“You truly think so?”
“Aye.”
“I’ve always loved you, Tala.” The words spilled from Lindholf’s mouth as if he could not stop them, and he bashfully looked away.
Tala’s heart skipped a beat at his tender admission. With her hand, she caressed his burn-scarred cheek, pulled it around so he was facing her again. “And I love you, cousin,” she said, looking into his emotion-filled eyes, wondering what it was her cousin was really confessing to here.
He has such dark pupils. Just like his fair-haired sister, Lindholf’s eyes were strangely black and, at the moment, full of hunger. But there was a gentleness behind that hunger too, a tenderness that touched her heart. “Are you okay, Lindholf?” she asked, her hand still caressing the burns on his face, seeing the tears springing from his eyes.
“I would not trust Glade.” Lindholf leaned into her, his face melting into her hand still on his cheek. “Though he has been my best friend since childhood, I see now his only concern is for himself. I do not want to see you hurt. Our family visits to Amadon are too few.” His body leaned into her, face bowing down to hers. “If I could live here with you, I would.”
A small, sane part of her mind wanted to pull away from him. The other part of her mind, the part stricken with desperation to save Lawri, was glad, though.
“Protect you I would,” he said, and quickly gave her a bashful little peck on the cheek, then pulled away as if stung by a bee. “M-my apologies, m’lady,” he stammered in a nasally voice, his breath still reeking of drink.
“Don’t be silly,” Tala said, realizing they were not quite in full view of Sunbird Hall. She fought off her better judgment, now determined to do something she knew might be painful but necessary. Her knees were weak as she took him by one of the knobby wrists and pulled him toward the stairs and into full view of the hall. She clung to him now, her eyes cast up into his. “Kiss me again.”
Lindholf’s eyes were wide, as if he’d finally realized what she’d said. Lust was buried there just beneath the surface of his every glance. Tala could see it there and felt shame for what she was doing. Her heart throbbed heavily as he took her in his arms and kissed her with a fervency she did not know could exist in any one person.
She returned his kiss with a certain detachment, though, eyes open, ignoring his bitter breath, scanning Sunbird Hall over his shoulder. From what she could see, there was not one person in the room below looking up at them; even Dame Mairgrid had moved from her normal spot. The whole exercise seemed futile—even cruel.
Then she saw Glade Chaparral.
Glade stood down there in the center of the milling crowd, still as stone, dark locks of hair slung over his forehead, even darker eyes boring into hers as she clung to Lindholf. There was a challenge in those eyes. Tala sensed it. Glade turned and stalked away, lost in the swirl of the crowd.
Lindholf pulled away from her, his expression lofty with joy as he took her by the arm and led her farther back out onto the balcony. “I never knew you felt as I did. I admit to being a bit confused.”
“I too am confused,” she said, stunned at what she had done.
“Tala, know that I would defile a thousand Laijon statues at your whim.”
Lindholf’s impulsive burst of candor made Tala feel all the more guilty. And his mouth was on hers again, wet and slippery and unwanted. “Enough.” Tala pulled back from him a little more abruptly than she’d have liked.
Lindholf’s expression grew sulky. From the look he gave her, it was clear that he was just now realizing that there was something going on here beyond his understanding. The silence between them grew thick.
“I will not let you make a fool of me,” he said, backing away from her. “I will not let you use me like the other girls, only to find out it is Glade you really want.” His voice was pleading, and yet the guilty look on his face was telling. Tala could see that her cousin was truly embarrassed by what had just happened between them and probably considered the entire mess his fault. Deep down, she knew that Lindholf was so inexperienced with females he probably affixed a romantic significance to every innocent touch, word, or sigh. Certain besotted young men could misread the most casual of gestures as a promise of devotion.
“Pastry, m’lady?” Delia was walking up the stairs toward them, a silver tray in hand, only one pastry left on the tray. But Lindholf ignored the serving wench, fleeing down the stairs and into the crowd without a word.
“It wasn’t for him anyway,” the busty barmaid said, watching Lindholf go. She turned back to Tala. “They’re so good. The best the kitchen is serving tonight. I saved this last one just for you, m’lady. That Vallè fellow, Val-Draekin, was scarfing them down faster than I could bring them out. They say the holy vicar will be here soon. And the last four gladiators, too. Tonight has been like a dream.”
Delia held the tray out for Tala. The pastry was the size and shape of a small seashell, delicate, flaky, and covered in a thin white glaze with a dab of cherry-red frosting on top. “Cream-filled. Take it, I beg you,” Delia implored. “A gift from me. For all you’ve done. It couldn’t have been easy to get me this job.”
Tala snatched up the pastry, eyes following Lindholf’s retreating form as he pushed his way through the crowd. Her heart thumped in her chest, for many reasons.
“We play a cruel game, you and I,” Delia said bluntly.
The barmaid’s statement caught Tala off guard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she declared, mind frantic.
“I think you do.”
Tala stepped away, her back stiff, her face set. But Delia kept talking. “I’ve seen tavern wenches play this very game. Nothing good can come of it, playing one lad off the other, the flirting, the kisses, pretending interest in both, never committing to either, always hinting of something more, dangling sex in front of them—”
“Such a thing has never crossed my mind.” Tala flushed.
“Feigning interest in many men. It’s just something we silly girls do.”
“This hasn’t anything to do with you,” Tala said.
“You were correct the other day,” Delia said. “I had no idea I would be subject to so many questions by the kitchen workers. Who am I? Where was I born? Do you know Princess Tala? Are you friends with her? They’ve certainly noticed me. I’ve even seen your sister glancing my way from time to time. I’ll get the courage to talk to her later, I’m sure. Or perhaps, if I’m lucky, perhaps Jondralyn will approach me.”
Tala was now disgusted and ashamed of herself for allowing this uncouth creature into the castle. The girl’s breasts were about to puff up out of her top and spill all over everything. Tala actually caught herself scowling.
“I can see that I bother you.” Delia bowed sharply. “I did not mean to interrupt you and your, uh, friend’s kiss. Enjoy the pastry.” The barmaid turned and beat a hasty retreat down the stairs toward the kitchen, empty tray in hand.
A simple thank-you for the pastry would have been a more appropriate response than a dirty scowl. Irritated with herself, Tala put the pastry to her mouth. With one bite, her blood turned cold. She gagged on something that seemed to grab onto her tongue and stick to the roof of her mouth like rough parchment. Instinct took over and she spit the offending object out. Fearing she’d just been poisoned, Tala frantically spit and spewed until she was sure her mouth had been completely purged.
Scattered over the balcony before her were the offending chunks of half-bitten food. And in the center of the mess was a small slip of coiled paper—the thing that had grabbed the top of her mouth and startled her.
Heart pounding, she picked the paper up and wiped it clean with her fingers.
It was a note. She read.
Shame. Shame. Two lads. The kissing. Oh, the juicy trouble that shall cause.
It is time to open your eyes, girl. Jovan should have married Karowyn Raybourne as was arranged. He should have sent troops to the aid of Wyn Darrè years ago. Yet Denarius advised again
st it on both accounts. Find out what keeps your brother, the king of Gul Kana, so beholden to the grand vicar. You’ve already been shown one clue.
Leave your answer for me in this same spot on this very balcony.
Only then will you get your next clue.
Next clue! Tala’s mind raged with frustration—finding the cure for Lawri’s affliction was yet again put off. The game continued. A thrill shot up her spine. Tala stuffed the paper into her dress and raced to the edge of the stairs, her eyes scanning the crowd, looking for the barmaid. But the girl was nowhere to be found.
More startling, a line of Silver Guards, all fully armored with thick crossbows in hand, were now marching up both sets of balcony stairs toward her. Tala’s heart leaped into her throat at the sight of the gruff-faced fighters advancing on her.
“M’lady.” One of the guards bowed to her. “None are now allowed on the balcony for the arrival of the last four gladiators, not even royalty. You must go down and prepare yourself for their grand entrance. Grand Vicar Denarius arrives with them soon.”
* * *
The Last Warrior Angels would have you believe my beloved was a man unblemished and without fault, innocently enslaved. While those who enslaved Laijon would tell you he was a charlatan and a thief. Either way, the fact remains, Laijon was the King of Slaves, bathed in scarlet, bathed in blood. And he carried an angel stone in hand and bore the Mark of the Slave upon his flesh.
—THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JONDRALYN BRONACHELL
4TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
The gladiators’ entrance into Sunbird Hall began with the low groan of bagpipes. Drums beat dully and deep. Then the swelling rise of a dozen flutes soared above it all, a tide of joyous sound punctuated by the thunderous gongs of a large iron bell. Every royal, soldier, and servant now faced the closed double doors at the western end of the hall, ecstasy in their eyes. The Silver Guards were in place, lining every wall and alcove, including the two sweeping staircases at the eastern end of the hall leading up to the balcony, spears and crossbows at the ready. The crowd hushed in awe.
The drums and gong erupted into a fury of whirling and pounding, building to a crescendo, then falling silent. Only the fluttering of the flutes and the low moan and sigh of the bagpipes hung in the air, and then they, too, faded.
Three hundred or more pairs of eyes stared eagerly, almost hungrily at the wide double doors that now swung open to twelve swarthy-looking Dayknights, who pushed their way into Sunbird Hall, Grand Vicar Denarius in full regalia not ten steps behind. The five archbishops of Amadon followed him. The Dayknight captain, Ser Sterling Prentiss, black-lacquered armor buffed and shined, followed the five archbishops. Behind Sterling, in silver armor, was Ser Lars Castlegrail, commander of the Silver Guard. And behind Ser Lars, the last four gladiators were introduced by the arena herald one by one: Squireck Van Hester, the oghul Shkill Gha, and two dark-haired Vallè pirates named Val-Ce-Laveroc and Val-Rievaux. The two Vallè walked straight into the center of Sunbird Hall with confidence. They stood together, dark and brooding. But it was the anvil-jawed oghul, towering over everyone, who garnered the most attention. In his bull hide, spiked armor, and steel-toed leather boots, Shkill Gha stood more than seven feet tall as he shoved his way between Val-Ce-Laveroc and Val-Rievaux and roared, to the shock and delight of all those present.
The Prince of Saint Only stood behind the other three, dressed in a simple white robe, the wreath of heather Tala had made for him about his head. Jondralyn could see the venom in his eyes as he stared at the vicar. Six of the Dayknights now flanked Squireck, three on either side. The Prince of Saint Only was also the only one of the four gladiators shackled at the ankles, wrists bound behind his back. The other three fighters were able to move about freely, chains around their waists and wrists, but long enough that they could hold plates and feed themselves—the two Vallè pirates were sipping from goblets of wine already, and the oghul had a hunk of cooked meat in hand.
Indeed, the entrance of the four gladiators had certainly gotten everyone’s attention, none more so than Jondralyn. The arena was her destiny. She was weary, her muscles sore from today’s training, scarcely able to move at all, it seemed. But seeing the four warriors birthed a renewed energy into her exhausted body and soul.
In her uncomfortable, suffocating gown, she walked stiffly toward the gladiators, every muscle protesting. Anjk Bourbon had certainly set her onto a rigorous path. It had been nearly two days since she’d slept. She ambled across the room, trying to look as lucid and regal as possible, trying to make sense of the swirl of thoughts spinning in her head; thoughts of angel stones and the bloodline of Laijon. She was still trying to wrap her head around what Roguemoore, Hawkwood, and Culpa Barra had revealed to her about the Brethren of Mia. She wondered if she had dreamed the entire evening on Rockliegh Isle. Hawkwood had given her the map. That was real. It was still safe in its hiding spot in her room. But whom do I trust? Squireck was here. Can I trust him? He was a member of the Brethren. She’d almost reached him when she was diverted by the Val Vallè ambassador. “I must take up an issue with Sterling Prentiss,” Val-Korin said. “And your gracious presence could help, if it is not too much to ask?” Val-Korin bowed deeply. “It would take but a moment, and I would be forever grateful, m’lady.”
She agreed, a bit reluctantly, though, allowing Val-Korin to take her arm and lead her in the direction of the Dayknight captain, who was helping himself to a pastry.
“May I speak freely?” Val-Korin bowed to Sterling upon arrival.
“Of course.” The Dayknight captain dipped his head in return. “I consider us friends.” But to Jondralyn the look in his eyes bespoke different sentiments indeed.
Val-Korin talked in a less than cordial manner too. “The Silver Guard is not clearing the temple in a timely manner. Seita and I wish to worship at the feet of Laijon unmolested. Breita was due to arrive last week. She has not. Our hearts are filled with worry. We pray for her safety. To pray at the feet of Laijon offers comfort and solace.”
“The Silver Guard does the best it can, I am sure,” Sterling apologized. “And I am sorry to hear of Breita’s absence. I do hope she is well and arrives at court soon.”
“With the money the Vallè give to the church, you’d think the Val Vallè ambassador could pray at the feet of Laijon without a mangy crowd wailing and flagellating themselves directly behind him.” Val-Korin looked at Jondralyn for affirmation. “Or should I take up my concern with Denarius himself?”
“No need for that,” Sterling said without a trace of emotion. He was not easily ruffled. “Vallè money has indeed purchased much influence in Gul Kana, this I know.”
Jondralyn couldn’t fathom why the Val Vallè ambassador was bringing up such a petty problem now, or why he needed her at his side to do so. Still, Val-Korin held her eyes a moment before turning to Sterling and continuing, “The common street rabble should never be allowed in the temple. It is a holy shrine. A grand work of art sculpted by Vallè hands. It should be a sanctuary for royalty only. I should not fear being accosted by the degenerate when taking my daughter there to pray.”
“It is indeed a holy shrine created by the great Vallè artisans of old,” Sterling conceded. “But you forget its purpose. Faithful followers of Laijon travel for hundreds of miles to pray at the feet of Laijon. For some the journey is the culmination of their life’s desires. We cannot close off the statue to these pilgrimages.”
“The place smells of urine.” Val-Korin gave the captain a flat, unfriendly stare.
Sterling was quick to answer. “That a foul odor dwells in the Temple of the Laijon Statue is a gross dereliction of duty. I will give Ser Castlegrail explicit orders to more hastily clear the temple even when Vallè royalty choose to visit, and to have the floors scrubbed thrice daily.”
“It’s more than likely the Silver Guards
who are pissing in the corners.”
“I assure you, each of your concerns will be taken care of.” Sterling bowed low and just a tad curtly to Val-Korin.
“I certainly hope so.” The hint of coldness living in Val-Korin’s eyes now carried with it a hint of impatience too—almost a look of having been slighted by this oversight. To Jondralyn, it seemed scarcely a concern at all. She knew that the Vallè kingdom had supported the Church of Laijon financially in its fledgling years, providing most, if not all, of the artisans who had done its great paintings and sculpted its great statues and built its chapels and towering cathedrals and temples. But that was ancient history. True, the church owed the Vallè much. In fact, the Vallè were still the largest contributors to its coffers, donating far more gold than could ever be spent. Jondralyn knew that the bishopric was beholden to the Vallè, but only to a point.
Still, by the way King Jovan groveled at the grand vicar’s feet and in turn how the vicar’s Dayknight captain had just groveled to Val-Korin, one could deduce that it was the Vallè who truly ran things in Gul Kana.
With another bow, Sterling parted company with Jondralyn and the Val Vallè ambassador. Val-Korin thanked her for her help and moved on too, leaving her to wonder what she had been needed for, if anything.
A busty serving girl sauntered by and gave her an impish little grin, then turned and moved through the crowd toward the stairs leading up to the balcony. Jondralyn couldn’t quite place where she knew the serving girl from, but she’d seen her before. She tipped her head at Squireck, who bowed in return—the Prince of Saint Only stood a few steps behind the other gladiators and assumed the bearing of the Laijon statue itself in his plain white robe and wreath of heather. Sunbird Hall, she realized, was not the place she could have a frank conversation with him about Brethren of Mia matters.
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