Read The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two Online

Authors: Gail Z. Martin

Tags: #FIC009020

The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two (14 page)

“Thank you,” Aidane repeated, her voice a whisper.

“She needs to rest.” Kolin’s voice was firm. He walked the two men to the door, and there was a hum of muted conversation before the door clicked shut and Kolin returned. “Seems you’re not only famous, but the queen considers you a national treasure. There are half a dozen guards outside your room, and Jonmarc’s asked me to stay on as your bodyguard, even though I didn’t do a very good job of it.” He looked down, and Aidane caught the bitterness in his voice.

She managed to raise a hand to touch the place where his waistcoat and shirt were sliced open. The brocade and silk were dark with ichor. “Your side,” she whispered.

“It’s healed.”

“Show me.”

Kolin hesitated, and then pulled away the remnants of his shirt. A pale line ran from his spine diagonally to his waist. “By tomorrow, it will be gone.” He managed a self-deprecating smile. “We heal quickly. It’s one of the few benefits of being dead.” He paused. “And I’ll spare you the effort of looking for your own scars. The healer and the
Hojuns
fixed you up just fine. Not a mark on you.”

“I heard Jonmarc say… you were cut to the bone.”

Kolin looked away. “That idiot guard came after you like he meant to cut you in two. I just got in his way, that’s all.”

“He could have had your head.”

Kolin met her eyes. “Better mine than yours.” Kolin leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, a lingering, gentle kiss. Aidane found herself returning the kiss willingly. Kolin let his fingertips stroke her cheek and gave a sad half smile at the unspoken questions in her eyes. “When you fell on that knife and I saw the blood, I thought I’d lost you. And I realized that I care about you… more than just as your bodyguard.”

Aidane realized that Kolin actually seemed ill at ease. “I’ve existed long enough to learn that important things shouldn’t go unsaid,” he said quietly.

Aidane paused, unsure of his meaning, and Kolin chuckled. “I don’t want you to be Elsbet. I don’t want you to be anyone but yourself. And I’m not looking for the services of a
serroquette
. I would like to be your suitor, if you’ll have me.”

She reached out to take his hand. “I’d like that.”

Kolin’s eyes registered a mixture of surprise and wonder. He touched the back of her hand to his lips. “I’m honored, m’lady,” he said, and Aidane realized that he used the term without a hint of irony.

“It’ll be dawn soon, and since the parlor off this room has no windows, I’ll take my rest there,” Kolin said, falling back into his role as bodyguard. He gestured toward the far wall, and for the first time, Aidane realized that heavy tapestries covered the window in her room. “Just in case, we had the window covered. I don’t usually stir
during the daytime, but I can if I need to, in an emergency, so long as there’s no sunlight. The guards will be outside the door day and night, and I’ll be close enough to hear if you need me, even when I’m resting.” He saw her move to speak, and he laid a finger across her lips.

“Now, get some sleep.” His voice was light, but his fingers gently brushed the hair back from her forehead. For an instant, he looked at her and something flickered in his eyes, and then he was gone so quickly Aidane did not see him leave. Too tired to think further about anything, Aidane closed her eyes and found sleep waiting.

Chapter Seven
 

T
he Goat and Ram tavern was the kind of place anyone who wished for a long life was well-advised to avoid. Jonmarc pulled the collar of his great cloak up to shield his face and entered, standing for an instant in the doorway to take stock of the room with his hand near the pommel of his sword.

The air smelled of ale and roasted goat. The tavern was about half full, with patrons playing cards or talking in hushed tones at the well-worn tables. Two hard-used trollops lounged at the bar in gowns that were several years out of fashion. Another strumpet sat near one of the men at the betting table. Conversation hushed for a moment as the patrons sized up the newcomer at the door.

Jonmarc chose a table where he could sit with his back to the wall. A chair and a stool sat next to the table, and Jonmarc hooked the rungs of the stool with his boot, drawing it into position against the wall. Unlike the chair, the stool permitted him a clear reach for his sword.

The innkeeper was a thin man with a face scarred by pox and fights. His angular nose had been broken and
badly reset, and there was a notch out of one ear. As the man set a tankard of ale down, Jonmarc could see more scars on the man’s hands.

“I’d advise you to drink your ale and be on your way.” The innkeeper’s voice was rough, suggesting that he was fond of tobacco and fonder of whiskey.

“I’ve got business here,” Jonmarc replied.

“Oh?”

“I’m here to see Scian.” Jonmarc watched the innkeeper’s face for a reaction but saw no flicker of emotion.

“That so? And why should Scian see you?”

“Because an old War Dog sent me.” Although Jonmarc’s voice was low, he knew that, despite their effort to appear otherwise, the conversation was being appraised by the other denizens of the tavern, one of whom was likely to be Scian.

“I’ll handle this one, Ved.” A figure emerged from the shadows of the kitchen passage. Jonmarc saw the silhouette first. High boots, slim-cut trousers, with a serious sword in a fighter’s scabbard that slung low across the waist. Broadcloth shirt, narrow shoulders, and sleeves wide enough for Jonmarc to be certain they hid a variety of knives.

Obediently, Ved left the ale and returned to the bar. A rough voice just above a whisper spoke from the shadows. “Well, well. The new queen doesn’t waste time. I thought she might send a messenger, but what should I make of this?”

“Scian?”

“Among other names.” The shadowed figure shifted, revealing a lean woman with chiseled features that spoke of mixed blood. Margolan and Trevath, Jonmarc guessed. She leaned against the wall alongside Jonmarc,
poised to see anyone who rose from their seats or entered from either the outside or the kitchen. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Jonmarc shrugged. “By the fact that the head of the Assassin’s Guild is a woman? I’ll be the first to acknowledge that women are more dangerous than men. I don’t doubt you’re good at your job, or I wouldn’t have come.”

“How do you know Valjan?”

“We were War Dogs together, long ago. He was my commander.”

“Before you were betrayed and left for dead. I know who you are, Jonmarc Vahanian.”

“So do we talk business, or do I drink my ale and go home?”

Scian’s thin lips quirked upward into something that was almost a smile. “Follow me.”

Scian led him into a private room and closed the door. She motioned for him to take a seat at a table near the fire. The room had just four tables, enough chairs for each table, and its own fireplace, which held a freshly fed fire. Jonmarc found a chair with a good view of the door, careful to make sure he had easy access to his sword.

“So what is the Queen’s Champion doing on this side of town?”

“Business.”

Scian raised an eyebrow. “And that business would be?”

“I want to know how your ghost blades are faring these days.”

All amusement disappeared from Scian’s face and her lips pressed tightly together. “And just how are you so well informed?”

“Because I’ve got as many friends in low places as you
do.” Jonmarc did not bother to hide his annoyance. “Stop playing games. I came with a warning.”

“And that would be?”

“That whoever this Buka is, he—or she—has the nasty trick of hollowing the spirits of the victims. I think someone is using those hollowed spirits to attack anyone who can channel ghosts, like a
serroquette—
and a ghost blade.”

Scian nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately, your warning comes too late. Within the last few days, two of our ghost blades killed themselves. It wasn’t in their nature to do something like that, so we suspected dark magic, but couldn’t prove it. Then one of our blades went mad and attacked several of his comrades. Two were killed. The others had no choice except to defend themselves, and the ghost blade was killed.”

Scian leaned forward. “The men who were there said that as the ghost blade lay dying, his whole body began to shake and they saw a shadow leave him. The room grew cold and their breath misted. Once the shadow passed, the ghost blade was back in his right mind, but before they could call a healer, he died.”

“What of your other ghost blades?”

Scian barked a harsh laugh. “You presume that we have an unlimited number of such rare weapons.”

“I’m given to understand you employ about a dozen.”

A hard glint came to Scian’s eyes, and Jonmarc took it to mean his information had been more correct than the assassin preferred. “We’ve taken steps to protect them,” Scian said. “Amulets, talismans, protective spells. But it’s difficult to keep out just one type of spirit when a ghost blade’s effectiveness relies on being able to channel the ghosts of our dead fighters.”

“Then the job I bring you may be to your liking.”

Scian regarded Jonmarc with suspicion. “You bring a job to us? From the queen?”

Jonmarc nodded. “Kill Buka.”

Scian sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “What do we care about a killer of whores?”

“Buka is more than a madman. He’s not just a killer; he’s using blood magic to hollow the souls of his victims. The revenants he leaves behind are like ghostly
ashtenerath
, mad with pain and blind with rage.”

“You know this how?”

It was Jonmarc’s turn to sit back with a cold smile. “That’s restricted information.”

Scian scowled, and for a moment she was silent, drumming her fingers against her arm as she thought. “If you know of the threat to the ghost blades, then you also know about the attacks in the city. We thought perhaps
dimonns
were behind them, but our mages proved us wrong.”

Jonmarc nodded. “It’s the hollowed spirits of Buka’s victims. When they stay near where they died, they attack anyone unlucky enough to be in their way. When they find someone who can channel spirits, they possess the channeller and use the body as a weapon.”

Scian drew a deep breath. “We’ve heard that the seers in the poorest neighborhoods have also been attacked, and the attacks sound like what happened to our ghost blades. It does seem to support what you say.”

“What of the warrens beneath the city?”

“The mines that built Principality’s wealth also run beneath the city. There’s an anthill of tunnels and passageways underneath every part,” Scian said. “It’s the last refuge of people with nowhere left to go. Of late, we hear
that whole sections of the warren have been taken over by people dying of plague. It’s gotten so bad that, in some parts, the tunnels are clogged completely with bodies, and the smell even reaches the surface.”

“Could Buka be hiding in the warrens?”

Scian shrugged. “He may hide there, but from what we’ve heard, he doesn’t kill there. None of our sources from the warrens have talked of killings down there like the ones Buka’s been blamed for above ground.” She paused. “And yet… I think something about the warrens fascinates him. Of late, the murders have been close to entrances to the warrens, with the bodies placed near the openings to the underground, or hung in doorways.”

Jonmarc felt a chill go down his back. “Hung in doorways?” he repeated sharply.

Scian nodded. “Does it matter?”

Jonmarc leaned forward intently. “Back in Dark Haven, we fought several battles against the Durim.”

Scian nodded again. “So we’ve heard.”

“I was part of those raids. The Durim seemed to prefer slaughtering goats—or
vyrkin—
while Buka apparently likes his victims to be human. But they made their sacrifices near the entrances to burial mounds, barrows, and cairns. We’ve caught them digging into the mounds, but we don’t know whether they’re trying to get in or let something buried get out.”

“I’ve heard tell that mounds near the city have also been disturbed. What does that have to do with Buka?”

“Maybe nothing,” Jonmarc admitted. “On the other hand, you might look at the warren as its own kind of barrow, where the desperate go to die. Buka’s drawn to death—that much is certain. And the way he’s killing his
victims is binding their spirits here and driving them mad. The palace spymaster didn’t think Buka was in league with the Durim. But what if…”

“What?”

Jonmarc shook his head. “I’m the last person to be speculating about magic, since I haven’t a bit of it. But what if something is calling to both the Durim and to Buka, drawing them toward it, encouraging them to kill? Some kind of magic… something that they can feel and we can’t?”

“Something like a dark summoner?”

Jonmarc grimaced. “Yes. Something with power like that, calling to them.”

“Strong enough to raise the dead?”

Jonmarc felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “What do you mean?” He could see that Scian was debating with herself on how much to tell him, and perhaps on whether he might think her mad for whatever she was about to say.

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