Lavery shook his head.
“They’re slaves. The Twin Sisters thought them less than animals.”
“The Twin Sisters should be punished,” he said.
Elaya smiled. “They’re an idea, Lavery; they’re not alive. Not any longer. But the legacy they left behind is still imprinted in the fabric of each Silderine boy and girl’s mind. For all intents and purposes, the Sisters still exist.”
“I didn’t know this,” Lavery said. “The books don’t—”
“Books sometimes lie,” Elaya cautioned. “A book is only as truthful as its author. Remember that. How is your head?”
Lavery felt the back of his skull. “Fine. It doesn’t hurt.” Baern had told him that, as he’d run through the tombs, he had slipped and cracked the back of his head on the floor, knocking himself out for days. “I had a really strange dream while I was unconscious. It felt so real, like I was really there.”
Elaya brought her hands together. “And what was this dream about?”
Lavery’s mouth fidgeted. He anxiously rubbed the tips of his fingers. “There was a dragon.”
“A dragon?”
“Yes. He was huge and crimson-colored, and he had shiny scales.” Lavery bit his lip and added, “He breathed fire over… over the world. It felt like the whole world was on fire. Everything was hot and melting and the air smelled like smoke. And the sky—it didn’t look normal. It looked like someone had painted it with all the coat of arms in Avestas, and each one melted into another.”
There was a polite cough from behind. “You never told me about the sky,” Baern said. The old man wandered in and clenched Lavery’s shoulder.
“I just remembered,” Lavery said.
“Mm-hmm,” Baern murmured. “Take those skins over there and fill them up in the creek. We’ll be back on the road soon.”
“But I was talking to—” Lavery stopped midsentence as he found himself the target of Baern’s furrowing brows. “All right,” he said, relenting. He jumped to his feet and walked lazily to the center of the camp, where skins and swords and whetstones and other assorted supplies were laid out.
Baern crossed his arms and looked at Elaya. “Didn’t trust me enough, hmm? Had to go directly to the source?”
“He told me willingly,” Elaya said. “And maybe I shouldn’t have trusted you. You never mentioned a dragon.”
“What’s it matter? You know better than to take a Wraith Walker’s visions literally.”
“Sometimes they are literal.” Elaya got to her feet, brushing off the dirt and bits of dead leaves from her pants. She squared herself to Baern and said, “If they never were, then the missing details about the sky wouldn’t have bothered you.”
Baern shrugged. “They didn’t bother me.”
Elaya hooked a strand of hair behind her ear and smirked. “You need to practice hiding your emotions.” She leaned in and with a wink said, “Your face betrays you.” She wheeled around, took a bucket of creek water and dumped it on the fire. The flames hissed and squealed and vanished.
“Dragons died a long, long time ago,” Baern said.
Elaya shook the last drops of water from the bucket, then righted it. “So they say,” she remarked, walking away.
She’d experienced enough in life to know that they weren’t always correct. In fact, they rarely were.
Craw’s Hold is not a place one journeys to in hopes of finding good ale, sweet wine and comfy beds. It’s a place you’d be happier to leave than arrive at. But inns in the lowlands were few and far between, so Elaya and the Eyes of Aleer didn’t have the option of being choosy.
They arrived at Craw’s Hold at the cusp of twilight. A setting sun splashed pinks and cherry reds across the horizon, offering enough fleeting light so the mercenaries could tie their horses to steel hooks anchored into wooden posts.
A shoddy wooden fence wound around the perimeter of Craw’s Hold, most of the masts leaning or rotting away. Only two buildings existed here, and one of them had partially collapsed.
Elaya set a course for the squat-looking inn, splashing across a muddy road flooded from a recent storm.
“’Ay, pretty lady,” said a man with two teeth and one missing eye. He reeked of sour wine. “Got a little offerin’ for a poor lad like me? Got all me belongings stolen right underneath me.”
Elaya pushed on, ignoring the beggar. She held open the inn door for Lavery, Baern and her fifteen mercenaries, then proceeded inside.
The sound of laughter and fists slamming on tables leaped out at her like a barking hound from the shadows. Some slimy glaze on the floor planks pulled at the soles of her boots. Puddles of ale—at least she hoped it was ale—gathered near the walls beneath the chairs. The place smelled about as pleasant as it looked.
“Fuckin’ Craw’s Hold,” Adom remarked. “The shithole of the lowlands, and apparently everyone’s got to take a shit. Look at this place, nowhere to even sit.”
Elaya looked around. Adom was right; the small square tables against the walls were taken and the larger circular tables scattered throughout the middle of the inn were filled. Those who weren’t sitting clogged up the floor space, dancing and laughing and demanding this drink and that.
“It’s hot as balls in here,” Adom said. “Maybe we should find a nice bed of grass outside and sleep.”
“Sod off, Adom,” said Tig, a barrel-chested mercenary. “I ain’t had a drop of fookin’ nothin’ for six weeks. I’m drinkin’ my fill tonight.”
“Yeah,” put in another, “I’ll rest enough when I’m dead.”
“They need to relax,” Elaya whispered to Adom. “Let them.”
A fat finger shot out. “Go grab that sum bitch,” said Tig, pointing to a table emptying out.
The tall and ever-slender Paya darted in and out of swaying drunks, thinning herself sideways as she raced across the sticky floor. She slapped her hand on the table and gestured for the Eyes of Aleer to join her.
There was only enough room for eight chairs, but several of Elaya’s mercenaries opted to stand and mingle; they said they’d had enough sitting in the past two days to last them a lifetime.
A bouncy blond-haired barmaid slapped her hands on the shoulders of Baern and Tig. “Eight of youse? Well, I’ll say! You ought to get Craw’s Crooked Special—a whole ten pitchers of house ale for three silver. Cost ya near five times that if ya bought it all separately.”
“Fook the house ale,” Tig said. “I want the strongest ya got.”
“Make that two of us,” said Kaun.
Adom clicked his tongue. “Still got that cider? What is it, the apple stuff?”
The barmaid beamed. “Got some made from red apples and green apples this year. Green’s sour, red’s sweeter; that’s what they say, anyways. I’ve not tried none myself.”
“Hmm. Ah, hells. Give me a pitcher of both.”
Elaya side-eyed Adom.
“What?” he said innocently. “If Tig’s gettin’ smashed, so am I.”
“Do you have tea?” Elaya asked.
The barmaid frowned. “Um… spiced tea.”
“Spiced with what?”
“Cider.”
“What about plain tea?”
“Er, no.”
Elaya sighed. “Fresh water?”
“Um,” the barmaid began. “That depends on your definition of fresh. It’s creek water. We can boil it for you, though.”
“That would be great. And for him,” Elaya said, nodding at Lavery.
The boy scrunched up his nose and proudly said, “I’ve tasted ale before.”
“And did you like it?” Elaya asked.
After a moment of silence, he said, “No. Not really.”
While the barmaid fetched drinks, a man in a colorful ensemble of purples and blues and greens, yellows and reds and oranges, stepped onto a small round stage that was set away from the tables. His pants were, in a word, poufy, and he looked as though he was wearing shoulder pads. Also, atop his head perched a maroon beret fr
om which a plum-colored quill stood. One might say the beret sat atop his head, but that would imply it was a passive party. This thing was not passive in any sense of the word. It had life. It had pizzazz. If it had jumped off and crawled across the floor, it would have been a surprise to no one.
“Hallo, hello, heeeeelo,” the man said. “For those of you who weren’t here an hour ago, or are so drunk you’ve forgotten, my name is Hester Goodlick.” He paused. “The last name comes courtesy of a very generous woman.”
The tavern exploded into laughter.
Hester smiled. “Helluva night at the Craw Tavern, isn’t it? We’ve got lads, lasses”—he pointed at an ogre-faced man—“and whatever the hell you are.”
“Funny fucker!” Tig cried, smacking his knee in laughter.
“All right,” Hester said, holding up his hands. “Settle down, settle down. Say, what do we have here?” He pointed at Lavery. “A young wino? What’re you drinking, little one? Big boy ale, or did they make you a virgin one?”
“J—just water,” Lavery said meekly.
Hester chuckled. “Good idea. Gods know you’ve got to be desperate or a slobbering boozer to enjoy the taste of whatever the hell they pour in those pitchers. I better clarify that was a joke before they kick me out. So, what’s your name, son?”
“Lavery Opsillian.”
“Lav—” Hester didn’t finish the name. The entire tavern fell silent; not even a belch could be heard.
Elaya felt her chest tighten. This is not good.
“My, my,” Hester said with a shake of his head. “Lavery Opsillian, son of the Valiosian king.”
“King of Valios is what he is,” crowed a woman. “That’s what I hear.”
“Is that right?” Hester drew his head back in surprise. “Wow, the king of Valios in Craw’s Hold. We’ve got ourselves a celebrity, folks. That makes two celebrities tonight. Olyssi Gravendeer, is she still here?”
A hand smoothly went up.
“There she is. We’ve got the son of a king—sorry, a king himself—and the daughter of a king. Maybe you two can get together and make a superbaby, huh?” Hester laughed. “Ah, I think she’s too old for you, kiddo. No offense, Olyssi. Or should I call you Lady Gravendeer? I’d hate to walk out of this tavern only to have my head taken off by one of your thugs for a grave misstep into ignorance.”
Olyssi provided him with no answer. She wasn’t even looking at him. She had focused her attention solely and entirely on one Lavery Opsillian.
Hester shifted to another topic, and for that Elaya was thankful. But she feared the damage had already been done.
She leaned in to Adom’s shoulder. “We need to leave.”
“You think she knows he’s missing?”
“I’ve no doubt. Did you see the way she looked over here? She knows something’s not quite right.”
“Ah, bloody hell. She’s still watching us.”
“Quit looking!” Elaya snapped.
Adom tapped Tig on the arm and said a few words, which were met with a profanity-laced reply from the big, burly mercenary. Tig reluctantly nodded when Adom gestured between Lavery and Olyssi’s table, understanding the situation at hand.
“Go out and untie the horses,” Elaya whispered to Adom. “I’ll give you five minutes, then I’m sending Tig out with Lavery. You three take off into the woods; we’ll catch up. If Olyssi makes a move, hopefully we can stall her until you put enough distance between here and there.”
Adom went to protest, but thought better of it. When Elaya got an idea in her mind, she was unyielding. You had to pick your fights with her, and this wasn’t one he would win.
When Adom got up, Elaya slid onto his chair. She relayed the plan to Tig, who whispered it to Kaun and on down the line, or around the table, it went. Lavery chewed his nails and traded off glances between Elaya and Baern, likely hoping for reassurance. Neither of them had any to offer. He might have been only eleven, but he was nonetheless a king now. And when kings make mistakes, grim consequences follow.
A few minutes passed. Elaya and the Eyes of Aleer were no longer the recipients of Olyssi’s glare, but Elaya knew the daughter of the Gravendeer king wouldn’t forget so quickly. She was barely twenty-four years of age and, from the stories that got traded around Avestas, she was rash, immature, and easily provoked.
It boiled down to family drama and grievances. Her older sister, Oriana, had been groomed for the throne, despite wanting little part in politics and having no desire to step foot onto the world stage. Olyssi had long wanted to prove she was the rightful heiress, and she picked whatever spot she could—however big or small—to deliver that proof to her father.
Capturing—or killing—the mercenaries who had abducted the Valiosian king… well, that’s some kind of proof right there.
Tig waited for a drunken caravan of bearded men to pass by, obscuring the view from Olyssi’s table, and took Lavery’s hand. He hefted the boy into his arms and lumbered through the crowd.
He didn’t make it halfway through the tavern before an audible damn slipped from between Elaya’s lips. The chairs surrounding Olyssi Gravendeer’s table were now empty. Those who had been sitting in them made a determined advance toward the exit of the inn.
This was also precisely the same time Elaya noticed the guards who escorted Olyssi were not your average, everyday sworn protectors of nobility. They were called the Jackals—and this was not a case of names transcending aptitude. The Jackals served as the Gravendeers’ elite guard, as personal protectors of the king himself and his family. They were crude. They were ruthless. More importantly, they were proficient. Very proficient.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Elaya said in hushed tones, hastily gathering up her mercenaries. “Keep ahead of them. Plod along, slow them down.”
The Eyes of Aleer pushed wobbly drunks out of their way. A woman fell to the floor and a goblin of a man with yellow eyes and matching teeth threatened to haul off and punch Kaun right in his “Bloody, bloody, bloody damn face!” He even wound up to make good on his promise. But a wet spot on the floor and an ill-timed stomp of his foot had him falling backward. A sickening thud followed—the kind of thud that, when you hear it, you know a skull isn’t quite whole any longer.
“Move,” barked a woman with a penetrating voice.
Elaya looked over her shoulder. She felt her heart flutter as Olyssi Gravendeer stared back at her. “It’s a busy night. We’re going as fast we can.” She faced the other way again and began walking, or rather inching, forward.
A handful of nails burrowed into her arm as Olyssi spun her around. “You,” she decried, “were with the Valiosian king. Get outside, now.”
Elaya answered with a hard face and clenched jaw.
Olyssi’s hand went to the hilt of her sword. The Jackals followed suit. Some of them held crossbows as well. “I will spill your blood in here if you don’t move your pretty ass outside those doors.”
A sense of defiance gripped Elaya. A reckless and misguided sense of defiance. “It’s been a while since someone called me pretty,” she said, tilting her head to one side and flinging her hair back. How much time could she buy Tig, Adom and Lavery? They needed another minute or so, at the very least.
Olyssi tongued her cheek. Her head quested right, then left between the Jackals at her side. “She’s got a nice mouth on her, doesn’t she?”
One could imagine the guards grinning villainously, but brushed gold helmets covered their faces, concealing whatever emotions they bore.
“I could lop off your little head right here,” Olyssi said. “And no one would do a thing about it. Do you know why? Because I’m a Gravendeer and I would have everyone’s heads if one single, pathetic drunken buffoon made a move. I’m offering you a chance to leave with your life. I suggest you take it.”
While Elaya wanted to keep Lavery alive and, of equal importance, in her possession, she wasn’t willing to lose her head, her heart, bleed out, or otherwise suffer a catastrophic loss of life i
n doing so.
She and her mercenaries shuffled out of Craw’s Hold tavern and into the brisk night. The sky looked like it’d gotten into a fight with another astral body, its canvas battered with black and blue bruises. No stars shined on this night, which seemed quite fitting.
“Stop!” Olyssi cried. “Snap those reins and my guards will put a bolt through the back of your skull.”
Adom released the reins of his horse, raising his hands placidly over Lavery’s head; the young king sat in front of him on the saddle. Adom looked to Elaya for further instruction. She gave a do-what-she-says nod of her head.
“Grab the boy,” Olyssi said.
Elaya sidled over in front of an advancing Jackal, idling him. “No. That’s not how this works. We negotiate.”
Olyssi’s already thin face seemed to collapse inward as she sucked on her cheeks, clearly annoyed. “We’ve already negotiated. I allowed you to keep your life. Who are you, anyhow? Who are you working for?”
“We work for ourselves,” Elaya said.
“Oh? I doubt that. Kidnapping a king—that takes organization. Structure. Strategy. Power. Did the Torbinens hire you? Or the Wrokklens, I bet. They’ve long had their eye on disassembling the West.”
“We’re the Eyes of Aleer,” Tig said in a gruff voice. “The world’ll bloody know us soon enough.”
Olyssi sighed deeply. “Listen. I don’t really care who hired you or why you have Mr. Lavery Opsillian. I won’t be a tattletale, I promise. Just give me the boy and I’ll be on my way, and your merry band of misfits can drink to their fill. And you know what? I’ll even pay for every mug they throw back.”
Of course Olyssi Gravendeer didn’t care about the whats and whys. In the grand scheme of things—her grand scheme—those details were unimportant. Showing the world she had liberated Lavery Opsillian from a bunch of thugs would score her a heap of political points.
“Around the side of the tavern,” Elaya said. “I want this done in the shadows.”
Olyssi smiled. “Of course. Mercenaries have a reputation to keep, after all.”
As Elaya made her way to what would be the location of the handoff, she looked at Tig and Adom. A sadness softened their faces. Or was it an acrid, bitter disappointment that comes with a feeling of betrayal? She’d promised them and all the others who followed her that the Eyes of Aleer would command the world’s respect. The sight of their sigil—eventual sigil—would evoke intimidation. The rumors of their presence would make even kings accommodate them in any way they could. She had promised them power, freedom, and autonomy that the structure of this world never could.
The Dragon Thief (Sorcery and Sin Book 1) Page 6
