“When I was a few months shy of one year, Raegon found me crawling in the weed beds of Francello’s Creek during one of his monthly hunts. My mother was a devout believer in the gods of hope, and she was convinced I was a gift from them. She persuaded Raegon to take me in as their own and… well, I became the first child of Raegon Gravendeer, birthright be damned.”
“Birthright be damned,” Rol parroted. He laughed. “If only it was that easy for everyone. So, you’re not a Gravendeer. What the hell are you?”
“I’m not sure. Sorcerers don’t have last names, you know.”
Rol chuckled. It wasn’t a chuckle born out of genuine humor, but rather a defensive one—a spurt of laughter that your body coughs out because the explosion of your head from information so overwhelming is the only other option and usually is not an ideal action to take.
“You’re a sorceress,” he said, again echoing Oriana.
“Of Liosis,” Oriana said.
“Which is…?”
“A little swampy marsh in Southern Baelous.”
Rol traded off the torch into his left hand. “If I might say so myself, I’m a damn good predictor of the flow of conversation, so I’m going to guess the next little morsel of information you reveal is how you learned all of this.”
“I was a curious child,” she said.
He shrugged. “Aren’t we all.”
“Maybe. But most children don’t reach into primal planes of existence and tap into the sorcery of illusion. Actually, the illusionary plane isn’t a primal one. More of an offshoot. Anyways, it was harmless stuff, at first. I found that I could disguise my room as the embodiment of order and organization, like my father desired. But beneath that illusion, it was a messy playhouse where dolls and drawings and dirt and clothes had free rein.”
“Now that,” Rol said, wagging a finger, “would have been useful when I was a boy. My mother would have never found that stolen amphora of wine, and I’d have never had my ass lashed with twenty snaps of a whip. Anyhow, continue.”
“Then you would have become an alcoholic,” Oriana said.
“Happened anyways. Helluva thing to kick, that.”
Oriana backed herself against the craggy wall of the den. She crossed her arms and sighed. “It turns out that sorcery has laws. Lots of them. If you bring fire into this world, for example, the air will turn colder. Not a lot. I mean, it’s usually not even discernible, but it happens. And over time it adds up. If there was a war waged and only sorcerers who tapped into the primal plane of fire fought it, this world would freeze.
“Enter the Conclave: a band of sorcerers who serve as the establishment of sorcery. They help train, recruit, all that fun stuff. And they’ve a host of sorcerers called viscars who sense and track the use of sorcery. Long story short, my curious tapping into the plane of illusion attracted their attention.”
Rol knew he’d been helping Oriana bring sorcerers back to her estate, but he hadn’t shown much curiosity in learning about them. Not that they would have revealed anything, per Oriana’s orders. Anyone who did not practice sorcery—farmhands, laborers—was to know as little as possible about them. Dragon tamers were the exception, as they’d come from Baelous and had plenty of knowledge about sorcery.
Rol clicked his tongue. “How lovely—you attract a conclave of sorcerers by accident, yet I couldn’t even grab my father’s attention by telling him how much I loved him.”
“That’s sad, Rol.”
“Also untrue. I just like throwing myself pity parties from time to time. I should be a viscar. Sit back, sense sorcery all day—seems an easy job to me.”
“Well,” Oriana said, “it’s not. You can’t turn it off. Imagine a ringing in your ear every day, all day. Lots of viscars kill themselves. All do, really, it’s just a matter of when.”
Rol turned up his nose. “Yeah, I’ll pass on that career. So these magical lads and lasses come and investigate what you’re doing with sorcery, but they don’t take you away?”
Oriana shook her head. “They taught me everything I know—and told me who I was—in secret, away from my father, my mother, Olyssi, the Jackals.”
“So why were you left at the shore of a creek as a babe? Your mother go mad and think you were a crawfish?”
Oriana laughed. “You’re not that far off. They told me my mother killed my father in a fit of rage, then fled to Avestas. She was very ill at this time. Her mind, it was withering away. Convinced the Conclave was hunting her and would kill her only child, she laid me down to sleep in the tall grass of the creek and ran.”
“Good thing Francello’s Creek is heavily frequented, I’d say.”
“I like to think she knew that, and I also like to think that shows she loved me, however sick she was. Anyways, the sorcerers from the Conclave left a few weeks before I turned fifteen. They told me I should come with them, that Avestas was no longer safe for sorcerers. But I liked it here. And I had plans.”
“Dragons,” Rol wagered.
“I’d learned from a Conclave mentor that dragons still existed. Not on Avestas, but on Baelous. My mentor said the Conclave had an uneasy alliance with them. I used that knowledge, along with a rogue sorceress of the Conclave, to infiltrate the clutches.”
Rol fed the wavering torch with his breath. It flared once more, but it wouldn’t last long. “And then you became a baby thief. Oriana of Liosis!” Rol announced. “Stealer of dragon babies.”
“When you put it like that…”
“It doesn’t sound very heroic?”
Oriana inclined a brow. “Since when do you care about heroism?”
Rol twirled a finger into his hair and said, “I’m a romantic from time to time, don’t you know?”
She snorted. “I’m sure. I don’t know how the clutch of Evanescence traced the abductions back to me. I was careful. Extremely careful. I’m worried someone here might have given away our position. The Evanescence Clutch finding us… it shouldn’t be possible otherwise.”
“Well, we don’t have time to set up an interrogation table. You got the clutches’ attention. And from the sounds of it, they’re coming for you.”
“For us,” she corrected.
Rol plucked a hangnail out with his teeth. “I suppose so. How is it the Daughters of Silderine didn’t find you?”
“They did. A troop of them came to Haeglin to investigate. But illusionary sorcerers threw them off. They can’t dissect loci, and I never appeared suspect outside of this locus.”
“All right,” Rol said, “let’s break this down into digestible chunks so we can effectively explain the situation to everyone. A clutch of dragons that was in hiding has discovered us and want nothing more than to burn the flesh from our bones. So we need to haul ass out of here. Sound good?”
“Well, for starters, that’s not completely true—there’s a chance they’ll leave us alone if I return their whelps to them. Secondly—”
“Before you start numbering your list, let’s make one thing clear: the whole truth is optional right now. You tell these guys and gals there’s a way out, that surrender is a real possibility… they might want to take it. That’ll cause problems.”
That response drew a harsh squint from Oriana. “The truth didn’t seem very optional when you forced me into explaining myself.”
Rol squared himself to her and lifted his chin. “I consider myself pretty damned close to you, Oriana. I think I deserve the truth.”
She held her ground, kept an unrelenting gaze aimed at his face. Then she softened, dropped her shoulders and sighed. She’d long wondered just how close Rol had considered himself to her.
She sure knew the answer to the reciprocating question. But that was a discussion to be had another day. A lighter, more peaceful day when such feelings ought to be shared.
On this day, she resigned herself to the simple fact that Rol was right. He did deserve the truth. But didn’t the sorcerers and slaves and servants and all the others she’d brought over from Baelous dese
rve the same? Rol would probably agree that they did, but he’d also say now was not the time. And maybe it wasn’t. Sometimes the truth can scare and frighten and breed resentment. She’d reveal her secrets, eventually—she promised herself that… but now was all about survival.
She combed her fingers through her hair. “I’ll gather everyone. You meet with Brynn and Gamen and map out the logistics. I’ll find you three afterward. We need to leave by tomorrow morning.”
“A sellsword and logistics officer?” Rol said. “I deserve a raise.”
Oriana sidled up to him and, with a sidelong smile, said, “Let’s survive first, huh?”
“And then?”
She shrugged. “And then maybe you’ll get more than a raise.” With a mischievous wink, she wheeled around and started back down the long, descending tunnel.
She got about ten feet, then stopped dead.
“Don’t fret,” Rol said sarcastically, “your muscle is right behind you.”
Oriana felt her hands turn clammy. Cheeks too. “Oh no,” she said, spinning around. “My sister’s here.”
Rol listened for that sharp, heinous bite that was Olyssi Gravendeer’s voice, but heard nothing. Then he threw a hand up in realization that he had forgotten he was living inside a bubble of illusions. When an outsider came to Oriana’s estate—and that included her sister and father—they were presented with a mundane and prosaic manor. Only Oriana could hear them, sense them.
“Okay,” Oriana said, nibbling on her nail. “Get everyone together. I’ll be down there soon. Olyssi hates coming here, so I doubt she’ll linger long.”
Rol gave her a playful salute. “As you wish, milady.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
Another salute. “As you wish, sassy one.”
She punched him in the shoulder, told him there was more from where that came from, then made her way up through the cave and into the crisp morning air.
Oriana heard her sister crowing for her.
“Hello? Ori, the day is young but you are late. It’d be wonderful if you decided to show your greasy hair sometime today.”
Late? What is she talking about? She pushed that question aside and instead focused on where her sister’s voice originated from.
“Ori, get up, you lazy swine!”
In front of the cottage. With a flick of her mind, which was all it took to shift from one illusion to the other—once they were created—she emerged from behind the barn.
“Have you ever considered,” Oriana said, approaching her sister from behind, “that maybe I was hiding from you? I was hoping you’d go away, but I guess not.”
Olyssi lifted her chin in traditional Olyssi I’m-better-than-you manner. She looked curiously well dressed for early morning, in polished fire-gilded plate typically reserved for fancy events and tourneys, or meetings with important people. She had her straw-colored hair done up in a tight bun, thin strands hanging down behind her ears. The neck of her breastplate hung high and tight to her throat, and an ivory cloak was attached by two golden wolf pins.
As always, she carried both a sword and her customary one-handed crossbow at her waist.
“Bastion Rook, Farris Torbinen, and Emmil Wrokklen all arrived yesterday. You should have seen the look on Father’s face when midnight came and went and his favorite daughter was still nowhere to be found.”
Damn, Oriana thought. I forgot about the festival. “I’m busy, Olyssi. One of your many servants could have fetched me, I’m sure.”
Olyssi shrugged. “Why would I help you? The more mistakes you make, the farther you slip. One day, and it’ll happen soon, Father will choose me to succeed him.”
Oriana rolled her eyes. “I’m sure. Maybe if he’s driven mad by illness. Even then… I’m not sure there’s an illness so debilitating. Tell Father I’ll be there by noon.”
“Dress your best,” Olyssi said, one hand on the pommel of her sheathed sword. “The feast is tonight.”
“Without Maren O’Keefe arriving first?”
“He’s expected here by noon. Scouts spotted him only twenty miles away yesterday.” Olyssi scrutinized her sister’s estate, frowning all the while. “Truly, Ori, I’m not sure why you stay here. This is such a busted, broken, barely functional—oh, now I understand.”
“Get out.”
“Oooh,” Olyssi taunted. “Are you going to make me?”
Oriana snorted. “What are you, six again?”
“Hmm. I wish. If I were, I’d dunk you in the creek and not let you come up for air. Six-year-olds are never blamed for murder, you know. Just a naive childhood mistake.”
“You’re sick.”
Olyssi shrugged. “Bye-bye, Ori. Your sister has big girl business to take care of. Keep yourself busy here and”—she waved a hand—“keep shoveling cow shit, or whatever it is you do.”
Oriana watched her sister strut away, toward the bounding hills leading to Haeglin. Had she been pettier, she would have thrown a rock at her head. She picked one up, even thought about it, but in the end dropped it and hurried back into her illusionary estate.
She’d attend the feast tonight, and then in the morning, she’d be gone.
She wondered if, when she came back, Haeglin would look the same. Dragons were coming, after all. And though she’d told Rol they were coming for her, that was only the partial truth.
The Conclave’s tenuous relationship with the clutches had kept the dragons from launching an assault on Avestas, mostly by dangling the threat of extinction before the clutches if they chose to attack. Making good on that threat would have cost the Conclave precious lives, but they had the power to do so.
Or at least they did. Now, if the dragon from the Evanescence Clutch was truthful, the Conclave had fallen.
Oriana needed a better plan than evacuating. She needed a strategy. If the clutches invaded Avestas, what would she do? What could she do? All she’d wanted was to change the world.
Perhaps she had instead doomed it.
Chapter Twenty
“Only the king’s Council is permitted on this rung,” Olyssi told Captain Jauren. “No children of lords, no lords themselves. No ladies, no cousins of my father—only the king’s Council.”
“Understood, milady,” Captain Jauren said, his voice muffled behind his faceguard.
“How many spotters do we have?”
“Sixteen. One at each pillar point of the balcony.”
“Excellent. And tasters?”
“Three,” Captain Jauren said. “One for the king, one for you, and one for Lady Oriana.”
“Good. If our visitors request any, tell them we have none to spare. Kings and queens ought to bring their own tasters. Haeglin can’t be responsible for everything, can she? Thank you, Captain; if I should ever be queen of this great kingdom, you will top the list for my personal protector.”
Captain Jauren bowed his head. “The honor is and will always be mine, Lady Olyssi.”
Olyssi went toward the keep. She wanted to visualize where her men would position themselves inside the Great Hall while the feast took place. She also needed to pay a visit to the kitchen and ensure that certain precautions were in place. But she took only three steps toward the keep before hearing someone call for her, and it wasn’t Captain Jauren.
Climbing up the ramp onto the fourth rung was Gimble Rivace, one of eleven Jackals who knew that Olyssi was holding Lavery Opsillian captive.
“Why aren’t you standing guard with Taylus?” Olyssi asked.
“Got news, milady. Figured you’d be itchin’ to hear it. Bracken drags his fat self up to the Peak about twenty minutes ago. He tells me and Taylus that some sewer rat came to him. Some pale-faced, greasy-haired wanderer’s been asking around the dregs if anyone’s heard of a boy and an old man arriving recently. Descriptions matched both that old bastard you put in the stocks and Lavery Opsillian.”
“A Valiosian spy,” Olyssi said, her eyes thinking.
“Maybe, but this s
ewer rat was scared of ’im. Said he didn’t look real, whatever the hells that means. And get this—I tell ’im to go visit the affairs post, that they’ll pay ’im for his tip. He says to me he’ll pass it up if we put a guard in the sewers to keep watch over him for a couple days. I laughed at that one, but strange, don’t you think?”
Olyssi didn’t think it was that strange. Sewer rats were often deranged, though they were the most efficient gossipers in Haeglin. She’d created the tip policy two years ago, offering to pay a small, meager sum in exchange for tips on deplorable and scandalous activity. The sewer rats’ forthcomingness had led to over ninety-three arrests, forty of which had resulted in beheading for grossly immoral crimes like, for instance, petty theft of bread. Maybe such thieves needed to steal to feed themselves, but in Olyssi’s mind, that simply meant they were failures in life and deserved to be taken away from this world.
“Bring Teurvin and Raum to the Peak; keep them posted throughout the night. We kept Lavery’s coming a furtive affair; I doubt a Valiosian spy gets any good information from anyone in the city. Still, with Maren arriving soon and his personal guard as well… I wouldn’t put anything past the Valiosians. You know what to do if you’re overwhelmed by attackers up there.”
“Kill the boy,” Gimble said, sliding his thumb across his throat. “And toss his body off the cliff.”
Olyssi winked. She pulled Gimble in and whispered, “I’ll see you soon.”
He grasped the pommel of her sheathed sword. “May the queen forever prosper.”
“Prosper she will,” Olyssi said.
Maren O’Keefe was not a happy man. He had anticipated a short nap after arriving at Haeglin, which he did not get. He’d also anticipated being the only king here besides Raegon Gravendeer. It turned out he was the fifth bloody crown in Haeglin and the last to arrive. Of course, no one knew he was a king. Yet. And he hoped to keep it that way until he was safely back behind the walls of Valios.
His toes were cold and wet from an unrelenting rainstorm throughout the night. His lips were chapped and he suffered from saddle-ass so badly he could barely sit upright in the stiffest chair he’d ever had the displeasure of sitting in.
The Dragon Thief (Sorcery and Sin Book 1) Page 20
