Lady Of Regret (Book 2)

by James A. West

  That pronouncement of support sent dread crawling through Rathe. Another man, a true friend and brother, had said much the same to him, who had stood at his side until the end. For that loyalty, Thushar had lost his head to the axe of King Nabar’s executioner. Rathe was not keen to lose another friend.

  The riders closed the gap, thundering hooves sending up a billow of dust.

  “Go,” Rathe commanded. “I’ll not think less of you.”

  “Enough of this dripping shit,” Loro said gruffly, joining his side. “This is no time for gallantry. We enter together, or not at all.”

  Timid Horge nodded agreement, and Yiri said, “I’m more a help at your side, than tromping about in the Tanglewood.”

  “Very well,” Rathe said, putting on the remorseless face he had so often worn while commanding the Ghosts of Ahnok. “Your lives are in your hands. I will not carry the burden of your death, should you fall.” That was a lie, the callousness of it a last bid to put his small company on the path to safety.

  None of them budged, and Rathe felt a forgotten tingle of pride. They were his company of soldiers, small as it was, and they had chosen to stand by him. He could ask no more. “Make ready,” he ordered.

  As Yiri and Horge joined him, the horsemen parted around the foursome and formed a tight circle. When twenty lances lowered, tips sharp and barbed and bright as quicksilver, Rathe felt the first niggle of doubt about his decision to trust the Lady of Regret’s goodwill. Perhaps she had fooled him into exposing himself.

  One of the Wardens, wearing a crimson-and-white braid of rank on his shoulder, nodded toward Ravenhold. Raw sores covered his neck and hands, and Rathe guessed he must have been changed before death took him.

  “I think he wants us to enter the fortress,” Horge said, incredulous.

  “Or he wants us to drop our guard,” Loro cautioned. “The moment we show our backs, they’ll run us through. It’s what I would do.”

  Rathe held ready, looking deeply into the darkness of the officer’s visor. If an answer lay within, he could not find it. “Your lady summoned us. Do I have your word you will do us no harm?”

  “He’s a dead man,” Loro said, exasperated. “What do the dead know of keeping their word? Let Yiri roast them, and be done with it.”

  Rathe’s eyes did not so much as flicker from the Warden. “Speak, or give some sign of your intentions,” he warned, “or you shall all die in the next breath.”

  The Warden cocked his head to the side. His shoulders started to shake. He made no sound, but Rathe could not mistake the indication of laughter.

  Of a sudden, the officer sat straighter, pointed his lance at the fortress. Rathe looked askance at the other horsemen. The Warden gestured, and his men lifted their weapons.

  “Sheathe your sword,” Rathe told to Loro.

  “This is madness.”

  “Perhaps,” Rathe agreed, sliding his blade home. If he was wrong about Lady Mylene, then he could well be leading his friends to their doom. But then, whether or not they had known it at the time, doom had always been a shadow hovering over the entire venture.

  Accepting the gamble with as much confidence as he could spare, Rathe set off. His companions fell in behind.

  The Wardens of Tanglewood came last, silent and grim as executioners.

  Chapter 30

  Ravenhold’s gatehouse, large as any keep Rathe had ever seen, was no stark utilitarian structure. Vines and flowers in full bloom hung from gilded trellises. On the walls, bright murals of unparalleled artistry and finely woven tapestries mingled with friezes carved by master stonemasons. In numerous arched niches stood lifelike sculptures of past heroes, each wearing garments bearing the Shield and Raven device. Those stone legends silently observed the passing of four strangers and their shaggy beast of burden. So, too, watched motionless guardsmen, eyes hidden amid the darkness behind their visors.

  Keeping his face smooth, Rathe said, “Ravenhold seems very rich.”

  “Aye,” Loro said. “And finer than the king’s palace in Onareth.”

  Unbending and sour as ever, Yiri said, “The stones of these walls have more life than those who live behind them. Bear that in mind, when you meet the Lady of Regret.”

  Rathe detected the underlying suggestion that he should not hesitate to attack their host, should the opportunity present itself. And if he failed to act, Yiri would not.

  Beyond the gatehouse, the Wardens of Tanglewood dismounted and gave their reins to other guardsmen, then formed a hollow square round Rathe and his companions. Without a word, they set out, forcing the foursome to walk, or get trampled underfoot.

  The fortress opened around them. There were many folk within, all who kept their distance. Maidservants clad in snow-and-crimson livery bustled between buildings and various keeps, carrying everything from brooms to baskets. Masons crawled like ants over scaffolding of surpassing height. By Rathe’s estimation, they were constructing a bridge to join the inner curtain wall to the outer. At the stables, resembling a palace in both size and splendor, grooms curried horses. Stable boys pushed barrows. Neither the grounds, nor the buildings, nor the cobbles over which Rathe and his companions strode, looked to have ever weathered a single winter.

  “Look,” Loro said, indicating the workers and servants with a sweep of his hand, “how they hide their faces from us.”

  Rathe could have named it coincidence, but each time he felt eyes upon him, he turned to find a face twisting away, or someone ducking behind a pillar or wall, or quickly vanishing through an archway.

  “And why do they light no candles or lamps?” Horge asked, searching dark windows and arrow loops.

  “The dead need no light,” Yiri whispered harshly.

  After the silent Wardens marched them through a broad gate in the inner wall, they halted on the far side. Soft pattering splashes rose from delicate fountains. Columned gazebos, with domed roofs overrun with greenery, sheltered within gardens painted in a riot of blossoming color. It was a place made for celebration and life, yet not a single soul strode the many paths, or appreciated the calming sounds and honeyed scents.

  The officer pointed down the cobbled path to a soaring keep of ivory stone. The last light of the fading sun kissed its hammered copper dome. Beneath a portico roofed with a wide balcony, two guards stood on either side of an immense pair of bloodwood doors.

  Rathe stepped forward, wondering why the Wardens had not taken their weapons. He might have been glad for the oversight, except that he did not believe it was an oversight. More likely, the Wardens had no fear of armed men.

  A sharp curse turned Rathe. Horge was trying to yank Samba’s lead rope out of the officer’s hand, and the yak was grunting in agitation.

  “Let him take the beast,” Rathe admonished.

  Horge reluctantly dropped his hands. Showing a rare bit of courage, he growled, “If any harm comes to Samba, I’ll have off your stones.”

  The officer’s shoulders shook again with laughter, but no sound came from behind his black-slitted visor.

  Rathe left him to his silent mirth, led his company up the wide steps to the entrance. One guard swung a door inward. Light from a hundred lampstands burst through the arched doorway, so bright Rathe raised a hand against it.

  “You have come.” The woman he had seen outside Wyvernmoor, and again in the forest, floated out of all that radiance and halted before him. Her white dress absorbed the light, giving the silk a radiant glow. The same radiance saturated her golden tresses and pale skin, granting her an otherworldly beauty.

  “You,” Yiri hissed.

  Horge babbled, “What deceit is this?”

  “Gods and demons,” Loro cursed, looking uncertainly between the pair, “what’s the matter with you two?”

  “’Tis the murdering wench who killed Mama!” Horge squawked. A belt knife flashed into his hand, and he rushed her.

  Rathe reacted without thought. In one deft motion, he knocked Horge’s knife flying across the portico. Ano
ther flash of Rathe’s hands sent the ragged fellow crashing to his back. He lay there, the hurt of betrayal brimming in his eyes, and mouth working to recover the breath knocked from his chest. Neither the guards nor the woman had moved.

  “Help up our friend, but keep him in hand,” Rathe told Loro. He glanced back to the woman. “Do they speak true, did you murder their mother?”

  Her remorseless blue gaze fell on Rathe. “I am Wina, Lady Mylene’s handmaid. And, yes, I put an end to Mother Safi’s cruelty, though I did not know she had children. Had I known, perhaps things would have turned out differently. Perhaps not, as Mother Safi cursed Ravenhold with a plague only she could cure, and then refused to help without exacting a steep price. Part of which was to try and kill me.”

  “Lies,” Yiri hissed.

  Composed, Wina cocked an eyebrow at Rathe. “Long has it been since anyone has guarded my person, save my Wardens. You have my gratitude.”

  “I came neither to earn your favor, nor to protect you.”

  A faint smile touched Wina’s lips. “Why have you come, warrior?”

  “I seek to pay a debt to those who follow the Way of Knowing. They gave back my life, and for that I must give them the Wight Stone. I’m told it is here.”

  “To seek the Wight Stone is to tread the path of doom.”

  Rathe’s laughter masked his unease. “I have faced a thousand deaths, yet here I stand. Fate, it would seem, favors me. Please, lead me to my next assured end, so that I can face it, collect what I have come for, and be on my way.”

  Wina looked to the captain. “Gyleon, please return to your duties.”

  The Warden hesitated the barest moment, then gestured for his fellows to join him. Wina waited until the Wardens closed the doors, before leading Rathe and the others into the keep.

  The place was dead still and empty, yet silver lampstands lit vaulted corridors more richly appointed than any king’s palace. Loro’s eyes bulged at the sight of golden breastplates, swords with mirrored blades and jeweled crossguards. Rathe kept his gaze on Wina’s slim form striding over tiles of blue-veined marble. So, too, did Yiri and Horge keep an eye on her. Despite his earlier attack, Horge now wore an expression of shame, as if he regreted his behavior.

  Wina halted before a tall pair of oaken doors lacking all the finery of the rest of the keep. “Lady Mylene waits within. Do you still trust to fate, warrior, or would you take this, your last chance, to flee? Mind you, rare is the occasion I grant such an offer.”

  “I will go after I hold the Wight Stone,” Rathe said.

  “I expected no less.” Wina threw open the doors.

  Yiri, Horge, and Loro hung back, but Rathe advanced. After what he had seen of Ravenhold, he was puzzled by the simplicity of the great hall. Here, cedar beams and arches, decorated with modest carvings, took the place of marble and gilt. Candles gave hazy light, instead of clean-burning lamps. Tapestries and carpets, while colorful, showed the wear of long years.

  “Herein resides the memory of Ravenhold,” Wina said in a hush, “as it was before the plague … as it will remain, forever.”

  Rathe barely heard her. At the end of an azure runner edged in gold embroidery, a woman in dark velvet sat rigid on a great chair of bone-white wood, its soaring back arced and carved all over with ravens in flight. The ravens have followed me, Rathe thought, with a tickle of unease. The auburn-haired woman’s gaze stole away the consideration. Lady Mylene’s eyes, black and glossy as polished obsidian, consumed the light.

  “Gods and demons,” Loro gasped from between Yiri and Horge, all three still beyond the doorway. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Rathe thought of all the hastily turned faces, the slitted visors worn by the guards and the Wardens of Tanglewood. Had they revealed such cavernous stares, he would have fought with his last breath to escape. He glanced at Wina, whose eyes were clear and bright.

  “Lady Mylene carries in her the blessing of the Wight Stone,” Wina said, “as do all in Ravenhold. As will you.”

  “Where is the Stone?” Rathe demanded, only half-hearing her. “Quickly girl!”

  Without answering, Wina slammed the doors, and quickly turned the lock with a key taken from a fold in her dress. Loro cursed without, and began beating at the door.

  Fury rose up in Rathe, and his sword came into hand. “Give me the Stone!”

  “Ravenhold has need of warriors,” Wina said in answer. “Put away your sword, and accept the peace of the Wight Stone. In so doing, you will fill your life with purpose.”

  “Is that what you name the life of a living corpse?” Rathe growled, glancing to Lady Mylene.

  Wina’s eyes shone. “Those who are blessed by the Wight Stone live with the promise of eternal purpose. So, too, does Ravenhold benefit. Three hundred years it has withstood sieges and terrible long winters. Once it bore the countless scars of that abuse. Now, under the power of the Wight Stone, my people have remade it. Never needing to rest, they toil with thanks and love in their hearts.”

  Rathe shook his head. “You are the Lady of Regret?”

  “Named so by blind fools,” Wina scoffed, stepping before him. “Some also call me the Hunting Bitch. In truth, warrior, I am the restorer of hope to these cold and forsaken lands.”

  She abruptly clutched his hand to the softness of her breasts. “And now I give to you a choice that I have never given anyone. Join my side, as my lover and husband, and we shall remake the Iron Marches.”

  “Are you mad?” He tried to jerk away, but at her touch a terrible weakness had stolen over him. Rathe’s head spun. “I want neither lands nor wife.”

  “You cannot say that. You must not!” She pushed him away, reached into her bodice.

  Rathe backed away.

  “Hold, warrior!” Wina boomed, the authority of her voice freezing him. She reached out, hand wrapped tight with the loops of a tarnished sliver necklace. Darkness pulsed between her clenched fingers. Rathe’s sword flashed, and Wina scampered back. Her eyes went ugly.

  “The time of choices has ended,” Wina snarled, and thrust her fist toward him. Black radiance pulsed outward, devouring his will. Distantly, he heard his sword clatter against the floor. He followed it, sinking to his knees. Wina coiled her fingers through his hair and yanked his head back.

  “Do not do this,” he grated, hating the fear in his voice.

  “You will thank me.” Her fingers formed a cage around the impossible darkness in her hand. Coils of blemished silver chain brushed his face, and with them swaying, thread-fine wisps of the purest black. Prickling heat raced over his skin.

  Wina bowed near. “You will become one with the Wight Stone and me, as have all the rest. Resisting makes it worse. Surrender, warrior, for the sake of your sanity. Surrender.” Her breath was sweet death.

  Unbidden tears sprang from his eyes, furious, pained. “I … will … not!”

  Wina’s face shifted in front of his, her stare clear and vast as a dawn sky. “It has already begun.”

  Chapter 31

  “I’ve got it,” Nesaea whispered, as the last elusive tumbler clicked. What at first seemed a simple lock, had proven far more difficult than any she had ever faced. Holding the fear of that golden wench’s promised return in the back of her mind had not helped steady her fingers.

  “About time,” Fira grumbled. One whole side of her face had gone puffy and purple-black where the guard had struck her.

  Now that the door was unlocked, the pressing need to find weapons and escape fell on Nesaea. She tucked away her lock picks, and settled a hand on the latch. “Ready?”

  Fira joined her side, and Nesaea peeked out through the barred window. She frowned. The guard who had stood his post since their arrival was gone. She shifted position, looked the other way, saw only walls and a glowing lamp.

  “What are you waiting for?” Fira asked.

  “The guard left.”

  “A good time to make our escape.”

  Nesaea eased the door open a crack, looked th
rough. At the far end of the corridor, she glimpsed the guard sprinting along on quiet feet, and then disappearing round a corner. Far-off, she heard the muffled sound of someone cursing and hammering on something.

  Drawing a deep breath, she flung the door wide and raced into the corridor. Her eyes stabbed the few shadows, searching for nonexistent guards.

  “There,” Fira said, lunging past her to reach a table stacked with their swords and daggers. The rest of their personal effects hung from hooks on the wall.

  Nesaea did not delay in belting on her sword, dagger, and various pouches. While she worked, she cast about for an escape. Only one presented itself. The way the guard had gone.

  “It’s the only way,” Fira said, when Nesaea pointed out their predicament. “Let’s be about it.” She drew her sword.

  Nesaea mirrored Fira, the feel of a hilt against her palm comforting. She set off at a quick clip, ready to attack or block, as needed. As with their cell, the corridor and the rest of the open cells they passed were surpassingly clean. Strange for a dungeon to be well-lit as a library, and not carrying the reek of sweat, blood, and brimming chamber pots. Nor did she see any rats, moldy straw, or anything else that usually adorned such dismal places.

  Stone stairs leading up met them at the corner where the guard had vanished. Decorative brass sconces marched up and up, until they seemed to join high above. Again, there was no other way to go, so they took the stairs. Two at a time, at first, then three and more.

  Gulping breath, they came to a wide landing and another corridor, this one appointed with stunning tapestries, armor, and heroic busts tucked into niches, the floor tiled in blue-veined white marble. Lampstands provided an abundance of illumination, and the sound of hammering had grown louder. With it, rousing curses rang out, in a voice Nesaea was sure she knew.

  “Is that…?” Fira began.

  “I believe so,” Nesaea answered, believing it only because she had never heard such profanity before, save from one man. And if he were here, then his companion might be, as well. The chance of that, incredible though it was, quickened her heart.