With a nod, Aravon and his companions marched through the guard checkpoint and onto the Eastbridge. The logs, each as thick as Aravon’s torso and treated with an alchemical solution that rendered them impervious to sea water, rain, and the occasional snow that rolled off the Frozen Sea, thumped beneath their hobnailed boots.
Six stone piles stood at three equidistant intervals along the thirty-yard length of the bridge. Steel struts thrust out from the sides of the bridge, connected to channeled grooves along the inward faces of the piles. Those grooves concealed mechanisms that allowed the soldiers controlling the capstan on the island side to lower and raise the bridge. Next to the large capstan stood a lever that, when thrown, dropped the bridge into the inlet. This was only ever used in case of siege—or full-scale riot—because once dropped, it required an immense effort to turn the wheel and raise the bridge to its full height once more.
Like so much else in Icespire, this second layer of urban defense had been long ago rendered superfluous by centuries of peace in the northern Princelands. Aravon couldn’t remember the last time that bridge had been lowered or raised—did the mechanisms even work properly? Only the Icewatchers that maintained them knew for certain.
Stepping onto Azure Island’s eastern shore felt like stepping into a world as different from the rest of Icespire as Icespire itself from a Fehlan village. The buildings in Portside had been sturdy constructions of brick and wood, with meager whitewash to hide the layers of mud and dust of the bustling district. Two and three-story structures were common, with even a few ornate decorations of granite, marble, and artisan-worked wrought metal to add a touch of luxury to the more prosperous taverns and bawdy houses. Yet they were as Outwarder hovels compared to the estates of the Azure Islanders.
Though Aravon had been in this part of Azure Island before, it never failed to inspire awe at the sheer opulence. Mansions from four to seven floors high towered above his head, with walls ten to twenty feet high encircling the properties. Behind only a few of those walls, Aravon knew, were lush gardens and grassy lawns. The small size of Azure Island—barely four miles from east to west and just under two miles north to south—meant every square foot of property was worth a vast fortune. The largest of the mansions rose high into the sky rather than spread out, so as not to waste valuable real estate. Only the wealthiest of the nobility could afford the extra land for fripperies like plants, ponds, and orchards.
None on Azure Island could match Lord Aleron Virinus’ wealth. He alone refused to build upward—his mansion stood just three stories tall, yet occupied two or three times more square footage than his nearest neighbors. And above the eight-foot wall surrounding his property, a small forest of trees spread their leafy branches.
However, the Virinus mansion was built with the same architectural feature found on every Azure Island mansion. It had been built with one wall facing the Icespire—north and west of its position on the northern shore of the island. Every inch of that wall was covered with picture windows, offering the occupants an unhindered view of the Serenii-built tower, and flooding the mansion with the soft blue glow at night.
The other three walls of Lord Virinus’ mansion were a breathtaking masterpiece of white marble flecked with pink, red, and brown. Yet it was the crystal panes used for the northeastern-facing wall that served as the true testament to the wealth of House Virinus. Praamian crystal, far superior to any made on Fehl, shipped across the Frozen Sea at monumental expense. No other Azure Islander could boast a view as grand.
Only the Prince’s Palace outshone the lavishness of Lord Virinus’ estate. A vast building nearly a mile wide and half as broad, carved from the finest marble on both Fehl and the mainland of Einan. Aravon had been to the Palace a handful of times in his life, and he’d walked the high-arching halls, marveled at the ornate frescoes dotting the walls, floors, and ceilings, and, once, at the Prince’s invitation, strolled through the lush garden.
Yet even the Palace’s grandeur paled in comparison to the Icespire around which it had been built. Eight years earlier, Prince Toran’s grandfather had summoned the finest mainlander architects, sculptors, jewelers, and artists, giving them a single command: upgrade the Palace to make it match the glory of the Serenii-built tower. Two years later, every one of the artisans had departed, weeping at their failure to duplicate the splendor of the glassy, gemstone surface.
Aravon couldn’t help staring up at the Icespire. At the soft blue glow emanating from within, like the flame of a candle a hundred feet tall. There was something at once soothing, eerie, and alien about that light. As if its very existence defied impossibility and challenged mankind to strive to greater heights—a battle they lost every time.
With effort, he pulled his eyes away from the mesmerizing, crystalline depths of the tower. He forced himself not to look westward—toward the far side of the island, where the mansion of General Traighan stood. That solid, four-story stone building far more like a fortress than the opulent estates jockeying for position around Lord Virinus’ property. Home…the home he’d left behind so long ago, where his wife and sons now lived alone.
“Lord Virinus’ soiree will give us the cover we need to get in.” Colborn’s quiet words snapped Aravon back to the present. “Once we’re in, we find a way to get Lord Virinus alone. Rangvaldr, Zaharis, the Captain, and I will run interference, herd him away from the guests and guards. Skathi, Noll, you look for someplace quiet to take him. We do this quickly and quietly, no one looks at us twice, and we get the answers we came for. Once we have the information, we split up and regroup back at the Wrinkled Pig. Any questions?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one.” Noll grumped. “Why do you get to enjoy the food and drink at the feast while I get stuck scouring dark halls?”
“Because you’re a shite dinner guest,” Skathi retorted. “Anyone sees the way you eat, you’ll get us all kicked to the Outwards.”
Aravon chose not to hear Noll’s muttered response.
“I’ve always wondered what your Princelander revelries were like.” Rangvaldr said. “To hear the Myrr and Bein tell it, you feast on your own infants. To the Eyrr, it’s an orgy of wine, food, and wealth beyond imagining. Looking at these things you call mansions, I can’t help wondering if Ailmaer had it right.”
The words surprised Aravon. He hadn’t considered what the experience would be like for Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn had never set foot in Icespire, never seen the towering Serenii tower or the vast estates of the nobility. For a warrior who came from Bjornstadt, a pathetically tiny town by comparison, it had to be overwhelming.
Before Aravon could speak, a huge figure in Steel Company armor emerged from the shadows of a nearby mansion. Belthar greeted them with a silent nod and slipped into position beside Noll without a word.
Together, the seven of them marched down the broad, paved avenue that led toward the main entrance into Lord Virinus’ mansion. The huge gate, located on the mansion’s eastern side, was thrown wide, and a steady stream of carriages, chaises, and riders in rich robes flowed into the estate. Two bored-looking guards stood watch at the gate, more focused on ogling the beautiful, bejeweled noblewomen entering the soiree than paying proper attention to a small company of Steel Company mercenaries slipping past under cover of a passing carriage. Either that, or they simply didn’t care—Aravon and his companions appeared, for all intents and purposes, like the honor guard escorting whatever nobleman rode within the gilded and velvet-curtained four-wheeler.
Through the gate, Aravon stepped into a carnival of the senses. Fire-dancers spun their batons and juggled burning sticks, filling the air with a blaze of gold brighter than the torches arrayed in neat rows along the grass-lined path leading up to the main avenue. Musicians filled the air with the song of lutes, psaltyrs, harps, drums, tambourines, and a dozen more instruments Aravon had never before heard. Chattering, laughing, shouting noblemen and women flooded the grassy lawn sprawling across the eastern side of the estate. All wore black, yet among that funereal attire glittere
d more wealth of gold, silver, and precious gemstones set into necklaces, rings, earrings, and bracelets than Aravon had ever thought possible.
Metal goblets and decanters of fine crystal clinked all around him. Liveried servants wielding broad trays laden with sweating pitchers flowed among the guests, refilling cups and offering a broad selection of fine foods: roast pheasant, quail, and pigeon; carved bits of ham, thinly-sliced mutton, and skewers stabbed through chunks of meat and savory vegetables; fruit fresh and dried, much of it brought across from the mainland; shaved ice dribbled with sweet syrups, including the syrup extracted from the maples common among the Deid lands; confections and sweetmeats dripping icing and topped with bits of shaved gold; the bounty of the sea cooked into a half-dozen different soups and stews, or served fresh-caught with slices of costly Voramian lemons; olives from Shalandra, dried dates from the Twelve Kingdoms, and a dozen more delicacies imported from Einan. An extravagant feast and an open display of wealth.
Aravon tore his eyes from the revelry—the crowd gathered around a frantically leaping jester, the gaggle of noblemen huddled near a contortionist with gauzy rags covering her breasts and torso, the women oohing and aahing over a strongman with oil-glistening muscles—forcing himself to focus on the mission at hand.
At his signal, his men formed a small procession behind a nobleman and woman—Aravon recognized the pair as Lord Vesar Polimus and his wife, the Lady Theria—striding up the broad, paved walkway toward the mansion itself. Few glanced their way, and those who did turned away without comment. After all, who would quibble at the presence of a guard company escorting one of Icespire’s noble houses to such a revelry?
Belthar had been the one to suggest the disguise—the Steel Company was known for accepting contracts among the nobility, those who could afford to pay their exorbitant rates. While their presence might draw notice, it would not likely raise question. And if challenged, Aravon could simply continue the ruse of being summoned to Lord Virinus’ side. Anything that got him closer to his target served his purposes just fine.
Just before they reached the marble-tiled wall of the mansion, Lord and Lady Polimus broke off to the right, calling out loud greetings of recognition to a trio of white-haired men sitting beneath a hazy cloud that reeked of Voramian tabacc. Aravon and his companions, however, kept straight on toward the high-arching double doors that opened into the foyer of the Virinus residence.
The interior far exceeded the opulence of the mansion’s exterior. Marble threaded through with filigree of gold, silver, and platinum covered every surface, and the lamps hanging on gold-plated wall sconces set the interior gleaming. Within, dozens more guests—all dressed in funereal black, yet dripping with a fortune in jewelry—swirled up and down the grand staircase.
Aravon’s gaze traveled upward, toward the arching glass dome that opened onto the sky—and a clear view of the Icespire—three stories above their heads. The dome descended toward the northwestern wall, made of crystal panes set onto a frame of silver-plated metal, through which the soft blue glow of the Serenii-built tower shone. The mixture of azure and gold illumination filled the mansion with an almost surreal air of wonder—precisely the ambience Lord Virinus doubtless intended.
Speaking of, where are we to find the man himself?
At a guess, Aravon would say the grand ballroom—the chamber where most nobles hosted such revelries, and where they could display their wealth for the world to see. Doubtless they’d find that room on the northwestern side of the mansion. Lord Virinus would need no lamps or chandeliers to light the chamber; the Icespire offered all the illumination required.
“Spread out,” Aravon signed to his companions. “Colborn and I will head to the grand ballroom. Zaharis and Rangvaldr, check the other rooms on the first floor before meeting us there.”
Zaharis nodded, but Rangvaldr seemed at a loss for words. His eyes had gone wide behind his mask, a look of wonder sparkling there as he drank in the wealth—far more than he doubtless believed existed. Such a far cry from his smoky, wattle-and-daub longhouse in Bjornstadt, that much was certain.
“Keep an eye on him.” Aravon fixed Zaharis with a meaningful look. “Anyone’s first time in a place like this can be disorientating.”
Again a nod from the Secret Keeper, and he ushered a still-astonished Rangvaldr off down a hallway that led south, away from the main entrance.
Belthar, Skathi, and Noll broke away without a word. They each knew their task—to find a room where they could question Lord Virinus undisturbed. Though they, too, appeared flabbergasted by such an open display of luxury, Aravon had no doubt the three of them could remain focused on their mission.
Aravon had just turned to signal to Colborn to move when a voice rang out through the high-domed entrance. “You there! Mercenary!”
The call nearly froze Aravon in his tracks, and it took effort not to look toward the sound of the voice. They had to avoid drawing suspicion, and hopefully—
“I said, Mercenary!” A man bustled past and planted himself in front of them. “Didn’t you hear me, Sellsword?” He spat the word like an insult.
Every muscle in Colborn’s body went rigid as his eyes locked on the man. An icy chill froze his blue eyes, and his hand dropped toward the three-bladed surgeonsbane at his belt.
One look at the nobleman, and Aravon understood the Lieutenant’s sudden and violent reaction. The man was tall, taller than Aravon, with broad shoulders, hair the color of rusted iron, and a face midway between strong and pudgy. Yet there was no mistaking those blunt cheekbones, the square jaw, and that strong hairline—Aravon had seen it every time he looked at Colborn.
Aravon had never met the man, but he’d know Lord Derran of Whitevale anywhere. The man standing before them, disdain written into every line of his jowly face, was Colborn’s father.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Every hint of Aravon’s grief-induced numbness faded in that moment. All thoughts of his loss and the pain of his sorrow faded, replaced by a wary sharpness of mind. He was once again Captain of the Grim Reavers, and a soldier under his command needed him. If he didn’t take control, find a way to calm Colborn, the Lieutenant might do something—something violent and driven by his anger, anger justified over years of abuse and at his father’s hand—that could ruin the mission.
Aravon stepped smoothly between Colborn and Lord Derran. “Ahh, Lord Derran!” He spoke in his deep Captain Snarl voice and swept a stiff, soldierly bow. “You, too, are the honored guest of Lord Virinus?”
“I am.” Lord Derran narrowed his eyes at Aravon and gave a little sniff. “Though I’ll admit it feels far less of an honor now that I find your sort here.”
“My Commandant was summoned to attend.” Aravon said. “We are simply guilty of being here by association.”
“Commandant Simont?” Lord Derran raised an eyebrow. “It was my understanding that he and the rest of your ilk were occupied with the goings-on in The Violet Fens.”
Aravon scrambled for a response—he’d heard of nothing of interest taking place in the aforementioned duchy, but that meant little, given that his sole focus until now had been dealing with the Eirdkilrs. “But he left behind just enough of us to remind the Icespire nobility that we are those best-suited for whatever tasks you may require.” Aravon dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And at a price far more reasonable than our competitors, particularly to upstanding nobles like yourself.”
Lord Derran turned up his nose. “Indeed.” He gave a disdainful sniff. “How like a hired sword to turn an old, used-up General’s memorial service into an opportunity for profit!”
Aravon gritted his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. It took all his self-control not to drive his fist into the nobleman’s face.
“Lord Whitevale.” He gave the man a half-bow before turning on his heel and striding away. Behind him, Colborn stood frozen still, but Aravon recognized the icy glitter in the Lieutenant’s blue eyes. Hatred, rage, and bone-deep loathing.
“Stay on mission.” Aravon spoke a voice low enough for only Colborn to hear. “We’ve bigger problems to worry about.”
For a moment, he feared his words would fall on deaf ears—Swordsman knew that if someone had spoken to him mere hours ago, he’d never have heard them. After everything Colborn had endured at the man’s hands, he wouldn’t have blamed the Lieutenant for striking out, even drawing his sword and cutting Lord Derran down. But he had to trust, had to believe Colborn knew the importance of their mission depended on his keeping his fury in check.
Relief flooded him as the clank of plate-and-chain mail echoed beside him. He didn’t need to glance at Colborn to feel the tangible storm of anger emanating off him in waves. Yet Colborn remained in step with him as he strode through the crowd of richly dressed, lace-festooned, heavily-perfumed men and women thronging in and out of the grand ballroom.
A strange sight caught Aravon’s gaze as he strode past an adjoining corridor: four men in shining splinted mail and carrying heavy swords pushed through the door leading into one of the smaller side rooms. One of them glanced back in the direction of the main hall, revealing a face marked with the ornate swirling black tattoos of a Warrior Priest.
Curiosity furrowed his brow as the men disappeared into the chamber. What are Derelana’s chosen doing here?
The Warrior Priests served Derelana, goddess of vengeance. They operated like mercenaries, hiring themselves out to any who could afford their services. Yet unlike sellswords, they only accepted missions of vengeance that they deemed righteous. The militant priests visited their goddess’ holy wrath and divine retribution as punishment on the deserving.
Worry flashed through Aravon, yet he pushed it back. The Warrior Priests couldn’t be here for them. No one—not even Lord Eidan or the Prince—knew they were in Icespire. And, as far as Aravon knew, they had done nothing deserving of Derelana’s vengeance.
He wasted a moment wondering who the Warrior Priests hunted, but dismissed the thought as he pushed through the throng and entered the grand ballroom. The name “grand” paled in the face of the sheer opulence dripping from every corner of the room. An ornate fresco had been painted across both the southwestern and northeastern walls, depicting in vivid color battle scenes from Princelander history. Aravon nearly lost himself in the breathtaking detail and lifelike figures locked in the scene of combat and death. Even from across the room, he could almost feel the pain of the Eirdkilr axe crunching into a Legionnaire’s helmet, smell the blood staining the bright green grass under the soldiers’ feet, hear the screams of the battling barbarians and Princelanders.
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