rising feeling of desperation. “Now, Darken, you know I cannot just do that. There are special procedures for that…”
“So, you’d rather condemn an innocent man to death than risk the wrath of your superiors.” Darken’s words were filled with bitterness.
Falcrum’s eyes widened. “You would consider yourself an innocent man, Darken?”
There. Push him in a defensive position, don’t let him get the upper hand. As long as he sees the need to justify himself, he won’t make the kill.
A disturbing, deep-red glow ignited at the back of Darken’s eyes. “I won’t deny that there is a lot of blood on these hands, however, I have done nothing to justify that blacklist order. And if you are referring to the blood I spilled in the name of the Order … that blood is as much on your hands as it is on mine. Would you consider yourself innocent, Provost?”
This was wrong. Completely wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be the one justifying himself. He needed to put a stop to this and quickly. Make this someone else’s problem.
Trying to project composure and superiority as well as a hint of magnanimous consideration, Falcrum folded his hands on the table. “As I said, I had no reason to doubt my orders when I received them, but I do see now that a mistake might have been made. Why … uhm … why don’t you come back with me to the convent? I’m sure we can find a way to clear up this misunderstanding…”
For a second, the Provost’s fear dwindled as the events unfurled in front of his mind’s eye. If he could convince Darken Forfeit to accompany him to the convent, if he was the one to bring him in … all his mistakes would be forgiven.
Darken’s cold chuckle cut through his fantasies like a blade through exposed flesh, carving it to a thousand pieces and leaving him naked and bleeding.
&n
bsp; “Don’t play games with me, Provost. You’re not particularly good at it, and I excel at them too much for your good.”
Falcrum shuddered. His eyes darted toward the door again. Where were those damn guards?
A flicker of malevolent amusement danced at the edges of Darken’s irises.
“They won’t come.”
Falcum blinked, puzzled. “Who?” he asked distractedly while keeping one eye on the door, fully occupied with willing those blasted bastards to hurry the hell up.
“The guards,” Darken said mildly. “Which you are so desperately waiting for.”
The Provost felt his features slip. “Won’t…?” He faltered, realizing too late that he should have denied it.
A dark, vicious smile split Darken’s lips as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid they have been temporarily incapacitated.”
Despite the biting cold around him, sweat pooled on Falcrum’s brow and on the back of his neck. He was alone. Truly alone. No one would come to help him. He was all by himself.
Out of options, he threw the one verbal knife he still had at his disposal. “You say you abhor the killing the Order made you do, but how many more people do you want to die because of you?”
He saw Darken stiffen and knew the knife had hit its aim.
Keep going now. Push it in. Don’t let him recover.
“People have already died because of this … unfortunate situation. Like Subject D73—”
“Belaris.” Darken’s sepulchral whisper was laced with fury and pain, the first real show of emotions since the beginning of their talk. “His name was Belaris.”
“Belaris, yes.” Falcrum nodded heavily as if he understood, as if he cared for the differentiation. “I’m sorry. I know he was your friend.” He paused, giving the next words just the right amount of gravity. “But now he is dead. Because he helped you.”
Nothing changed visibly, but the air around Falcurm suddenly … rippled. A harsh phantom wind stirred the papers on the table and flapped the curtains, tugging on Falcrum’s hair and clothes with angry, ghostly fingers. Ice coated the windows with furious speed and blossomed on the tiles.