Lady Of Regret (Book 2)

by James A. West

  Horge had explained how his sister sensed the Black Breath within Rathe, upon meeting him in the Gelded Dragon. She had ensorcelled everyone within the inn, drew the spirit out, and bound it to do her bidding.

  “’Twas too much for her,” Horge told. “Binding spirits is a dangerous magic, for a chained spirit will always seek to destroy its master and break free. The Black Breath used Yiri’s inborn fury and her hunger for more powerful magic against her, tempted her to grasp for more than she could wield. When she did … well, you saw what became of her.”

  Rathe had not actually seen what happened, but he knew the Black Breath had again taken up residence in him. For whatever reason, the spirit had determined that tormenting him made for a fine bit of sport.

  Now, Loro’s laughter dried up. He fixed Horge with an imploring eye. “It would please my heart to see that trick of yours.”

  Horge fidgeted, looking uncertain. That was something else he had spoken of, the desire to be free of his ability to change from a man into an animal, a rare talent passed to him and Yiri through their mother. In desperation, he had gone to Brother Jathen, willing to pay any price to be free of what he considered a curse. Jathen, as was his wont, took advantage of Horge, and set him upon the mission of recovery the Heart of Majonis, the Keeper’s Box, and finally the Wight Stone.

  “It’s a fine trick,” Fira said gently. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Horge! Horge! Horge!” Rathe chanted, beating his chest. Nesaea and Fira and Loro raised their voices with his.

  Horge threw up his hands for silence. He stayed that way, face screwed up in concentration. The others waited expectantly. After a time, he said, “’Tis easier when I’m affrighted.”

  “I trust you are not up to any trickery,” Jathen said, coming around a bend farther down the trail.

  At the first sound of the monk’s voice, Horge squeaked, there came a tumultuous flapping noise, and he was gone. Rathe glimpsed a long sable shape steal between Samba’s legs and vanish into the brambles. He shook his head in amazement. How many times had he heard that noise since meeting Horge, and never once suspected the man held a little of his own magic?

  “When you sent me to Ravenhold after my father,” Nesaea said to Jathen, a dangerous edge to her voice, “you forgot to mention the fortress was overrun by wights.”

  Jathen reined in at the head of two horses—Rathe’s gray, and Loro’s red, both loaded with all their effects. The monk regarded Nesaea with far too much desire, for Rathe’s taste.

  “At the time,” Jathen said innocently, “you and Fira seemed capable enough. After all, you had made it from the southlands to Skalos unmolested. Forgive me for believing that overcoming a few wights would not trouble you a whit.”

  Nesaea’s teeth ground loudly, and Rathe wondered if he would soon have to join her in cutting the monk’s beating heart from his chest. He was not above that, as Jathen had also sent him to Ravenhold with no true warning of what waited there.

  “Besides,” Jathen went on, unmoved by Nesaea’s purpling features, “as I find you are alive and well, my faith in your abilities was well-founded. Did you, perchance, find your father?”

  “You must know that I did not.”

  “You have my sympathy,” Jathen said, admitting nothing. “I wish you luck in future ventures.” Finished with that, he glanced at Rathe. “You have the last of the trinkets I require? All of them, mind you. It would not do to have such potent relics fall into the wrong hands.”

  Face smooth, Rathe hefted the sack bearing the Wight Stone, Keeper’s Box, and the seeing glass. The Heart of Majonis, which Horge had taken from the fire mage’s staff, was already in Jathen’s possession.

  “We discussed a price, when last we spoke,” Rathe said. “Something to make me overlook your omissions.”

  Jathen snaked a leather purse from his belt. He bounced it on his palm, making the contents clink softly. “Gold enough to keep a man for years, if he spends wisely.” His smirk suggested he did not think Rathe was such a prudent man.

  Rathe heeled his mount forward. Lady Mylene had gifted his small company with horses and supplies before they departed Ravenhold. Captain Gyleon of the Wardens of Tanglewood, head swaddled in thick bandages to cover the burns Yiri had given him, had assured Rathe the rawboned destrier would take him wherever he desired. Rathe’s backside, however, longed for the smooth, easy gait of his gray.

  He reined in abreast of Jathen, leaned close, a tight smile affixed to his face. “You abused my honor, monk. For that, I ought to stake you out on the ground, hack off your shriveled cock, and leave the rest to delight a particular weasel we are both acquainted with.”

  Eyes wide, Jathen leaned away. Rathe grasped the collar of his breastplate, jerked him close. “Should I see you again, anywhere, I will take it as an invitation to mistreat you.”

  With that, he shoved the coarse sack into the monk’s hand, and snatched his payment into his own. A quick peek showed him half as much gold as Lady Mylene had given him as a reward for freeing her and her people from the hold of the Wight Stone. Like Nesaea, the only reward Rathe truly wanted was to see Jathen’s face when he discovered what he had paid for.

  I can imagine, Rathe thought, smiling to himself, a smile that made Jathen’s brow wrinkle with unease. Rathe took the lead ropes of the gray and the red, and returned to the others.

  Jathen opened the sack in his lap, avarice lighting his hard features. He glanced up, fighting to appear self-possessed. “Where do you plan to go from here?”

  Rathe turned a flat stare on him. “I find these Iron Marches suit my nature. I see no reason not to explore them.” Of course, he had no intention of holding to that. Inside of two days, he meant to be well down the River Sedge, on the way to the White Sea. He had never been aboard a ship, and the thought made him uneasy, but not so uneasy to avoid taking a voyage.

  Jathen gave him a sickly smile. “Ah, yes, well, these lands have a certain allure.” Before the last word passed his lips, he had wheeled his mount. A moment later, he disappeared down the trail.

  “Horge,” Rathe called, “you can come out now.”

  Horge crept from the brambles. Samba grunted, big sleepy eyes looking to his master. With a miserable expression, Horge patted the beast. “I suppose this is farewell.”

  Rathe swallowed, wondering if he had lost his wits. “You could join us,” he suggested.

  Horge gave him a look of such gratitude that Rathe felt disgusted by his hesitancy. The feral little man abruptly shook his head. “I thank you, but the Iron Marches are my home. And, besides, there’s … Wina.”

  Loro’s eye went wide. “The handmaid that killed your mother?” Fira slapped his arm. Chagrined, he sipped from his flask.

  “Aye,” Horge said, sheepish, fretful. “When I was a child, Yiri tried to make me hate her, but I never did, not really. Mama was not so innocent as she made out. Truth told, hundreds in Ravenhold and other places died at her hand.” He went silent for a moment. “Wina doesn’t know it, but I fought Yiri to keep her from butchering Wina that night. I expect she thought it was shadows come alive, or some such, but it was me, doing all I could to save her.”

  Rathe had no idea what the man was going on about, but nodded as if he did. When Horge fell silent, Rathe glanced at the sky, noted the westering sun, and thought of Jathen. Every hour counted until they were gone from the Iron Marches. “I wish you luck and peace,” he said to Horge, and the rest echoed him.

  Horge fidgeted a bit more, turned slowly, his finger sketching a map before his nose, then he bobbed his head. “Come find me, should you return,” he said, smiling wanly. “Mayhap we’ll hunt dragons.”

  “Maybe we will,” Rathe said. “Maybe we will at that.”

  Epilogue

  Jathen sat calmly, but a storm raged in his breast. The Wight Stone, rather, what had been the Wight Stone, rested just out of reach of his finger. The Keeper’s Box was a charred ruin nearby. He had placed the Stone inside for safe ke
eping, naturally. When the two artifacts had come into contact, they quite unnaturally began to smoke. Before he could separate them, they exploded in his face.

  Fingering a terrible gash on his brow, he studied the twisted amulet, its surface pitted as if by acid, the black gemstone dead and cold, never to give its mysterious light again. He recognized alchemy when he saw it. And a fine display it had been, showing the skill of a true master. Such an affront against his person, and the object he had desired, was worthy of not simple revenge, but of painful retribution, perhaps even prolonged death. The question was, who had destroyed what he so long sought? Nesaea? Rathe? Both of them together? In the end, it did not matter, for both would most certainly pay.

  He glanced at the man who had come into his chamber some time before. So quiet and still he was, Jathen had almost forgotten the man was keeping the shadows company in one corner. In truth, he was as much a part of the darkness as it was of him.

  Jathen said, “Being a man with your fine talents, I’m sure you will find him. As such, I have a proposition that may interest you.”

  “I am already obligated to one course,” the man answered, voice a file rasping over bone.

  “What I require makes no change in your plans, save, perhaps, the route by which you return.”

  The man considered. “There will be a price.”

  “There always is, yes?” Jathen upended a leather sack, spilling out ten fat roundels of gold. “Twice again as much, should you return here with the heads of Rathe and his wench, so that I might piss on them. Afterward, you can take them to this King Nabar.”

  The man’s pause was longer this time. “Agreed.”

  Jathen pushed the tip of his finger against the ruined Wight Stone. “I’d like to study the magical device of yours, the one that lets you become one with darkness.”

  The man did not move. “You would have to kill me, which I would never allow.”

  “Oh, well, there is no need of such talk. We are friends, after all, yes?”

  The man leaned forward, his face a mask of swirling black. He smiled. At least, Jathen thought he did. “No, Brother Jathen, we are not friends. Not at all,” and in a whirling flourish, he melted into the shadows at his back.

  About James

  My name is James, and I live in a fantasy world. Okay, not really, but I write about them. It’s Stephen King’s fault. I read The Talisman when I was thirteen, and I’ve lived in my fantasy world ever since. As soon as I finished that book, I was hooked. I knew I was going to be a writer. Of course, someone forgot to inform life about my plans, so I’ve had several different jobs. I proudly served in the US Army, spent a year as a long-haul truck driver with my wife (who is also my high-school sweetheart), and I attended the University of Montana. While I was there I enrolled in a creative writing course, and I couldn’t resist the call of writing any longer. Next thing I knew, words started to flow and worlds were born. Now I live and write in Montana with my wife and my bodyguard, a Mini-Schnauzer named Jonesy. I also eat copious amounts of chips and salsa :)

  Life is good!