“Much of what a Bloodwood does is mere deception,” Hawkwood said. “Every move is calculated. Leaving that dagger in Tala’s room was just a ruse in a bigger game. But I can’t make sense of it. If indeed a Bloodwood followed us here, it could mean nothing, or more than nothing.”
“That’s reassuring,” Roguemoore said.
As the three had journeyed to the docks, the air had been brisk, with only a few torches lighting the dark streets. The cobblestone lanes of Amadon proper had turned to mud the nearer they got to the bay. Ramshackle buildings closed in, hovering one atop the other. If someone had lurked in the shadows, Jondralyn hadn’t sensed it.
She was in a good mood. Hawkwood wasn’t the only one on her mind tonight. Squireck’s victory in the arena had put her in jocular high spirits. His victory had stirred something deep within her. Could I still love him, too? She’d thought she loved him when they were first betrothed as teens. He’d been in prison for over a year. To see him again after so long, to see how large and powerful he’d made himself, to see him fight, had changed her. She was conflicted. She had always prided herself on her strong sense of fairness, of knowing right from wrong. Her mother, Alana, had instilled that in her—compassion and empathy to always go with fairness. But Jondralyn wanted to be like Squireck. Strong. In control. Her beauty gave her control, to a point. But what she desired most in life was real control. Power. So she could see the injustices in the world around her set right.
Another thing that had put her in a good frame of mind was that this would be her first secret council as a member of the Brethren of Mia. It was Squireck who had first mentioned the Brethren to her, hinting at the Brethren’s interest in The Moon Scrolls of Mia, hinting that her mother and father had been studying them. That had been more than five years ago. She’d asked her father about the Brethren, and he’d confirmed his involvement, though reluctantly, offering little detail . . . then he’d gone off to war and died. To be involved in the Moon Scroll histories that had so consumed her parents—the histories that her older brother, Jovan, had shunned as heresy—was exciting. In fact, to be a part of anything not involving Jovan was part of her quest for control, part of her quest to see both her family and the Five Isles at peace, to see the wrongness of Aeros Raijael’s brutal crusade put to an end.
But lately she harbored a seething dislike for her older brother. Sure, as a youngster, she had idolized Jovan. But when they’d reached their teens he’d turned surly, cynical, bitter, abusive. She recalled a time when she was thirteen, Jovan sixteen. She’d memorized a certain prayer from The Way and Truth of Laijon quicker than he. It had spun him into a rage unlike any she’d seen before. To escape his abuse, she’d hid. Alone, she’d cowered behind a tapestry at the top of the stairs of Sunbird Hall. He found her and tore the tapestry down, then stripped her naked. She had struggled, especially when he tore at her clothes, but he was too strong. She was mortified that he’d seen her nude. Her breasts were just starting to form, and she was embarrassed enough. But he made it worse when he hesitated and stared right at them before dragging her onto the fallen tapestry. She would always remember that look of both rage and twisted lust on face as he rolled her up into the tapestry and pushed it down the stairs, with her trapped inside. The tumble down the stairs of Sunbird Hall wasn’t the worst of it. As she lay rolled up tight in the stiff fabric, she struggled for breath, struggled to find light. But the tapestry was too heavy, too constricting around her body, neck, and head. He’d left her there, naked, fighting for air. She eventually slithered free of his cruel trap. But she began to hate him from that day on, and the bullying and abuse only continued.
Now she was learning sword craft from Hawkwood. And becoming quite good. It bolstered her confidence in many ways. Plus, he was sharing history books with her. Secret books that were opening up her mind about a great many hidden things. She was glad to finally be a part of the Brethren of Mia, a group led by a dwarf who she loved like a father. She wanted to prove herself to Roguemoore and Hawkwood in any way she could. But she wanted to prove her mettle to Jovan more than anything.
She shrank behind the hood of her cloak as a tavern girl—a surprisingly fetching young thing in a low-cut corset with a close-fitting jacket that revealed an ample portion of pale flesh—brought three mugs of mead. The deep cleft of her cleavage bobbled above the fabric of her corset as she bent in front of Jondralyn and set the mugs upon the table.
“Get an eyeful, lassie?” the tavern wench said. “Perhaps you’d prefer I just pull down my top and smacked you about the face with ’em, huh?”
“Are you always so crude?” Jondralyn was embarrassed at the girl’s forwardness.
“I’d gladly smoosh my titties in that warm spot betwixt your legs, then lick you head to toe, if that’s what you mean by crude, or if that’s what your men wanna see.”
“It’s quite all right.” Roguemoore smiled. “Just three plates of salmon, please. And perhaps your name. So we can inform the proprietor how helpful you’ve been.”
“Name’s Delia. And I’ll get you all the salmon you want.” She looked closely at Jondralyn. “You’ve a familiar face under that hood. Do I know you?”
Jondralyn lowered her head.
“Just the salmon, please,” Hawkwood said, diverting the girl’s gaze. The serving wench winked confidently at Hawkwood, twirled, and sauntered away. Jondralyn felt her cheeks flush. That another woman would flirt with Hawkwood in front of her rankled. Yet it seemed he hadn’t even noticed the girl. But that wasn’t so surprising. Hawkwood was a man who carried himself like he was comfortable around any type of woman, from the fairest princess to the crudest dockside whore. In fact, he carries himself like the type of man who might one day make love to me rough and proper. Not like Squireck as a teen, full of doting duty and awkward, formal watchfulness, never daring to overstep the bounds of their betrothal, always chivalrous. She knew Squireck had loved her back then. And she’d grown to love him. But Squireck’s young love was a possessive love, all gushing emotion and timidity. He’d worn his heart and jealousy out in the open. But wasn’t all young love full of awkward insecurity? They were all grown-ups now. And Hawkwood treated her in a way that made her feel confident and free. He was quiet, calm, as if there were some hidden part of him she would never know, no matter how close they became.
She’d never wanted a forced marriage, a betrothal at fifteen for political advantage. It went against all things fair and right. Even her mother had voiced her displeasure at the arranged marriage. But her father had insisted. Jondralyn wanted to be caught off guard by love, caught unawares by her feelings, swept away in a moment. And Hawkwood’s timing had been perfect. He’d entered her life right as Adin Wyte was being conquered by the White Prince and Squireck’s kingdom was being destroyed, their betrothal crumbling to ashes. And then after Squireck had been accused of murdering Archbishop Lucas, right when she’d been forced into the part of the bereaved princess, Hawkwood’s strength had comforted her in just the right doses, never overbearing, and with no judgment. Yes, his timing had been perfect.
Yet seeing Squireck again today, all solid muscle and force, had stirred something deep within her again. Can a woman love two men at once?
“This friend from Val Vallè we’re to meet.” Hawkwood leaned in, voice scarcely above a whisper as he addressed the dwarf. “You say you’ve never met him before?”
“Might not even be a him,” Roguemoore answered. “But others in the Brethren I trust vouch for this Vallè. Our dear departed king and queen vouched for this Vallè. This Vallè is the truest of friends, they say.”
“I admit I am nervous about this.”
“Hawkwood nervous?” the dwarf chortled.
“For a Vallè to belong to the Brethren of Mia is strange indeed. And for a Vallè, be they male or female, to show their face in a sailors’ tavern like this is stranger still.”
“Well, this tavern was of the Vallè’s choosing. The note was specific.”
�
��Trust no one.” Hawkwood turned to Jondralyn. “That is the Brethren’s creed.”
Roguemoore looked grave. “Hawkwood’s too cautious. Sometimes we must trust. In fact, there is one we have trusted, one in whom we’ve all confided. One who is not with us today, yet plays his part. Let us not forget about Squireck.”
“I had not thought him capable of killing,” Jondralyn said, her mind in instant turmoil. Squireck had changed. He had definitely shown something to her today. How do I explain my sudden feelings for him again? “How did he get so strong, imprisoned so?”
“The dungeons under the arena can be a complex place,” Roguemoore answered. “Alone, in a cell, with naught but time, one can fill water skins as weights for strength training. And for the right price, one can even purchase oghul fighters to escort you to the prison yards and train you in the more brutal forms of sword fighting whilst the turnkeys you’ve purchased look the other way. Squireck has been preparing to win his freedom.”
Her heart was hurting. “I worry he’s going to die, and I’ll be forced to watch his slaughter.” She did have feelings for him. And those feelings had caught her unawares.
“Everything serves a purpose,” the dwarf said. “Another of the Brethren’s creeds. Squireck is where he is meant to be. He’s prepared for this. All we can do now is pray for him. My only fear is that the quorum and grand vicar have the games rigged against him.”
“From what I’ve seen,” Hawkwood said, “Squireck seems quite capable of surviving whatever the quorum has planned. He’s become a strong warrior.”
“We must trust in fate,” Roguemoore added, yet he looked worried. “But I must admit, I do fear for his safety. He is like a son to me.”
Jondralyn’s eyes sharpened as her gaze traveled to the front of the tavern, where the double doors swung open. A cloaked figure stepped in. Her back stiffened at the sight. A whisper of dread billowed through the room toward Jondralyn as the doors swung shut and the figure moved toward the bar, face and hands concealed within the hood and sleeves of the black cloak. “Is that our friend?” she asked in a hushed tone. “Our Vallè friend we’re to meet?”
“I know not,” the dwarf answered, taking a swig of his mead.
“Watch him, Jon,” Hawkwood whispered. “Every third sailor he brushes against, he picks their pocket. It’s subtle, but notice how the sleeves of his cloak ripple.”
If the cloaked figure was pickpocketing his way through the room, Jondralyn could not detect it. The person almost floated through the crowd, effortless.
“He is brazen indeed,” Hawkwood said as the newcomer reached an open spot at the bar near an old man whittling a grayken bone. Once seated, the newcomer threw back his hood, revealing the unmistakable green eyes and sharp face of a Vallè—a face that seemed like any ordinary man but for the upturned ears visible through strands of inky black hair and facial features appearing to have been stretched back a bit beyond human shape to form something more unblemished and refined. The sailors around him looked brutish and coarse by comparison. The tavern wench nearest the Vallè gasped when she realized what had sat next to her. Sailors backed away, glaring darkly.
The Vallè untied his cloak, revealing supple black leathers studded with fine layers of ring mail about the neckline. No weapons were visible. The newcomer’s gaze swept the tavern, yet never focused on one thing—though a shudder swept through Jondralyn when the Vallè’s eyes fell upon their table momentarily.
“Is it him?” she asked.
“Or is it the Bloodwood?” Roguemoore whispered. “The one who’s followed us here? The one who stabbed Tala and Lawri?”
“A Bloodwood wouldn’t bother pickpocketing a roomful of sailors,” Hawkwood answered softly.
“Unless it’s a ruse to throw us off.”
“A Vallè trained as a Bloodwood would be rare. No one knows who Black Dugal recruits or why. Anyone could be a Bloodwood. One of these sailors, our server. We may be being played in some grand scheme.”
“Once again, reassuring to the last,” Roguemoore said.
“The Vallè has seen us sitting here, yet hasn’t approached.” Hawkwood sat forward on his chair, elbows on the table. “This worries me.”
It wasn’t long before everyone in the tavern was staring at the newcomer. For a Vallè to enter a dockside tavern in Amadon so casually was tantamount to starting a riot. Jondralyn gripped her chair for what she knew was soon to come, figuring this particular Vallè would not last long here, Bloodwood or not. The unfairness of the way the Vallè were ofttimes treated in Amadon made her seethe.
Sure, Jondralyn was used to the Vallè. The Val Vallè ambassador, Val-Korin, and his daughters, Breita and Seita, had lived in Amadon Castle on and off for many years. The Vallè bore much more of a resemblance to humans than did dwarves or oghuls, but with an added flawless, otherworldly, catlike grace. Jondralyn had never been around Val-Korin or his daughters without being reminded by their large, perfectly formed eyes, elegant pointed ears, and almost see-through skin that it was a Vallè she was near, not an ordinary person. As a race, they possessed an acute, almost wolflike sense of hearing, along with an uncanny, clairvoyant nature. Vallè were so perceptive it was as if they could read one’s mind.
Like the dwarves and the oghuls—according to The Way and Truth of Laijon—the Vallè had roamed the Five Isles long before humans arrived from the Firstlands. As the humans slowly conquered the Five Isles, the dwarves were pushed into the Iron Hills on the isle of Wyn Darrè, the oghuls were beaten back onto the Jutte peninsula north of Crucible, and the Vallè fled to the most eastern, most barren, of the Five Isles. Now the Vallè were the sole inhabitants of that isle, Val Vallè. On a clear day, their island was visible from the top of Amadon Castle just across Memory Bay. Few humans ventured there.
Most folk in Amadon were not used to mingling with such creatures. So rare were the Vallè, so sublime their aspect, so disconcerting their air of superiority, that no human in Gul Kana was likely to welcome one with open arms, but rather with abhorrence and anger, unless it was King Jovan, who bore an unwarranted affection for his Val Vallè ambassador, Val-Korin. True, a lot of this distrust was brought on by their own arrogance, but this radical hatred of the Vallè among the commoners was wrong, and Jondralyn did not like it.
Sailors in particular hated the Vallè. In fact, a handful of grinning sailors approached the black-haired Vallè now. The tavern was silent.
“Pointy-eared foreigners are not welcome here,” the largest sailor sneered. He had a ragged mass of red hair jutting from his head, and a wild beard covered his jowls like a shrub afire. “Best you swim back across the bay from whence you came.”
“And if I don’t?” The Vallè’s tone was casual.
“I’ll chop off your head and toss it into Memory Bay myself.”
“I’d think a scab like you would find it hard to locate Memory Bay.”
“Do you wish for a quick death?” the man snarled.
“As much as I’d like to bandy insults about, I should probably just order a drink.”
“As I said, you’ll find we don’t serve your kind here. Are you deaf as well as pointy-eared?” Many in the tavern laughed at the pirate’s witticism.
Rage at the sailors’ ignorance and prejudice was simmering within Jondralyn. These were issues her mother, Alana, had fought against her entire life—issues her mother had warned her to never tolerate. Shunning anyone was not the way a daughter of Alana Bronachell was ever to behave.
“I have come here unarmed.” The Vallè removed his cloak and set it over a stool. Indeed, the lithe Vallè looked unthreatening among the burly seamen.
“The sailors of Gul Kana will forever hate the Vallè!” someone yelled from the crowd. “What with the tolls you make us pay to pass through the Valea Channel!”
“A channel the Vallè dug for Gul Kana’s purposes.” The Vallè appeared to be growing bored with the conversation. “The treaties and fees were set in place ages ago. However, I daresay
you all know nothing of true sailing. The sailors of Gul Kana are more like a bunch of bloated children mucking about in boats.”
With two hands, the red-haired sailor shoved the Vallè against the bar and drew his sword. “I’ll be chopping your head off now, child.”
The Vallè moved with astonishing speed. He lunged forward, spinning in midair, kicking out. There was a meaty thump, and his leather shoes slammed into the sailor’s crotch. The man instantly vomited a smear of half-digested stew and salmon onto the floor. The Vallè landed firmly on two feet, a dagger in his hand. Another sailor scuttled toward him, raising a long serrated knife, strips of salmon clinging to it as he swung. The Vallè’s blade slashed out as he stepped back, slicing through the sailor’s neck, opening a great streaming gash beneath his jaw. The room was plunged into shadow as the man fell into the fire pit with a hiss. Grasping at his frothing neck, the man thrashed in the middle of the glowing coals and billowing smoke like a beetle on its back.
Jondralyn’s heart pounded with anger as every sailor in the room boiled toward the Vallè, their curved cutlasses ringing from their sheaths. The wenches and old men remaining at the bar scattered out of the way. The Vallè withstood the first few blows, then took a wicked slice to the upper arm. He did not cry out, but effortlessly leaped onto the bar, feet dancing, as swords cracked and clattered around his legs. He bled from the gash in his shoulder now as he kicked back at the mass of swords swirling under him. With naught but his kicking feet, the nimble Vallè managed to disarm most of the attacking sailors.
“We can’t just let him die.” Jondralyn stood, incensed at the lawlessness.
Hawkwood already had his two cutlasses in hand. In a flash, he sprang over their table and plunged into the fray. Jondralyn’s stomach leaped into her throat. But with a few deft sword strokes, Hawkwood knocked sailors aside and soon stood between the mob and the Vallè atop the bar. A thrill ran through Jondralyn as she watched him, all deadly confidence and calm, standing up for justice.
The Forgetting Moon Page 13
