Hell's Foundations Quiver

 

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

 

Thank you for buying this

Tom Doherty Associates ebook.

 

To receive special offers, bonus content,

and info on new releases and other great reads,

sign up for our newsletters.

 

Or visit us online at

us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

 

For email updates on the author, click
here
.

 

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:
us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
.

 

For Sharon, Megan, Morgan, and Michael, the four reasons I get up every day. I love you guys.

 

MARCH

YEAR OF GOD 897

 

.I.

Merlin Athrawes' Chamber, Charisian Embassy, Siddar City, Republic of Siddarmark

The roaring, shingle-lifting bluster of snow-laden wind only made the sudden, profound silence more complete. The slight sound as a coal settled on the modest bedchamber's hearth seemed almost deafening, and Merlin Athrawes stood very still, shoulders against the door he'd just closed behind him, sapphire eyes gazing intently through the fire-flickered dimness at the slender woman in the single chair beside that hearth.

The woman who had just called him “Ahbraim.”

Which, he reflected, made the question of how she'd managed to get by the alert sentinels guarding the Charisian Embassy here in the heart of Siddar City rather secondary.

The heavy, utilitarian coat hanging from his coat tree—like the boots and thick woolen stockings she'd slipped from slim, pedicured feet and set before the fire—was soaked with melting snow. The firelight cast dancing light and shadow across her brilliant, expressive eyes, gleamed on the gold and topaz encircling her aristocratic throat, and struck subdued highlights from hair that was almost as dark as Sharleyan Ahrmahk's own, and the gown she'd worn under that plain, serviceable coat was as exquisitely designed and cut as it was expensive. She was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he'd ever met and he could smell the subtle sweetness of her perfume, but none of those things were what held him so still.

“Why,” he asked after a moment, in a tone which sounded considerably calmer than it should have, “did you call me ‘Ahbraim,' Madam Pahrsahn?” He cocked his head, expression puzzled. “I assume it's a reference to Master Zhevons?”

“You really are
very
good,” Aivah Pahrsahn—who'd once been known as Ahnzhelyk Phonda, among many other names—said approvingly. “Why, you could almost—
almost
, I say—convince me. But you can't, you know. I've been watching you for too long, and I have a
very
good memory for details.”