“I will handle Quinn,” Lazarus said through gritted teeth. “Do not worry.”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” Thorne said, his chest rumbling with barely suppressed laughter. “But it’s even obvious to Siva that my warriors are very interested in your girl.”
“Quinn and I hold a contract, regardless of who or what may interest her.” Lazarus took a hefty breath, stopping himself from continuing before leveling the other man with a dark glare. “The matter at hand,” he said, drawing them back on track.
Thorne sobered. “Yes, about your king. Proceed.”
“Claudius is naming me as Norcasta’s heir.”
“That is what the people are telling me these days. What do his blood heirs think?”
“They’re reasonably unhappy.” Lazarus’ expression didn’t change as he relayed this information, which only seemed to amuse Thorne even more as he downed another gulp of his ale.
“Reasonably?” Thorne shook his head. “You only say that because it’s exactly what you expected.”
“Men like Claudius’ blood heirs are predictable,” Lazarus agreed.
“Aren’t they, though?” Thorne leaned farther back in his seat. “But that still doesn’t explain why you came here? And why so early?”
“I was attacked about a half a day’s ride from Shallowyn two weeks ago.”
“Oh?” Thorne’s eyes settled and focused on Lazarus. “Did you leave anyone alive?”
Lazarus shook his head and looked away, glancing to the open doorway. “No.”
“Hmmmm. Then you don’t know for sure who sent them,” Thorne deduced.
“I have my suspicions,” Lazarus replied, “but it confirms something else.”
Thorne nodded. “Your ascension to the throne will not be a simple and easy process.”
“No.” Lazarus moved his mug away and leaned forward. “I need friends at my back.”
Thorne laughed again, but this time it was hollow. “You collect many things, Lazarus, but friends are not amongst them.”
Lazarus stilled but didn’t take his eyes away from Thorne. “No, but you do.”
“That is very true.” Thorne paused for a moment before draining his mug completely and then slamming it down on the table, dropping his voice as he propped his forearms on the rough table top. “And I’d be an idiot to not ally myself with the greatest dark Maji of our generation, wouldn’t I?”
Lazarus stiffened, moving his arms back. “I wouldn’t call myself that.”
Mostly because he wasn’t sure if a certain woman was actually the holder of that title.
“No?” Thorne tilted his head, his gaze fixated and serious. “Either way, I accept your offer of friendship. One cannot exist in this world without friends, not if you want to keep living. Whether you recognize that your vassals see you as their friend or not, that is what they see. They are loyal not to a future king, but to a friend and that is far more powerful than any skeev born into privilege could hope to attain."
Lazarus remained silent for several seconds. His head lifted, his dark eyes meeting Thorne’s gaze. “Claudius’ children are not without magic,” he said quietly. “They still have the blood of a Maji running in their veins. They have an affinity.”
Thorne scoffed, turning away. He reached for Lazarus’ untouched mug and lifted it to his lips for a long pull. “I have met the bastards Claudius calls children. I have seen their auras. They are practically non-Maji, they are so weak.”
“They will have many followers,” Lazarus said.
“Non-Maji like them, I predict.” Thorne looked down into the swirling amber liquid in the mug in his hand, watching as the bubbles circled the center.
Lazarus watched him for a moment. “Do you understand what I am asking of you, Thorne?”
With a sigh, the Cisean leader returned the mug to the table. “We will sign a treaty between our countries before you ascend,” he replied. “When you become the next king of Norcasta, I will announce my alliance and support of your rule. That should help to quell the royal brats.”
Lazarus shook his head. “No, Thorne. I am not asking that you ally yourself with Norcasta.” Thorne frowned in confusion, his features smoothing when it finally occurred to him what Lazarus was really getting at.
“What is it that you’re asking, my friend?” he questioned slowly.
“I am asking you to ally yourself with me. Should I rule Norcasta, your alliance entails the country, but otherwise—should things go … badly—you will support me, as your friend.”
Thorne scrubbed a hand down his face. “You do not ask for much, do you?” he said, sarcasm apparent. “You are strong, Lazarus. I give you that, but what else will my people get? I cannot offer you this level of friendship for free.”
Lazarus grinned, a shock of teeth that looked more like a predator’s warning than true amusement. “I would not ask anything of you for free, Thorne.”
Thorne, as if unable to help himself, sat back. A weaker man might have fled. Lazarus had to admire his own choice in ally. The Cisean leader would be a great enemy for any man and therefore, a formidable friend for him to have in the near future.
“What are you offering?” Thorne asked, suddenly sounding far more tired.
“My own loyalty to your people, Thorne. I will take care of them as if they were my own. That, in itself, is a great price. Should you require aid—I come. Should the winters be rough—I will send provisions. Should you need almost anything to make this friendship agreeable—I will supply it.”
Thorne scratched his chin and shook his head. “Gods, I hope you become king, Lazarus. Or else my people would think I was weak in agreeing to something like this so readily.” Nevertheless, Thorne held his hand out and Lazarus reached across the table and took it in his own.
“Your people will realize that I am a far greater ally than an enemy,” Lazarus said.
Thorne grimaced as they shook hands. “I don’t doubt that.”
“I will swear my fealty to you and you to me,” Lazarus confirmed. “We will not be enemies, but … friends.” His grin dropped as his lips curled back in discomfort.
Lazarus did not have friends. Not really. He had Draeven who was like a brother to him. His left-hand. His greatest ally. He had other vassals, servants and staff, but not friends. Then again, this was more than a friendship. It was an alliance. One that might save him his empire when the time came.
Thorne’s booming laughter echoed in the small room once more. “You look as though you’ve eaten a bad choice of meat, my friend. Do not worry, I will not ask you to repeat it so much.”
Lazarus pulled his hand away. “You may shout it from the rooftops if you prefer,” he said. “It does not matter to me what you call our alliance so long as you keep your end of the bargain.”
Thorne stood up from the table and Lazarus followed. “The Cisean people are a proud race. We always keep our promises.”
Lazarus nodded and as they crossed the threshold heading through the hut back to the throne room, he spoke once more. “There is something else.”
Thorne looked back over his shoulder. “Oh?”
“I have another purpose for coming so early,” Lazarus said. “I need use of your springs.”
“Is it for the girl?” Thorne asked.
“Yes.” Lazarus kept his expression impassive as they entered the throne room. A warrior stood just outside the main doorway. Lazarus eyed him speculatively, but if he intended to trust Thorne with his country, he needed to learn to trust the man’s intuition about his own people.
“If possible, I would like to request the use of a stone.”
Thorne turned and settled back onto his heavy throne, their conversation having come full circle. “I will require answers for something like that,” he finally said.
Lazarus narrowed his eyes on the Cisean leader. “What are your questions?”
“The girl,” Thorne stated. “What is she? What is her power?”
“She is a dark Maji,”
Lazarus said simply.
Thorne frowned, not pleased by his way of answering. “I am not stupid, Lazarus. Any Cisean can tell that her magic is dark. The power leaks off of her person, nearly blinding in its strength. I am asking what her abilities are. If you cannot give me this, I cannot give you a stone.”
Lazarus grit his teeth, his mind working. In the pocket of his trousers, the paper he had given Lorraine crinkled against the fabric. He reached inside and pulled it out. “I require a specific stone.” Lazarus strode forward and handed the paper to Thorne.
Unfolding the yellowed parchment with lowered brows, Thorne read the inscription. His eyes darted back up. “A Servalis stone? She must indeed be powerful if you need that.”
“Do you have one?” Lazarus didn’t let his gaze stray, but kept the other man locked.
Thorne nodded. “I do.”
“If you give it to me, I will tell you what she is.”
“Are my people at risk being near her, Lazarus?”
Lazarus finally turned his head, looking back at the warrior. “She is under my control. We have a contract,” he reminded him.
Thorne scrutinized Lazarus’ stance for a moment before exhaling with a heavy breath. “I’m not sure I would say that,” he muttered. “But, she, at least, is easier to read than you. I will give you the stone for an answer. She is similar in power to you. Rare, I assume.” Thorne narrowed his eyes, and Lazarus could see it then that he was wondering—if only for a brief moment—if she was the same as him.
No, he thought. And thank the gods for that.
Lazarus met Thorne’s red-eyed stare. “Quinn is rare,” he nodded. “She is a shadow in every man’s mind. A nightmare—a thought that follows you into old age—always present, always there, hanging in the periphery of your consciousness.” Thorne sat forward, curiosity urging him closer as Lazarus dropped his voice. In the barest of whispers, he told him. “She is a fear twister.”
Feast of Fools
“Uncontrolled emotions are the bane of a survivor. They show weakness. They show desire.”
— Quinn Darkova, former slave, fear twister, and vassal of House Fierté
“Gods above, I could live here,” Quinn groaned, settling into the warm water. Her back hit the rocky edge as she lounged, resting her head on the ledge.
“We’re here for business,” Lorraine remarked, a subtle rebuke but not an outright one. Given this was the first hot bath she’d had in years, Quinn didn’t particularly care. Even Lady Manners’ griping couldn’t ruin this for her.
“Whoever said you couldn’t mix business with pleasure?” Quinn asked, lowering herself deeper into the water and ducking under before Lorraine could reply. She ran her hands through her hair, massaging her scalp, while the scalding water nipped at her skin. Blissful.
A slender arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her up.
Her head broke water and she coughed a little, looking every which way for why Lorraine was spluttering in dismay. “Are you alright?” she asked, touching Quinn’s head and turning it side to side. She pulled her to the ledge again, and Quinn let her.
“I’m fine,” Quinn frowned. There was no one here, only them. Not even the Cisean women would enter the hot springs as long as Quinn and Lorraine were using them. So she didn’t know what had the woman so concerned. “Lorraine?” she prompted, the older woman’s incessant fingers poking and prodding.
“You were under for several minutes. I thought you might have hit your head…” Her voice trailed off, suddenly unsure. Quinn’s lips parted, before the beginnings of a chuckle came that turned into an all-out roar. She was breathing hard and clutching her side when the laughter finally passed. Wiping her eyes, Quinn looked up at Lorraine who was not nearly as amused.
“I’m from N’skara,” Quinn said by way of answer. When Lorraine still didn’t get it, she continued. “We are raised on the water, Lorraine. Children are taught to hold their breath for minutes at a time from a young age.”
“Oh.” The older woman blinked, her lips parting. She glanced down at Quinn and then to her own naked body, as if the proximity had just occurred to her. She crossed her arms over her breasts and stepped back. The water swished to the side, echoing in the low cavern.
“It’s alright,” Quinn nodded. She grasped the edge of the hot spring and hauled herself out, basking in the warm steam of the spring, naked as the day she was born. “You didn’t know.” She reached up and pulled her hair to the side, wringing out the water.
“You’re very forward with your body,” Lorraine said, moving the conversation to safer waters instead of prying into her past.
“Modesty is for the privileged. When you’re a slave, not even your body is your own anymore. Clothes are gifts, not rights.” Her lips pinched together as memories welled up. Ones she still was not ready to think about, or to face. “My skin is a roadmap of where I have been and what I have done to survive. I won’t be ashamed of it.”
Lorraine regarded her differently in that moment. Not condemning or with exasperation, as she often did, but as if she saw Quinn in a new, changed light. A kinder one than the young N’skari woman would paint herself in.
A cough at the mouth of the cave drew their attention. Quinn got to her feet and looked over as the woman from earlier—the one who laid splayed across Thorne’s lap—stood by herself. She shivered when Quinn gazed at her with her cold eyes.
“My husband thought you might like warmer clothes,” she called out, her Norcastan tongue far less broken than that of the warriors they’d encountered, but not so good as the man who ruled like a king. “They are gifts of friendship,” she added.
Quinn watched her take a few steps in and lay the bundles of fur on a dry patch of the cavern floor. She looked at Quinn, admiring her form for a moment before smiling and walking away.
Quinn took a step towards the pile when Lorraine asked, “What are you doing?”
She hooked her thumb towards the pile. “Taking a look at our ‘gifts’.” Lorraine eyed the pile from the warm water of the spring while Quinn padded over, lifting up the scraps of fur. One was a slim looking top made of leather straps and scraps of fur that would cover her breasts but not her stomach or arms. Lorraine made a sound of dismay behind her which meant she wouldn’t be wearing it.
Quinn fitted it to her breasts, slipping the line of trim over her head and hooking the second behind her back with the clever metal clasp they put on it. She leaned over, humming in content at the way her breasts stayed secure to her chest and warm while she could still move. Digging through the pile, she found undergarments, a second top, and two pairs of trousers lined with fur. Dressing quickly, she pulled on the smaller pair of pants, shucking her legs through the ankles. The fit was a bit tight, resulting in pants that fell just below her navel and were glued to her backside. She squatted down, stretching the material so she could move more easily.
“Master Lazarus will not approve,” Lorraine said from the spring as she shook her head. Her thin lips pressed together in distaste, and Quinn only smiled as she reached down for one of the cloaks and clasped it around her shoulders.
“Master Lazarus,” Quinn started, exaggerating his title to the point of mockery, “is the reason we’re here and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to wear the same clothes I’ve been wearing for the last week. Besides, it would be rude to not accept ‘gifts of friendship’.” She smiled and it was a vicious, wicked grin that it had Lorraine giving her a deadpanned glare to showcase her lack of amusement. “What would the people think?” she asked, unable to hide the glee in her voice to use Lorraine’s own words from these last two weeks against her.
“Some days I wonder what he sees in you,” Lorraine muttered as she lifted herself out of the spring. Despite her older age and temperament, she still had the body of a younger woman. Her skin was firm, healthy, and relatively unmarred from the malice of the world.
“Power,” Quinn answered her simply. Lorraine paused. “Dark, terrible, savage po
wer. That’s what he sees.” The other woman did well to try and hide her shudder, but Quinn felt that slight quivering of fear. It slid over Quinn’s skin like a lover’s kiss, begging for more. Lorraine wrung out her long brown hair and dressed in the second set of gifted clothing. Her shorter stature made the pants looser and they actually came up to the top fur covering instead of leaving a few inches of skin on display. She took the second cloak and pulled it tight, gathering up their dirty clothes before turning to Quinn, ready to leave.
It was only then that she responded. “That’s not all he sees.”
Quinn frowned and opened her mouth to ask her what she meant by that, but Lorraine was already walking. They stopped at the edge of the cave to put their boots back on before continuing onward, up the shallow hill where Draeven waited.
“Finally, you’re—” He turned and froze, his eyes widening. “What are you wearing?” he asked, keeping his voice down so the two Cisean guards that stood a few feet away would not hear.
“Clothes,” Quinn answered tartly. “That the Cisean’s were nice enough to give us. You should be glad I’m not naked.”
Lorraine choked on a cough beside her as Draeven ran a hand down his face, muttering to himself about gods, let it be fast. “You know what? We don’t have time for this. We are late to the feast and they’ve started without us. If Lazarus has a problem, he can take it up with Thorne … or you.” He stepped aside and motioned for them to move it.
“He better not take it up with me,” Quinn protested as she led the way down the hill and onto the winding path of large oak trees.
“Oh, may the gods be merciful,” Draeven muttered, redirecting her when she reached for the rope ladder of the tree hut they were staying in.
“What? Where are we—”
“I’ve just said. They’re holding a feast in our honor, Quinn. Come on.” He prodded her in the back, and she snapped. Quinn turned, bringing her fist up at the same moment and punched him square in the jaw.
Fortune Favors the Cruel Page 14