The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Tala had yet to follow through. She had not fed Lawri any of the green balls. She could not help Lawri, just as she could not help Jondralyn. She could not heal all wounds, right all wrongs. She could not fix even those evil things she had done herself, like lying about Sterling Prentiss. How many of my lies will lead to the death of others? She could almost hear the Bloodwood’s amused laughter echo through Jondralyn’s bedchamber. Who is my dark tormentor? Her eyes roamed the room, knowing she might very well be spied upon now. Will I ever know? It all made her feel so empty and useless.

  Her eyes focused on the top of Jondralyn’s bookshelf, her mind returning to her other note from the Bloodwood. Find what secret parchments Jondralyn has hidden away in her chamber. Deliver unto me what you find. A terrible danger she keeps hidden, a danger that may lead to Purgatory and beyond.

  A deadly sort of calm swept over her as she rose from the settee and dragged it across the floor toward the bookshelf with purpose. She positioned the settee just where she wanted it and climbed atop it, standing. She thought of the rest of the Bloodwood’s note. One day, Tala, at the time of Absolution, you may be the only heir of Borden Bronachell still standing. These games you think are so silly are designed to test you, to prepare you for your own future. Take them seriously. Lawri’s life depends on it. Your own life now depends on it.

  Standing on the settee, she could easily reach it, the third book to the left on the top shelf. She pulled it free, searched the hidden compartment behind, and pulled out the folded parchment that she knew Jondralyn had hidden there.

  It was blank, but she knew just how to find what was written upon it.

  †  †  †  †  †

  Betrayal. A word that hung over Tala like a hangman’s noose.

  Sitting in her own chamber now, she felt guilty for stealing the parchment from Jondralyn’s hiding place. But it was all part of the Bloodwood’s game. A game that she meant to take into her own hands.

  She’d saved some of Roguemoore’s black powder, knowing she would need it again. This time the powder had revealed a map—a map of the dungeons beneath the Hall of the Dayknights. It detailed caverns that led to deep and treacherous places under the prison called Purgatory, a twisting trail through rock and under water and beyond, to a clear destination of some import—to something that hovered just at the edges of her mind, something that rang familiar.

  If I truly have a destiny, it’s certainly not to continually act as dumb lackey and errand girl for a Sør Sevier assassin who won’t even show his face. She was resolved to keep the map from the Bloodwood at all costs. But I will follow the map and see where it leads.

  I just have to get myself thrown into Purgatory.

  * * *

  Be most cautious of your friends, for they are easily stirred with resentment, envy, and spite. Friends are quick to betray. However, bestow trust on an enemy, and he will prove most loyal in his struggle to prove himself.

  —THE CHIVALRIC ILLUMINATIONS OF RAIJAEL

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  GAULT AULBREK

  11TH DAY OF THE ETHIC MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Place Hawkwood over there.” Leif Chaparral’s voice echoed in the hollowness of the dungeon. “Gault over there. And off with their hoods.”

  Gault was shoved forward and the hood jerked free. The chain connecting the iron bands around his ankles was no more than a foot in length, allowing him some movement. The cuffs around his wrists were thick iron rings also separated by a short length of chain. In Sør Sevier, the dungeon master of Rokenwalder, a gruff old fellow named Bogg, always secured his prisoners with their hands behind their backs. These Dayknight gaolers seemed competent enough, but cuffing him in the front was a mistake, a mistake Gault planned on taking advantage of.

  The hood gone, he squinted against the glare of the torches, thinking he would find himself alone in a smothering room of cold stone. Instead it was a cage, iron bars on all four sides, roofed in a flat iron slab. A hole was cut in the center of the stone floor, presumably for bodily functions.

  Hawkwood, his hood also removed, was in a similar cage just feet away, the two pens situated in the center of a vaulted stone chamber. Four Dayknights stood at attention before the cages. One held a large steel shield that stretched from the floor to the crown of his helm, his eyes on Hawkwood. The former Bloodwood was not only cuffed and shackled like Gault, but heavy iron chains crisscrossed his upper torso. His hair was plastered flat against his skull, caked with the food, feces, and other rot and refuse that had been thrown at him on their journey through the streets of Amadon. Gault’s shirt and breeches, already clinging to his body by many long days of dirt and sweat from their ride from Ravenker, were covered in similar filth. He couldn’t help but think back to the young girl who had struck him in the castle, the girl who had used her nails on his face. Tala Bronachell. He could still feel the raw wounds on his flesh, the pulp of the rotten fruit and other refuse thrown at him stinging and burrowing and clinging.

  Gault and Hawkwood had made the journey to Purgatory chained to separate poles situated next to each other in the back of an oxcart. Once inside the Hall of the Dayknights, Gault was stripped of his armor, given threadbare prison garb, a hood placed over his head. With Hawkwood, he was marched through a series of vast empty halls, sloping passageways, and spiral staircases, the surrounding air brisk in some places, hot in others, the footsteps of their Dayknight escorts resounding on the stone floors, hollow and empty. Heavy iron doors opened and closed before and aft in nearly every hallway. The sharp echoing voices of other prisoners could be heard shouting their displeasures and hostilities from every direction.

  “Secure Hawkwood’s leg chain to the floor,” Leif ordered one of the four knights. “And the chains wrapped around his body stay. His arms and legs will also remain cuffed and shackled at all times for the duration of his stay. He won’t escape again, not under Leif Chaparral’s watch.”

  The Dayknight did as commanded and hooked the leg chain through an iron ring buried in the center of the cage, all under the scathing glare of Hawkwood’s dark eyes. “Do you really think all these useless precautions will hold me for long?”

  “You’re chained to the floor, you idiot,” Leif chuckled. “Shackled. Cuffed. Sick. Barely coherent. Poisoned. Hopefully dying. I doubt you’ll be going much of anywhere. Plus, two of these Dayknights will be posted before your locked cage at all times. You will be under their direct supervision.”

  “Direct supervision,” Hawkwood said. “Sounds like a waste of time.”

  The Dayknight stepped out of Hawkwood’s cage and secured the door, joining his three companions, standing near the knight with the huge shield. Each of the four Dayknights looked grim and determined and competent—a rarity inside a dungeon of any kind. The few prisons Gault had raided in Wyn Darrè and Adin Wyte had employed no more than thugs as gaolers—incompetents, the dregs of society, idiot fellows barely a notch above criminality themselves.

  Grimacing, Hawkwood slumped to the floor of his cage. He moaned and curled up into the fetal position, his back to the line of Dayknights. Leif laughed. “You certainly seem well prepared to make your grand escape, Hawkwood.”

  Gault watched the former Bloodwood’s struggled breathing. In his estimation, Hawkwood might very well die. The man had suffered many injuries in Ravenker that had not been tended to.

  The door to Gault’s cage was open and Leif stepped into the pen with him, his limp barely noticeable.

  Leif drew a slow, silent breath, his voice sure and mellow. “Welcome to Purgatory, Ser Gault Aulbrek.” He smiled wickedly then, a smooth drawing back of his lips, revealing stark and perfect teeth, shockingly white in the sweltering dark of the chamber. “You are probably proud of your dungeons in Rokenwalder and how efficient King Aevrett Raijael’s torturers can be. But have you heard tell what we Dayknights refer to as a Searing? A slow torture of torch and flame, usually starting w
ith a wrist or mid-calf, scorching the flesh away until naught but bone remains. Most effective on prisoners, especially those with information the king may desire.”

  Gault held no illusions about the fact that one human could inflict pain and torment onto another with staggering precision and even joy. He’d heard the rumors of how deep and impenetrable this prison called Purgatory was, wondered how it truly stacked up against the dungeons of Rokenwalder. He knew of the foul rituals and tortures the criminals in Rokenwalder were ofttimes subjected to by the dungeon master, Bogg. He’d heard of even crueler things, like the Bloodwood’s Sacrament of Souls. A revolting ritual.

  “But alas, I’ll likely hold off on the Searing for now.” Leif continued in that soft voice of his, nasty, cocksure smile still on his face. “You are worthless to us dead. So if you try something ridiculous, like starving yourself, it’ll only go worse for you. You will be force-fed. And my Dayknights are not gentle about that sort of thing. Food can be shoved down your throat and your jaw clamped shut afterward so you don’t spew it back up.”

  “I’m starving now, and not on purpose,” Gault said. Hunger had painfully twisted in his stomach for days. “I will happily take whatever food you have. It’s not like you fed Hawkwood or me much on the journey from Ravenker. Have you a sandwich?”

  Leif ignored his request. “My Dayknights have scant little patience for stupidity among the inmates either. If you try and harm yourself in any way, attempt suicide, cause a ruckus, throw your feces, complain too much, ask too many questions, or do whatever they deem irritating, you’ll find they can make this place far less than comfortable.”

  “Doesn’t really look all that pleasant now.”

  “Oh, trust me,” Leif chided in that gentle, melodious voice, “it can swiftly get worse. Just act out and you’ll find out what I mean. You’ll find yourself strapped flat on your back to a knotty plank of wood for the duration of your stay.”

  Gault looked toward Hawkwood in the neighboring cage. The former Bloodwood, always a portrait of nonchalance and poise, was sitting again, watching the interaction between Gault and Leif with a calculated interest.

  Leif stepped in front of Gault, dark-rimmed eyes roaming up and down his body. “You are uncouth and crude and most of all boring, Gault Aulbrek.”

  Gault stayed rooted in place, apprehension blooming in his gut. Leif was wearing some sort of perfume or exotic scent. To stifle the stench of the dungeon? Prisons usually had a unique smell, a combination of sweat, urine, and mold. Though this chamber smelled like cold stone and the burning pitch of the torches.

  “You know nothing but savagery.” Leif’s voice carried a throaty lilt. “Existing to serve Aeros Raijael and follow his orders with no regard for anything or anyone. What you did to Baron Jubal Bruk, dismembering him, ’twas an abomination. What you did to Jondralyn, her face . . . I abhor all such useless violence.”

  Gault did not believe the man for a second. Leif Chaparral, of all people, was like Enna Spades, full of complete wanton cruelty. It was in his eyes. And on top of that, Leif was dishonest. At least one knew where they stood with Spades, and that was always in complete contempt.

  “What goes through your mind when I’m speaking to you?” Leif leaned in and whispered. “I can see it, your mind, always churning, thinking, fearing.” Gault stayed silent as Leif moved in even closer. He could feel the man’s perfumed breath on his face as he spoke. “I thought I saw evidence of a girl in Aeros’ tent, a Gul Kana girl, blond, impossibly beautiful. Was she a captive, the plunder of war, a prize that Aeros keeps? A prize that Aeros rapes?” He made a puckering, kissing sound with his lips, mere inches from Gault’s face. “What does a man like you fear most?”

  Never seeing Ava Shay again. That the thought had leaped into his head so quickly startled him. Ava is a captive of Aeros and was never meant for me. That reality was like a knife in the heart. An even bigger fear was never again seeing his daughter, Krista. But she isn’t really mine either, merely a stepdaughter, a stranger to me now, a girl I haven’t seen in five years. With those thoughts so suddenly churning in his mind, he had never before felt so helpless and lonely. What does a man like me fear?

  “Aeros keeps the girl just as Jovan and I will keep you.” Leif’s voice was barely audible now. “Like we will rape you.”

  “The exact type of depravity Dayknights are known for in Sør Sevier,” Gault shot back loudly. It was a weak insult, but Leif’s baiting insults had done their job. “Perhaps you should just—”

  Leif placed his finger across Gault’s lips, as if to shush him. And the gesture stopped Gault cold. He shrank away from the man’s touch and swallowed the remainder of his taunt, feeling a sinking dread like he’d never felt before.

  Then he cursed his own weakness. He’d learned ages ago that showing anger or fear of any sort never led to anything good. He straightened his spine and forced his coldest, most level gaze onto the man before him. Boldness in the face of danger usually staved off most threats, no matter the kind. Most bullies respected courage and would back off. But as he stared into Leif’s dark-rimmed eyes, he quickly realized that a select few sociopaths, people like Enna Spades and Leif Chaparral, didn’t care whether their prey was scared shitless or full of bravado; their resulting torment would be the same.

  Leif casually tilted his head to the side, voice still a whisper. “On your knees, Ser Gault.” Then the man’s hands were on Gault’s shoulders, forcing him down to a half crouch. “Kneel and let me see what you are made of.”

  “Take your hands off me,” Gault growled.

  “Or what?” Leif hissed.

  “Or I will kill you.”

  “You threaten me?”

  “Aye, more than threaten.” Anger blazed swift and hot within Gault and he hurled the full weight of his body straight up, the crown of his head smashing into the underside of Leif’s chin with an ugly crack of hard skull on bone.

  Leif slammed back into the iron bars of the cage and slid to the floor, stunned. Gault was on him immediately, hammering down on the man’s face with clenched fists, hands still cuffed. He wrapped the short chain connecting his wrists around Leif’s neck, pulling with all his might, chain digging into the man’s straining neck.

  Gault was knocked to the floor as the first Dayknight slammed into him with the shield. His head smacked the unforgiving ground as the knight drove him into the stone, burying him under his full weight. The remaining knights piled on top, grasping to secure his arms and legs. Gault was dazed, but he could hear Leif yowling, “Get the savage under control!”

  Gault gave up his struggle, realizing it was a losing battle he fought. The four knights stood slowly, wary, the one with the shield ready. Gault slumped in dull weariness against the bars of his cage. He looked up blearily. Leif stood over him, swiping at the blood on his face. “An assault on the future captain of the Dayknights is the same as an assault on the king, or an assault on the grand vicar himself.” Leif slurred his words. He cupped his hands over his bloody chin; thick scarlet drips streaked down his chest-plate armor. Gault smiled a self-satisfied smile, knowing he had injured the man. A wound that he won’t be able to hide.

  One of the Dayknights called out, near hysterical, “He’s gone!” pointing to the cage next to Gault’s.

  Leif whirled. “Fuck!” His eyes grew as wide as dinner plates. “Fucking shit!” He exited the cage, the four Dayknights filing out behind him. Gault craned his neck and peered into the adjacent pen.

  Hawkwood was gone.

  Two cuffs, two leg irons, and a pile of chains were all that remained.

  “Bloody Mother fucking Mia,” Leif roared, spitting blood. “Bloody fucking rotted angels!”

  One of the Dayknight gaolers asked, “Should we go looking for—”

  “Fiery fucking dragons, of course you go looking for him!” Leif cut him off, hand still clenching his bloody jaw in pain. “My fucking mouth!”

  “What if we can’t find him—”

  “
What if we can’t fucking find him!” Leif’s petulant, frenzied shout echoed in the chamber. Then his brows furrowed in concentration. He bent forward, spitting out one long ropy string of blood.

  When he rose, his voice was controlled and low with conspiracy. “If we can’t find him, then none of you mentions a word of this to anyone.” His dark-rimmed eyes ranged over each of the four Dayknights one by one. “I know each of you by name. And no one but us will ever know what happened here today. Not one single person. Or I shall slay you all myself.”

  * * *

  The Church of Laijon, along with its bishops and cathedrals and statues, was never about peace or love or security. It was about control and never-ending sadness. With the introduction of Ser Avard Sansom Bronachell’s Dayknight killers, all independent thought was relinquished among the innocent believers of Mia with an appalling swiftness and eagerness, to be replaced by a stolid resolve never to question the Church of Laijon or its ruling holy vicar or Quorum of Five Archbishops in Amadon.

  —THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA

  * * *

  CHAPTER TEN

  JONDRALYN BRONACHELL

  12TH DAY OF THE ETHIC MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Cautiously, Hawkwood trod the length of the rising cliff, probing eyes fixed on the solid cliff wall above and the assorted symbols carved into the stone. In spots the steep slope he traversed grew slippery with loose shale. But he kept his footing and ventured on. A cluster of crude carvings grabbed his attention, and he leaned in for a closer look. They were simple shapes really, emblazoned like glittering pockets of flame on the flat stone surface of the cliff: squares, circles within circles, crosses, crescent moons, shooting stars, all twinkling, pulsing veins of red-blooming fire within the rock.