Thamos laughed. “Of course I am pleased! Now you will have to become my countess. The people will insist on it, and I would have it no other way.”
“Are you certain of that?” Leesha asked.
Thamos nodded eagerly. “I can’t do this without you, Leesha, nor you without me. The Warded Man may be gone, but together, we can drive back the corelings and rebuild the Hollow into one of the great cities of old.”
Leesha could not deny the tingle his words brought to her. Her heart leapt into her throat as Thamos dropped to one knee, taking her hands in his. “Leesha Paper, I promise myself …”
Creator, he’s actually doing it. He has no idea it’s not his.
She froze. It was everything she wanted. At worst, she would have six months to plan. There were orphan children throughout the Hollow. Perhaps she could find a babe that looked enough like Thamos to make a switch and spirit Ahmann’s child to safety.
Or perhaps she was worried over nothing. She remembered Stefny’s words after the council.
Funny thing about children. People see in them what they want to see.
Thamos was swarthier than Leesha and often tanned. Her pale skin would burn, but no tan could take root. The child might be close enough to avoid scrutiny, especially if Leesha quickly delivered additional children, Thamos’ true heirs.
I will be a good wife, she promised silently. A good countess. You will not regret taking me as your bride, even if the day comes when you learn the truth.
Tears rolled down her nose in fat drops. She hadn’t even realized she was crying.
Creator, I think I’m in love.
She opened her mouth, wanting nothing more than to promise herself to this man and make his dreams come true.
But the words caught in her throat. He looked at her with such sincerity, such love, that she could not stand the thought of betraying him.
She pulled her hands away, taking a step back from him. “Thamos, I …”
“What is it, my love? Why are you not …” And then, suddenly, he put it together. Even without wardsight, she could see the change in his eyes as he stood.
“Night, the rumors are true,” Thamos said. “I had three of my men whipped for such talk just last week, but they spoke honest word. The demon of the desert. The man who conquered Rizon, killing thousands and filling all Thesa with a vagrant refugee class that will last for generations. You ripping stuck him.”
“And you stuck every maid in Angiers, to hear gossips tell it,” Leesha snapped. “I wasn’t promised to you when I lay with him, Thamos. We hardly knew each other. I didn’t even know you were coming to the Hollow.”
“Those maids weren’t killing by the thousand,” Thamos said, making no effort to deny it.
“If they were,” Leesha asked, “and you could slow their advance and learn their plans by bedding them, would you have hesitated?”
“So you were whoring, then,” Thamos said.
Leesha slapped him. Thamos’ eyes widened a moment in shock, then shut tight. His face was a snarl as he balled his great fists.
Leesha was edging her hand toward the pouch where she kept her blinding powder when he gave a shout and stormed away from her, pacing the room like a caged nightwolf. He gave another shout, punching the goldwood post of his great bed.
“Aaaahhh!” he cried, clutching the hand.
Leesha rushed to him, taking his hands. “Let me look.”
“Haven’t you done enough?!” Thamos shouted, his face a mask of anguish, reddened and tear-streaked.
Leesha looked at him calmly. “Please. You might have broken something. Just sit still for a moment and let me see.”
Thamos limply allowed himself to be led to the bed, where they sat as Leesha pulled his protective hand away and examined the damaged one. It was red, with the skin torn at the knuckles, but it could have been much worse.
“There’s nothing broken,” she said. From a pocket of her apron she took an astringent and cloth, cleaning and dressing the wound. “Just put it in a bowl of ice …”
“Is there at least a chance it’s mine?” Thamos’ eyes were pleading.
Leesha took a deep breath, shaking her head. She could almost feel her heart twisting and tearing in her chest. There was still a chance with Thamos, and she had just crushed it.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I swear it. If I could go back and change things, I would. I know I led you on. At first it was to protect the child, but only at first.”
“What was it after?” Thamos asked.
“Because I want to be your countess,” Leesha said. “More than anything, I want it.”
Thamos yanked his hand away, standing and beginning to pace again. “If that’s honest word, then prove it. Brew Weed Gatherer’s tea and flush the child. Start anew, as mine.”
Leesha blinked. It had not surprised her when her mother suggested it, and no doubt Inevera and Araine would want the same. Women could be cold about such things, when they had to. But she never thought Thamos would murder an innocent child.
“No,” she said. “I drank the tea once—without even knowing if there was a life growing in me or not—and it was the biggest regret of my life. More even than bedding Ahmann. Never again.”
“Augh!” Thamos cried, taking a vase and throwing it across the room. Leesha stiffened. Thamos had to work himself up to violence in the night. Why would it be different here? She rose as well, edging toward the secret door to the gardens.
And Wonda.
But again Thamos surprised her, the rage leaving him with a sigh as his shoulders slumped. His face was one of defeat as he turned to her. “You realize all Hollow County, and my mother, thinks it’s mine?”
Leesha nodded, weeping. Her legs turned to water, and she stumbled back to the bed, covering her face in a vain attempt to hide her sobbing. She sat there for long moments, wretched and convulsing, but then there was weight on the bed, and Thamos put an arm around her.
Leesha leaned in to him, wondering if it was for the last time. She clutched at his shirt, holding tight and breathing deep, remembering his scent.
“I’m sorry to involve you in this,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to start courting me, or that I would fall in love with you. I was just trying to protect my baby.”
“Protect it from who?” Thamos said. “No one in the Hollow would have harmed the child.”
“The Krasians would cut it from me, if they knew,” Leesha said. “Or worse, wait till it’s born and then take it from me, raising it to believe it’s the heir to the green lands.”
She looked at Thamos. “And your mother might take it hostage, too. Don’t deny it.”
Thamos dropped his eyes, nodding. “She would likely think it best.”
“And you, Thamos?” Leesha asked. She was pressing too soon, but she had to know. “A moment ago you could not go on without me. Would you see me imprisoned at court with your mother?”
Thamos slumped. “What am I to do? Rhinebeck still has no son. My mother thinks you may be carrying the next heir to the ivy throne in your womb. How am I supposed to tell her it’s the demon of the desert’s heir instead?”
“I don’t know,” Leesha said. “There’s no need to decide now. There’s been no formal announcement of my condition. Let’s just act normally and try to figure things out.” She squeezed Thamos’ hand, and when he did not pull away she leaned in for one last kiss.
Thamos jumped to his feet as if stung by a bee. “Don’t. Not now. Maybe not ever again.”
He took a step back, waving his hand at the hidden door. “I think you should go.”
Leesha sobbed as she slipped through the exit, running from the manse as quickly as she could without stumbling.
CHAPTER 17
GOLDENTONE
333 AR WINTER
The Angierian heraldic coach looked out of place in the Hollow, but Rojer would have known it anywhere. He and Arrick had ridden in it countless times back when his master was still in Rhinebeck’
s favor.
Only now it belonged to Jasin Goldentone.
Rojer’s bow skidded off the strings as the coach pulled up in the Corelings’ Graveyard, escorted by a dozen Wooden Soldiers on sleek Angierian coursers. The other Jongleurs and apprentices, following his lead in the bandshell, ceased their playing as well, following his gaze.
Kendall caught his eye. “Everything all right? You look white as a cloud.”
Rojer barely heard her. His head swam with a mix of panic and fear, remembering the screams and laughter of a bloody night not so long ago. He watched, transfixed, as the footman lowered the steps and moved to open the carriage door.
Hary Roller put a hand on his shoulder. “Go, lad. Now, before you’re seen. I’ll give your regrets.”
The words, and the gentle shove the old Jongleur gave served to snap Rojer out of his daze. Hary took up his fiddle and stepped up to lead the orchestra, drawing the attention of the players away as Rojer slipped away.
Exiting stage right, Rojer picked up speed the moment he was out of sight, bounding the steps three at a time and then out the door, darting around the back of the bandshell quick as a hare. He pressed his back to the wall in the shadow of the shell, watching as Goldentone stepped out of the coach.
The last year had done little to dull Rojer’s feelings at the sight of the man who had murdered Master Jaycob and left Rojer for dead in the streets of Angiers at night. In the safety of the shadows, Rojer’s lip curled and his hand itched to flick and draw down one of the knives he kept strapped to his forearms. One good throw …
And what? he asked himself. You get hung for murdering the duke’s herald?
But Rojer’s muscles would not unclench. He was breathing hard just standing still, his body filling itself with oxygen to fight or flee.
Jasin called to Hary, and the old Jongleur moved down the steps at the front of the stage to greet him. The men shared a hug and a slap on the back, and the knives seemed to fall into Rojer’s hands of their own accord.
There was no sign of his apprentices, Abrum and Sali. Abrum who had broken Rojer’s fiddle and held him down. Sali, who had laughed as she beat Master Jaycob to death.
But the apprentices were just tools. It was Jasin who had ordered it. Jasin who stood to pay the most for the crime.
“Rojer, what in the Core are you doing?” Kendall’s harsh whisper at his back made him jump. How had she managed to sneak up on him?
“Mind your own instrument, Kendall,” Rojer said. “Doesn’t concern you.”
“Core it doesn’t,” Kendall said, “if I’m to be your wife.”
Rojer looked at her, and something in his eyes made her draw a sharp breath. “For now,” he said quietly, “all you need to know is that if a demon were about to eat Jasin Goldentone, and all I had to do to save him was play a little ditty, I’d smash my fiddle to a thousand pieces first.”
“Who is Jasin Goldentone?” Amanvah demanded the moment Rojer walked into their chambers. She was in her colored silks, her bare face beautiful even in her anger.
He’d expected it, but is was quick even so. Kendall and his wives had become thick as thieves in the last few weeks.
“Jasin Goldentone is my ripping business and no one else’s,” he snapped.
“Demon’s shit.” Amanvah spat on the floor, surprising Rojer with her vehemence. “We are your jiwah. Your enemies are ours as well.”
Rojer crossed his arms. “Why not ask your dice, if you want to know so much?”
Amanvah gave a tight smile. “Ah, husband. You know I already have. I am offering you this chance to tell me with your own words.”
Rojer gave her a neutral look, considering. No doubt she had indeed cast the dice on the question, but what the alagai hora told her was something else entirely. She might have the whole story—more even than he did—or she might have only a few vague hints with which to pry the information from his lips.
“If you cast the dice, you know all Everam wishes you to,” he countered, knowing it was dangerous ground.
To his surprise, Amanvah’s smile loosened a bit. “You are learning, husband.”
Rojer gave a short bow. “I’ve had excellent teachers.”
“You must learn to trust your jiwah, husband,” Amanvah said, putting a hand on his arm and drawing close. Rojer knew it was a calculated move, just like her anger, but he could not deny its effectiveness.
“I’m just …” Rojer swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”
“The hora say there is blood between you,” Amanvah said. “Blood that can only be washed away with blood.”
“You don’t understand—” Rojer began.
Amanvah cut him off with a laugh. “I am the daughter of Ahmann Jardir! You think I do not understand blood feud? It is you who do not understand, husband. You must kill this man. You must do it now, before he has a chance to strike at you and yours again.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” Rojer said. “Not here. Not now.”
“Blood feuds can last generations, husband,” Amanvah said. “Fail to kill him, and it may be his grandchildren who revenge themselves upon yours.”
“And killing him will stop that?” Rojer said. “Or will it just make enemies of his children directly?”
“If he has any, it may be best to kill them, as well,” Amanvah said.
“Creator, are you serious?” Rojer was aghast.
“I will send Coliv,” Amanvah said. “He is a Krevakh Watcher and one of the Spears of the Deliverer. He will never be seen, and to all the witnesses, your enemy will simply have fallen from his horse or choked on a pea.”
“No!” Rojer shouted. “No Watchers. No dama’ting poison. No getting involved—any of you. Jasin Goldentone is mine to revenge upon, or not, and if you cannot respect that, then this marriage is ended.”
There was silence then. Silence so deep Rojer could hear his own heart thumping in his chest. Part of him wanted to take back the words, just to break the silence, but he couldn’t.
They were true.
Amanvah stared at him for a long time, and he met her mask with his own, daring her to blink.
At last she did, lowering her eyes and bowing deeply. Her words dripped venom. “As you wish, husband. His blood is yours alone.”
She looked up at him. “But know this. Every day you allow this man to live, his actions will weigh against you when you walk the lonely path to be judged.”
Rojer snorted. “I’ll take my chances.”
Amanvah blew a short, angry breath through her nostrils, turning on a heel and gliding to her personal chambers and shutting the door.
Rojer wanted to chase her. To tell her loved her and never wanted their marriage to end, but the strength left him and reality closed from all sides.
Jasin Goldentone was in the Hollow, and Rojer could only avoid him for so long.
The invitation came the next morning, a special afternoon meeting of the count’s inner council to formally greet the duke’s herald.
Rojer crumpled the paper in his fist, but was careful not to leave it where it might be found. Amanvah was still in her private chambers, the air chill around the door.
“I’ve got to see the baron,” Rojer told Sikvah. Immediately she moved to lay out the appropriate clothes.
Even Rojer’s wardrobe had seen Amanvah’s touch. She’d been shocked to find the clothes Rojer brought to Everam’s Bounty were the only ones he owned. Not an hour later, Shamavah’s tailors had been stripping and measuring him.
It was good they were building a manse. At the rate Rojer’s closets were filling, they would need to devote an entire wing to his wardrobe.
Not that he was complaining. Rojer now had motley for every occasion, material fine and colors ranging in brightness depending on the nature of the event. Night, he could go a month without wearing the same thing twice. It reminded him of the early days with Arrick, when he had been the duke’s herald and they lived in the palace. Even now, the lie of thos
e times exposed, they remained the happiest days he could remember.
Rojer had attempted to pick his own clothes at first, but his wives quickly put an end to that. In truth, they had a better sense of such things than he.
The jacket and breeches Sikvah chose for an informal meeting with the baron were printed with an intricate pattern of muted color, like a fine Krasian rug. The loose shirt was flawless white silk. It felt like wearing a cloud.
Beneath the flowing cloth, Rojer’s medallion hung heavy on his chest. A Royal Angierian Medal of Valor on a thick braided chain, the heavy gold molding in relief crossed spears behind a shield emblazoned with Duke Rhinebeck’s crest: a leafed crown floating above an ivy-covered throne. Beneath the shield, a banner read:
Arrick Sweetsong
But Rojer wore it in reverse, the medallion’s smooth back etched with four more names:
Kally
Jessum
Geral
Jaycob
The names of those who had had died protecting Rojer. Five names. Five lives, cut short for his. How many was his miserable existence worth?
He pretended to fiddle with his laces for the excuse to touch the medal. For an instant, his fingers brushed the cool metal and a wave of comfort flowed through him, driving away the gripping anxiety. Whatever his brain told him, his heart knew no harm could come to him while he was touching it.
It was a fool’s belief, but Rojer was a fool by trade, so that worked out.
Sikvah pulled his hands away like a mother dressing a toddler, fixing the laces herself. Anxiety clenched him again, and he moved his hand back instinctively. Sikvah delivered a sharp slap to the back of his hand. It stung for a moment, then fell away, numb as she jerked the shirt straight.
Rojer jumped back in surprise. “Sikvah!”
Sikvah’s eyes widened, and she dropped smoothly to her knees, hands on the ground. “I apologize for striking you, honored husband. If you wish to whip me, it is your right …”
Rojer was stunned. “No, I …”
Sikvah bobbed. “Of course. I will inform the dama’ting to issue my penance …”
“No one’s whipping anyone!” Rojer snapped. “What is it with you people? Just forget it and find me another shirt. Something with buttons.”
Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne Page 38
