They’d come to a crow’s perch at Craw’s Hold. She’d drop the letter off there, and a crow—or nowadays perhaps a pigeon or raven—would take the message and deliver it to its destination. A short time later, the Valiosian Council would read it and learn their boy-king could be theirs again with a small payment of a few thousand gold.
More importantly, they would learn who the Eyes of Aleer were. The world would learn who the Eyes of Aleer were.
Elaya Ourval’s priorities had changed.
She lay down in a bed of leaves, somewhat fearful but mostly excited. This was the turning point she’d long wanted. That she had long been waiting for. She hoped that for once maybe this would be the day her dreams would return and her nightmares would go away.
But as she drifted off into a deep sleep, those dreadful tendrils of her black, diseased past slithered into her mind—killing her dreams and birthing the nightmare once again. She saw herself as the woman she was born to be, not the one she’d become.
She saw herself as a Daughter of the Twin Sisters of Silderine, riding from those imposing gates to hunt down and kill every last Wraith Walker. The Twin Sisters thought themselves the wardens of righteousness, and it was their duty to eradicate any and all who had their hands in the mystifying jar of magic. Wraith Walkers were hardly dangerous. They could see the future, witness the past, but they could do nothing to affect it. They were simply poor, undeserved targets of the Daughters’ ire.
A Daughter’s life—Elaya’s old life—was brutal, filled with daily violence and death and gore, beating and whippings and torture. And, in her opinion, it was also an outdated life. Maybe, she had thought, the Daughters were important when deviants like sorcerers and demons and widowmakers ran rampant across the world. But they’d been extinct for a very long time.
And certainly, she conceded, the Daughters were vital when necromancers had supposedly lived and threatened to ruin the world by raising the dead. But those days, if they ever existed, had also long passed.
As Elaya slept, something croaked far away, hundreds of miles away—in the bitter reaches of the distant north. It was the gate known as the Arm of Righteousness, and it had opened. Five horses poured out, a rider on each.
They rode for the Spigatoon Mountains.
Chapter Six
Maren O’Keefe uncorked an amphora of wine and poured what little was left into a silver chalice. He swirled it about and took a sniff as if he were an expert wine taster. Then, with a chuckle, he threw the red stuff back and swallowed it all with one gulp.
His mouth puckered and it felt like all the spit had been sucked from his cheeks. He shivered as the last bit of the wine vacated his mouth.
“Oof,” he remarked. “That could kill a man.” He belched and leaned back into the wooden chair, lifting his feet onto the table before him.
Several candles crackled and whirred, chasing shadows across the room. Or rather, across Maren O’Keefe’s room. It wasn’t just any room; it was the master-at-arms’ sanctuary from the rest of the world. The place he could retreat to and refocus, regather his bearings… or, more to the point, get piss drunk.
Today, though, he would have to settle for a strong buzz. Taking an entire amphora of wine to the face and losing your goddamned mind doesn’t bode well for long horseback rides.
Eventually, Maren stood and paced the room, casting a prideful glance up and down his walls, made of tightly packed sea pebbles. An oil painting of a violet sea under duress hung on one wall, and on the opposite a portrait of Maren’s late father and former Valiosian master-at-arms, grizzled face, missing eye and all.
There were no wall-mounted swords or shields or boastful displays of power in this room, only the sight of Maren O’Keefe to greet you when you walked in, which was exactly how Maren liked it.
A knock on the door wheeled him around. “Come in.”
The base of the door scraped lightly along the floor, swollen from the humidity outside. A lanky man walked in. To be perfectly accurate, he wasn’t a man, but neither was he a boy. He existed in the tweener stage of life, where the pimples of youth still covered his face and he hadn’t yet seemed to grow into his body of spindly limbs.
He wore a dingy cloak with a cowl pulled up over his head. “L—Lord O’Keefe,” he said with a bow. His name was Tullus something or other. Maren couldn’t remember his damned surname, and it didn’t much matter. Tullus had been a steward of the Council for a couple years, but Maren had pulled him in during recent months and worked to earn—and buy—his trust.
“Close the door,” Maren said. He sat at the table, steepled his hands and put on a pleasant face. Such a face did not come easy to Maren O’Keefe.
“A—am I late, sir?”
“Why would you think you’re late?”
“So… sorry. I—it’s just, you look ready to leave.”
Maren regarded himself. “I do?”
“The bags, sir.”
“Ah,” Maren said, lifting a chin at a couple bulging burlap bags. “Well, I am ready to leave. But you’re not late. And if you were, it’d be a transgression I’d quickly overlook if you came here with pertinent information.”
Tullus rubbed his hands. If you looked closely enough, you could see beads of sweat being flung off his palms. “I met with the Stable Master Ervin,” he said, “the Brood Master Griffin—”
“Tullus,” Maren said patiently, “pertinent information. Not a recollection of your day’s events.”
The steward hung his head. “Right. Sorry, sir. The Brood—”
“And tell me,” Maren said, this time a biting impatience sinking into his words, “you did not meet directly with these men. Or ladies. Or goblins. Whoever you talked to.”
Tullus shook his head. “No, sir. Of course not. Subtlety is paramount, as you say. Their apprentices, that’s who I mostly exchanged—well, I didn’t exchange information, but I… I talked to them. I tried to do what you taught me, to steer the conversation in a direction that would benefit me. Us, I mean. Benefit us.”
Maren drew in a deep breath to squelch the rising fire in his chest. He liked Tullus well enough, but the boy could draw out a bloody yes-no conversation till a full moon comes, goes and returns.
“Er, anyhow,” Tullus said, noting Maren’s annoyance, “Jules, do you remember me talking about her?” The steward’s face lit up when he mentioned the name. “She’s very beautiful. And very kind. She once gave me a raven’s feather when she saw me walking the streets. She said it would bring me luck.”
Maren now had his face resting on balled-up fists. He blinked.
“Sorry. I’ll get to the point. She told me Lady Aylee had come to the perch several times in the days leading to little Lavery’s—I mean, Lord Lavery’s—disappearance.”
Jules served as Brood Master Griffin’s apprentice, which had always struck Maren as strange—not Jules herself, but that a brood master would need an apprentice. Griffin was the man you went to when you had a letter that needed to be delivered. He had over sixty-five ravens and crows roosting at his perch, waiting to fly up and away with your correspondence—for a price, of course.
“Jules told me,” Lavery said, “that Lady Aylee must’ve sent six letters. All of them addressed to Bastion Rook.”
Maren concealed his growing smile with a wash of his hand over his mouth. He had hoped Tullus would deliver him a thread he could latch on to, but the steward had done so much more. “Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you, Tullus. That’s good information to have.”
The steward wrung his hands again. “Sir, may I?”
“Hmm?”
“You don’t think… I mean, Lord Lavery’s disappearance, it wasn’t—it didn’t come from the inside, did it?”
Maren clicked his tongue. “I’m not sure. That’s why we have investigations. You did a good deed today, but I’m asking you for another. Your lady friend, Jules—make sweet talk to her, convince her to withhold any and all letters
addressed to the Council until I return.”
“Sir,” Lavery said, swallowing, “that could get her in a lot of trouble.”
“If she resists, tell her it’s by orders of Lord Maren O’Keefe. And if you do that, you damned well make certain she knows her troubles will be much, much worse if she should repeat those words to anyone. And—” Maren untied one of his burlap bags, grabbing two pouches that sat perfectly atop the contents within. “One for you and one for your lady friend,” he said, tossing the pouches to Tullus. The sound of jangling coins filled the room. “I’m confident she’ll agree to our conditions.”
The steward nodded. “Thank you, sir. When will you return?”
“Hunts only last a week at most,” Maren said. “I have preparations to make before I depart, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course, sir.” Tullus bowed his head and quickly skittered out of the room.
Maren rarely lied to his steward. He withheld information when necessary, of course, but purposeful, outright deceit? That’s the kind of thing that’ll catch up to you, in the end—and it’ll spoil all the trust you’ve earned. But we all have our secrets, and Maren’s true destination was one he kept to himself.
He’d told the Council he needed to clear his mind, that Lavery’s disappearance had shaken him to his core. He’d go on a hunt, he said. Lady Aylee and the others protested, telling him the people of Valios were on the precipice of chaos and the Council needed to remain strong, project a sense of confidence. There was some truth that unrest crawled through the streets. Whispers of war and of diabolical plots to overthrow the Valiosian government were on the lips of the populace.
But a broiling undercurrent of anger and fear sweeping through the city was exactly what Maren O’Keefe needed right now. He had plans. Big, grand plans. And they began with the very unsurprising and quite expected abduction—or murder, for all he knew—of Lavery Opsillian. He’d planned to do it himself, truthfully, but send a newly crowned boy-king out gallivanting through the streets without a guard at his side and… well, things happen. Assassins, mercenaries, people who want to make a name for themselves—all they need is a whiff of opportunity.
Maren grabbed his bags and headed for the stables. He had a kingship to claim.
Vast swaths of farmland and fat windmills dominated the landscape. A small walled city stood a mile before the rural countryside of mooing cows and suspicious goats. It would be fair to say goats are always suspicious, but these goats were especially leery—a band of roving goat thieves had kidnapped at least twenty of the animals in recent weeks, for reasons unknown.
Anyhow, back to the city—the important bit. It was named Graesh Hold, affectionately known as the Paw of the West, but not before it had been known as the Dump, courtesy of failed garbage collection and rancid waste piling up in the city’s center. Thirty years ago, Aven Klouth had come into power and transformed the Dump into a respectable city. In the process, through somewhat unscrupulous deeds involving swords, blood and misinformation, he had become arguably the most influential vassal under the Valiosian banner.
And now, on a cool autumn afternoon, he found himself entertaining the Valiosian master-at-arms, Maren O’Keefe.
“I planted that tree thirty years ago,” Aven said, nodding at a twenty-foot trunk whose boughs exploded into a colorful palette of orange and red leaves. “I was told it was the seed of an evergreen.” He glanced over at Maren. “Strangest evergreen I’ve ever seen.”
Maren chuckled. “It seems the squirrels enjoy it.”
“Bloody things won’t stop chittering. I doubt you came here to discuss trees and squirrels, though.”
Maren lowered himself onto the seat of a sanded tree stump. He and Aven were alone in a small courtyard, walls of shrubs and blooming fall flowers hemming them in. A nearby flagpole featured the Klouth family sigil, a rusty copper backdrop on which stood a horned horse.
Aven was, per the norm, shirtless and wearing a pure white kilt. His attire was uniquely his own, and no one seemed eager to adopt the style. He had a bounty of blond hair, as long as a horse’s mane. Some say it used to dangle at his ankles; now it rested merely at the bottom of his buttocks.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of Lavery’s disappearance,” Maren said.
Aven raised his brows, a gesture you needed to pay especially close attention to if you were to notice it, given they were so blond they almost coalesced into the pale skin of his forehead. “Ha!” he coughed, slapping his thighs. “I’d be surprised if all of Avestas isn’t aware. The abduction of a king is big news. Wars have been fought over far less.”
“If war was to come to Valios’s walls,” Maren said, “would the West unite around her, or abandon her?”
A slapping of feet across the cobble path preceded the appearance of a servant dressed in holey robes. “Sirs,” he said, setting a wooden plate on a stump between Aven and Maren. He bowed his head and retreated back into the keep.
“Pumpkin-spiced ale,” Aven said, reaching enthusiastically for one of the two mugs sitting on the plate. “This is my favorite time of year, right before my least favorite time of year.” With both hands wrapped around the mug, he took a swig, then belched. “Craigh Opsillian did less for the West than a crippled ant does for his colony.”
Maren sniffed the ale. It smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. “It was an unfortunate rule,” he agreed.
“That’s one way to put it. Taxing intra imports and exports is borderline masochistic for a healthy economy, but Craigh didn’t care. Raising taxes for every city under his banner by upwards of forty percent made some cities crumble overnight. His refusal to invest in new weaponry and armor for his poorer bannermen led to a weak, dilapidated military that forced me to intervene with my own money. Would you rise in support of someone so utterly inept?”
“He’s dead,” Maren said. “He’s no longer the king.”
“Point is, the West is not united. Not under a Valiosian banner, at any rate.”
A chilled breeze blew through the courtyard, making Maren shiver. “What if the West learned the Rooks were behind Lavery’s disappearance? What if I told you Bastion himself is eying the West as his new, personal territory?”
“I’d probably respond by telling you to show me proof.”
Maren sat his mug on the plate. “There’s a coup in the works, and I believe Bastion Rook is backing it. Lady Aylee corresponded with him several times immediately prior to Lavery’s kidnapping.”
“Is this good information? Or did a friend of a friend of an acquaintance inform you of this?”
“The foundation is firm,” Maren said. “Came straight from the mouth of a brood keeper’s apprentice.”
“Coincidence could easily explain it,” Aven said. “You’ll need more proof than that to convince me, much less the West as a whole.”
“I have more proof.” Maren concentrated on his breathing, slowed his heartbeat. Relaying factual information is simple. It’s effortless to tell the truth. But to unwind a spool of lies and make each false word you say convincing—one stutter, one wrong breath and the whole damn facade comes crashing down.
“I have three accounts,” Maren began, “that a young boy whose description matches Lavery’s has been seen traveling east, toward the Gape.” He paused, allowing time for the allegation to settle inside Aven’s thoughts. “And he’s in the company of black cloaks and raven sigils.”
Aven slurped ale from the rim of his mug. “Troubling. If there’s a coup, as you suspect, why not take the boy into the woods, cut off his head and bury him? What purpose does kidnapping him serve? Moreover, why, if the Rooks are involved, would they take him to their kingdom?”
“I have a theory on that. Lady Aylee wants the throne. Bastion tells her he’ll back her claim, but she needs to hand Lavery over to him.”
“Why—”
“Let me finish,” Maren said. “The Rooks’ tensions with the Torbinens have mounted in recent months. Bastion has long wanted to erase the Torbine
ns from the annals of time, but they’re too heavily supported by the South, and all trade flows through them. Farris Torbinen could bring the Rooks’ economy to its knees if she wanted.
“If, however, Bastion plants Lavery Opsillian in the Torbinens’ possession and claims the Torbinens are the ones who kidnapped him… there goes their support.”
“If Bastion Rook is behind this,” Aven said, cracking his thumb, “the West will unite. I’ll personally make sure of it.”
Maren didn’t doubt Aven’s promise. If it’d been any other kingdom meddling in Valiosian affairs, the West would have turned its head the other way. But the Rooks had a long, bloody history there. The lord of the Rook family, Bastion Rook, had succeeded his father shortly after his old man’s failed campaign to sweep across the West to further sate his hunger for expansion. Bastion had halted the fighting, but only because winter had come and the Rooks were embattled in a logistical nightmare. Their army was starving and ill supplied.
There had long been fear among the nobility that Bastion would someday finish what his father had started. Stoking those fears was perhaps the only way to unite the West.
“Tell me,” Aven said, “where do you see yourself in all of this?”
Maren smiled. He’d expected that question. “I’m not going to bullshit you. I want the crown. Because I’m the best damn person for the job.”
“I have desires too, Maren. I’ve several smaller families attempting to smear my name. One has even sent an assassin after me. I have no conclusive evidence, so the fight must be fought by proxy. Sadly, I do not have the coin to hire skilled mercenaries.”
“One favor for another,” Maren said. “You help me and I’ll help you.”
Aven smiled and took a big gulp of ale. “That’s what I was hoping to hear. I’ll work on sowing rumors of Bastion’s involvement throughout the West. In the meantime, try to gather more evidence. And if you cannot, it wouldn’t hurt to falsify some.”
The Dragon Thief (Sorcery and Sin Book 1) Page 4
