On top of that was the missing Heir.
"Have we set our minds upon the quest for the Heir Apparent, then, Milord?"
"Perhaps." From his window, Dorian could see the road leading from the outer gate of the House. Trees shrouded almost everything, giving him only a patchwork view of the street. It was empty now with court finished. "Do you recall an announcement about her death?"
"You flatter me, My Lord, if you think my aging mind can retain such obscurities."
Humming his consternation, Dorian kept his attention on the road. "You would think Father at least would have warned me."
"As I recall, he did warn you." Gremor set an emptied trunk aside and moved to the next, "Though his warning pertained only to tomfoolery and the respect of the family name."
"Your point?"
Gremor paused and looked at him. "To caution you, Sire, making an enemy of Vicaress Reonne is unwise. She may be Untalented, but she is powerful."
"At least here she is," Dorian rested his head against the window frame. "Something is amiss, Gremor."
"So certain of that, are you?" Gremor returned to unpacking. "What if you are chasing shadows, Sire?"
"I am mostly curious," he admitted. "And it is in the way of finding the Bedim. Though I am decidedly not chasing shadows, one of the servants called me an imbecile when I pressed about the Heir Apparent."
"It always amazes me how quickly some see through your guise, Milord."
Ignoring the comment, he frowned out the window. "And there was that girl."
"There is always a girl."
"The one with the silver bracers, did you notice her?" He rubbed his face, trying to will his mind to think clearly despite exhaustion from travel. "She kept staring at me."
Gremor slammed a trunk closed, startling Dorian into looking his direction. "Tomfoolery, Milord. Whenever a girl gets involved, tragedy is close on your heels. Leave her be."
"Your sense of adventure stifles me."
The tasteful state of their assigned rooms began to come into focus. The walls were comprised of a cream colored rock that had to be indigenous to the island. The round, brass headboard of his bed stood out against the pleasant color, looking warm and inviting, if not extravagant. Gremor had a room of his own attached by a door in the west wall. It was smaller and adjacent to the bathing nook where a copper tub stood prominent.
Something moved on the road, and Dorian turned to look again.
It was her. Silver-bracers and all, she paused on the road and looked up, directly at him. Dorian caught his breath and was struck again with the oddity about her. Spirals of obsidian hair dangled from her head, loosely framing a face of alabaster. Fates! She was perfect. His mind automatically cautioned him against perfection, there had to be a flaw somewhere. In the waning light he could make out the glint of gold in her eyes, a trait he had noticed upon first glance in the Hall. Her eyes were like molten caramel, burning and sweet all at once.
She waited the space of three heart beats, long enough for him to know she had paused on purpose, before turning and continuing down the road. Dorian was out of the window seat before she had left his view and hurried to the door.
"Milord?" Gremor's voice held a note of alarm. Before the door closed again he could hear him say one word, almost in a curse, "Tomfoolery!"
Dorian made a mental note to apologize later and hurried down the corridor. He nearly ran into Lady Leona on his trek down the staircase. Upon seeing him she gave a warm smile and curtsied. Then her eyes dropped to his sagging cravat and open waist coat and her face effused with color. He followed her gaze to the expanse of chest that was currently on display and faltered.
"I do apologize, Milady. I ... " he searched for an excuse. "I tore a button and Gremor left the mending supplies with the horses."
It was a weak apology, but the girls discomfort seemed to allow her to accept it. She kept her eyes on the wall just opposite of him and smiled. "'Tis fully understandable that you would need to fix it," her eyebrows pinched together just-so, "Right now."
"I really ought to just hire a tailor, I know." Dorian spoke while he buttoned the waist coat, realizing at the end that he had forgotten to tear one off in the process.
Leona didn't seem to notice. He bowed to her and left, wondering at his own sanity. The girl would realize his mistake at some point, he knew. Not that she could know his intentions, so he was safe in a vague sort of way, but discretion seemed to be the better part of valor at the moment, and he was failing miserably.
As he passed through the house doors, he realized he had left his weapons in the room. Touching his empty hip, Dorian cursed himself and looked up at the window where he had been sitting. Gremor stood there, dangling the rapier in one hand and his pistol belt in the other. Relieved, Dorian moved off the path to stand beneath the window.
"Drop it down," he said.
"No." Gremor sniffed and gazed about the area. "The respect for your blessed father has finally urged me to take action. Either you go unarmed and fall prey to foul play, or you come back up here."
"Have you gone mad?" Dorian glanced at one of the guards, who watched the display with growing curiosity. He tried for a polite smile and hissed up at the window, "Gremor. I swear to you. I will replace you in a heartbeat. Now drop that sword."
"And allow you to take off on another mindless, lustful quest of skirts? No. I doubt the girl could do more than sling well-deserved insults at you anyway."
"Is there a problem, my Lord Feverrette?" the guard had taken an active interest in the situation now.
"None at all, good sir, my servant is merely being obstinate." Dorian glowered up at the man in question. "I do believe age has stolen his sense of reason."
Glancing back down the road he could see the girls' skirts as she made the final turn into town. He cursed low and heated about Gremor's state of health and hurried to catch up. He was Witch-Born, after all. He was confident he could defend himself without the sword.
The first problem he ran into was that Delgora was impossible to negotiate for a newcomer. Trees swallowed buildings, arching high and lush and shading the cobbled road with even more shadow. He caught glimpses of the girl, mostly in his peripheral view, but always close enough that he knew she was leading him.
He had been right.
The Heir Apparent was alive.
Not that he had really doubted himself. The braziers were proof of her life.
There was a nagging in his mind that he was getting distracted from his real purpose. The Bedim would hear about his announcement at court and the contracts on his life would taunt them into coming for him. Which was the point, of course, though he still had little idea what he intended to do when the Grizzato character finally came after him. In the meantime, he thought as he ducked low-hanging branches, there could be no harm in solving the puzzle of the missing Heir.
Darkness subdued the last of the daylight and the girl continued on through the jungle. The canopy created by the trees was so thick that the moonlight could barely make its way through. They were far enough away from the town that nocturnal sounds of the Wild took the place of whirring machinery. His Talent could sense the growing threat of nature the deeper they traveled. A creeping sensation crawled up his spine and closed around the base of his neck.
He really should have insisted on his sword.
The thought was followed by the sudden drop of a figure in front of him. The person swung something at his head, and he ducked, twisting to the left to avoid the follow-swing of his assailants' weapon. He caught the man's forearm before he could swing again and kicked him just behind the knee. The attacker knelt long enough to retrieve something from his boot.
Magic swirled into his vision, distorting the view for a moment as he made the move from one side of his opponent to the other. Levering the assailant's arm behind his back, Dorian felt the strain of muscle and bone and paused. He'd been about to demand the identity of his attacker, when something hard struck him at the junctu
re between neck and shoulder, and his world tilted. Dorian released the man and stumbled forward. By the time his vision had cleared there were several blades and pistols leveled at him. The woman he had been following stood a few feet away, her command of the situation evident though she hadn't uttered a word.
"Blast you, Gremor," he muttered and rubbed his now throbbing neck.
***
"Let him up," Elsie ordered.
There was a brief hesitation before her words were obeyed. Her friends all slunk back into the shadows of the jungle, close enough to attack again if needed and yet far enough away to be distorted from view. Lord Feverrette grimaced as he rubbed his neck, looking up at her with a keen and steady gaze.
"I would offer my thanks," he said, "Did I think the danger had passed."
She smiled down at him. "At least you can recognize the real threat when you see it." Elsie waited for him to stand up before continuing. "You should be very clear while explaining yourself, my tenacious young Lord."
"I seek the Heir Apparent, Elsie Varene Delgora."
"Tenacious, brave, yet deaf it seems. Were you not already told today of the girl's fate?"
"The Vicaress lies."
Elsie allowed him to take a step closer. "You seem rather certain of yourself, Milord. Pray tell, what gives you such conviction?"
"If I told you, would that not endanger the Heir Apparent further?"
His body grew very still. Every inch of him was unmovable, which was admirable given his current situation, and Elsie smiled again. The edge of the jungle grew restless as her company listened to the debate. Feverrette appeared to sense the numbers there, and still he watched her. In the brief moment that Bryva had taken to strike the man down Elsie had begun to wonder if this could truly be the Bedim Hunter. She'd been expecting something a little more formidable. But that disbelief waned under his steady gaze. There was clarity to his furtive grey eyes, a sense that he had already puzzled through all of her secrets.
After a moment she turned and began walking, leaving him to catch up with her. "The Heir Apparent has been gone for over five and twenty years, Milord. She was burned per tradition; otherwise I would escort you to her grave myself."
"Then the girl burned was not the Heir Apparent."
Elsie flinched at that. She'd been right about him. He was trouble. He'd concluded the truth without hesitation and was careless enough to say it out loud. Though it spoke wonders to his intelligence and his creative mind, it felt disrespectful. If the blasted man had taken the time to calculate things he would have discovered at what tender age Elsie's entire life had upturned itself. Her mind blocked most of the traumatic day, but she had snippets of memory; images mostly, of a small table set for tea with delicate pink saucers and cups. Her favorite doll set in one of the chairs. There were two sounds that accompanied the images. One was her own voice saying she would pour the tea. The other was the crash of table, cups and saucers mingling with the gurgled cry of the real Nessa Gelgova.
Elsie became grateful for the dark since it made her face harder to read. Dragging herself from the past she managed a casual smile and laughed at Lord Feverrette. "Arrogance has never known a more valiant and relentless personage as yourself, Milord."
"You insult and compliment me all at once, Madame." Feverrette smiled over at her, his entertainment with the conversation obvious. "Yet you do not deny my assertion."
"I've no need to deny such a wild claim."
They were deep into the jungle now. Gloom swallowed everything, giving way only reluctantly to the sparse piercing of moonlight through the treetops. She paused their progression to consider him further. He'd taken the bait of following her easily enough but she knew now that it was going to take something more to convince him to leave. Feverrette hiked an eyebrow up at her, one hand resting on his hip. If he'd been wearing a cloak or cape of some sort he might have made an impressive sight.
Pity, the one Talented to come seeking her and he was neither impressive nor well dressed.
Deciding on a course of action, Elsie turned and walked off the path. Feverrette followed, as she had expected, though less certain now. The Pillars were nearby and his Talent must have warned him. The uncertainty of his steps made her smile. It was good to get him out of his comfort zone; it might make that magnitude of arrogance fritter away.
"I am not asking for her out of mere curiosity," Feverrette voiced. "Has it occurred to you that I might be able to help her?"
"Of course you could," she leapt a fallen log and turned to look at him. "I should like to see you drag the lady from Hell's Gate and place her on the House Seat. Shall I dispatch you myself? It would hurry your trip."
Feverrette leaned forward onto the log, discomforting her again. The smile he gave her was both charismatic and seductive, and her initial reaction was to smile back.
"Dispatch me to Hells Gate? Do you think me evil enough to deserve Hell?"
"Without a doubt, my lord Feverrette," Elsie pivoted on her heel. "A better question to ask is why I would assume the Heir Apparent was sent there."
"Is she a spoiled creature, then? Coddled and insipid?"
"Interesting, my lord, that you would draw such a conclusion for the deceased. Have you known many Witch-Born with such traits?"
"Dozens, they're terrible fiends, the lot of them, so enamored with themselves that they cannot see past the rings on their fingers."
"It is a wonder then that you would wish to wed one."
His chuckle reached her as she came to the edge of a clearing. The jungle spread away in a crescent moon shape, dipping down into a ravine. Curving with the shape of the clearing a large wall enclosed several buildings, all of darkened marble and brick. The wrought-iron gates that created the Sanctuary's only entrance twisted into an unmistakable symbol; the number 9 held within an upside down triangle.
Elsie turned to face Feverrette as he moved to stand beside her. He looked first at her face, a mild amount of amusement evident at the corner of his mouth that quickly disappeared when he spotted the symbol. His brow pinched, and his eyes narrowed, and she almost felt a degree of sadness come over her. She wasn't certain why she felt that way. This was the reaction she'd been looking for.
"What forsaken place is this?" he asked.
"You are Saldorian Feverrette, the Bedim Hunter, are you not?"
He kept his gaze on the clearing, "I am."
"I will be candid, my lord. I have no time for you." Elsie turned to face him. "That is the Bedim Sanctuary. Whoever you are hunting has likely found refuge within those gates."
Several emotions passed over his face. Shock was the first and foremost. She knew she was risking the ire of the Triad by bringing him here, but she needed him to understand his own danger long enough to get out of Delgora. He struggled for a bit with the news, his mouth twisting and untwisting in a severe line before he found a response.
"Why have you shown me this?" His hand went to his empty waist.
"I would think that was obvious. I'm giving you what you want so you stay out of my way."
It took him a moment to refocus on her. "How do you know of this place?"
"You're an intelligent man, Feverrette. I'm sure I do not need to spell it out."
"You cannot tell me that the Heir Apparent has reduced herself to an alliance with murderers!"
"I haven't told you any such thing," she crossed her arms. There was vehemence in his voice that felt dangerous even to her. "The fact that you've drawn such conclusions is intriguing though."
He reached out and grabbed her arms. The shadows took form as her men surged forward, but she held up a hand to stay them. Feverrette glanced at the men as they backed down but did not release her. She waited, patient and quiet, as he met her eyes again, thanking the Fates that she had chosen to wear sleeves today. If he'd touched her skin he would feel her Talent and the game would come to a close. There was a stirring deep inside her, something elusive that she could not name, as he searched for answers in her
that she would not give.
"Your fight will be in vain if you side with the Bedim. They would sooner kill you all in your sleep than uphold any sort of agreement."
"Cling to the hope of an Heir Apparent if you must, Milord."
The look he gave her might have melted snow. After a long silence he seemed to decide on another tactic. "If you do not fight for the Heir Apparent then who do you fight for?"
"Who says I fight for anyone?"
His mouth twisted with annoyance. "You have men waiting to kill me in a moments notice and you think I am fool enough to believe you are merely a band of brigands?" Giving her a disgusted look he released her. "You might give me a small amount of credit."
The conversation was not going according to plan.
Problematic, Elsie thought and turned to look at the Sanctuary. Perhaps if she kept it at the forefront of his attention things would work better. "Very well," she said. "Let us see how far your credit takes you, then."
"I know that she is alive."
"If that comforts you, Milord."
"There had to be another way," he muttered, though she believed that was mostly for himself. "The Bedim."
"Your prejudice runs deep it seems."
"Prejudice! Ha!" Feverrette spat at the ground in front of him. "I've a dozen scars on my body compliments of their kind. My prejudice has been well earned."
"Their kind, Milord? Are not the Bedim merely outcasts of your own kind?" Elsie felt him stiffen beside her. That was a better reaction so she pushed it. "Second Sons and Daughters, if I'm right, not fit to be House Witches or Consorts so they have no real use within the noble society."
"They use their Talent to murder. We use it to preserve life. They are an affront to everything we hold dear."
Taking a step forward she glanced back at him with an almost apologetic smile. "My Lord Feverrette ... it may surprise you to know that this House of Bedim has been working very hard to preserve the lives of those who reside here in Delgora."
Witch-born Page 4
