Dark Haven (28 page)

“I hated being his executioner. I hated the way the audience bet on the fights, how they cheered every time we bled. They bet on me to win, and they bet bigger against me to die. But I fought, and I hated myself for fighting.

“Nargi fought border skirmishes with Dhasson, trying to push out their holdings. And when the general took captives, he sent them up against me. If he didn’t think they’d fight or he thought I might refuse, he had his priests dose them with drugs—like the asbteneratb— so they were out of their minds with rage. I could see it in their eyes. It was a kindness to end it for them.”

Jonmarc’s voice grew quieter as the memories returned. “I won big for the general, and he rewarded me with enough brandy and absinthe to get me through the week. When I’d sober up for the games, I promised myself every time that I’d throw the bet, end it. It would have been so easy,” he said, his voice thick with self‐reproach. “Just react a little slower. Let them take me.

But then the fight would start, and something would take over, and then next thing I knew, I 238

won again.

“The night the general let me escape, the guards chased me into the Nu. It was winter. I didn’t care. I figured at least I’d die free. Washed up on the shore near Jolie’s Place. Found out later that she almost had Astir slit my throat because I was wearing a Nargi uniform. But Harrtuck was there, and a friend of mine named Thaine. Harrtuck got Jolie to let me stay. I took fever—too much water in my lungs. Almost died anyhow. Harrtuck and Thaine stayed with me.”

His voice was bitter. “I was so angry at Harrtuck when I woke up and found out I was still alive.

“My soul belongs to the Crone for what I’ve done. Every night in my dreams I see the faces of the men I killed in the games. From the time my family died, fifteen years, I’ve been cursed. I don’t know why. But things started to turn around when I met Tris—and you. I should have told you before. You deserved to know before you made the decision to come here. If you want to break the handfasting, I understand.”

He thought the silence would last forever. She’s probably too disgusted to reply. Can’t blame her.

Carina stepped up behind him. Her hands slid across his back, over the smooth satin of his shirt and the scarred skin beneath. Her touch moved with the care of a lover, and the healing warmth of her gift reached into the knotted muscles, releasing their tension. “I used to wonder, when you’d startle awake in your sleep, what you were seeing in your dreams,” she said quietly. “I wondered why I saw terror in your eyes. I couldn’t read your mind, but I could read your body. Now I understand.”

She slipped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his back. “I’d heard about the Nargi games when Cam and I were with the mercs in Eastmark. Some of the mercs were Nargi deserters who’d made it across the border. Their stories were almost too horrible to believe.

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Some of those stories were about the games.”

Jonmarc turned toward her, wrapping his arms around her. “So you knew—and you came anyhow?”

“How many times have I healed you? Even mercs don’t have the scars you’ve got. I’d guessed that you’d been used as the quintain— I’ve heard of commanders who’ll do that as a punishment. I couldn’t figure out how you could still be alive and be so beat up. Then you mentioned the games, and I knew what it would have taken to survive.” She looked down.

“Sometimes, when you’re sleeping and I know that you’re dreaming, I’ll trance with you. I can’t see what you’re dreaming, but I can feel your reaction. I can blunt the effect.” She shivered. “It’s as close to the abyss as I ever want to come.

“I love you, Jonmarc Vahanian. Scars and all. And I agree with Gabriel. It’s Istra’s hand on you that’s brought you this far, not the Crone. You’ll see. Things will be better.”

“It’s already better,” he murmured, bending down to kiss her, knowing she could sense the relief that flooded through him, no longer caring that she could read him so well. Nothing at all mattered, nothing except that she knew everything and wanted to stay.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“THIS HAS TO stop.” Gabriel looked at the small group assembled in the Wolven‐skorn parlor.

“Jonmarc Vahanian is the Lady’s chosen. We are oath‐bound as the Blood Council to support the Lord of Dark Haven.” The Blood Council and their seconds had come at his insistence the night 240

after the reception at Dark Haven. Malesh leaned against the wall near the door. All of the other seconds except Yestin lingered in the shadows.

Uri sprawled in a chair, studiously avoiding Gabriel. Malesh felt the old revulsion sweep over him. Uri so obviously lacked the breeding, the inborn nobility that Gabriel exuded effortlessly.

Wealth or not, Malesh wondered again how the Blood Council tolerated his maker.

“The idea of ‘support’ can mean so many things,” Uri said, toying with the heavy gold chain of his bracelet. “I hardly consider coddling to be support. If he’s strong enough, let him take the title.

He survived the games. He can’t hide behind your skirts forever.”

“If you intend to challenge him for the title, then you challenge all of us,” Riqua stepped forward.

“Is that your intent?”

“Ah, Riqua. Still so much the merchant, balancing the scales.” He withdrew a coin from his vest pocket and began to turn it through his fingers. “Why shouldn’t he be challenged? You have a tradesman’s love of efficiency,” he said derisively. “Isn’t it more efficient for one of “us to rule Dark Haven? How long will Vahanian live—assuming he doesn’t meet an unfortunate accident?

Most mortals are dead before they’ve lived fifty years. A strong man, a lucky man, might see seventy. What’s that to us? Barely a day. Then everything declines while a new lord is chosen.

We convince ourselves that it’s the Lady who chooses, but how do we know? I believe it’s luck, all of it. Nothing but luck.”

“If it’s efficiency you love, then where were you all those years that Dark Haven sat empty?”

Rafe’s voice had a hard edge to it. “What did you do for the holdings? You were content to let the vineyards waste away. We all were. We cared nothing about whether the villagers made a living, so long as they didn’t come after us. Yes, Vahanian has accomplished so much so quickly because of Gabriel’s backing. But now that I’ve seen what they’ve done, I’m ashamed that we let the holdings deteriorate. We wouldn’t have done that for our own lands. I’m intrigued to see what this lord makes of the title. You should love that, Uri. A wild 241

card.”

“What do we care what happens to the vineyards?”

Astasia had strategically positioned herself between Rafe and Cailan, and she was enjoying the tension that produced. Malesh suppressed a smile. Astasia considered herself too good for him.

Malesh would surprise her. Once his plan worked, Astasia’s finely honed sense for opportunity would bring her to him, and to his bed.

“How do we prosper if the villagers grow fat?” Astasia challenged. “Will it fatten the goats they offer us, or the criminals they stake out for us to kill? Perhaps if they’re wealthy there will be more cutpurses, and more for us to eat. Who among us needs the gold the traders bring?

Outlanders bring their fear of our kind. They judge our mortal relationships, as if it’s perversion for us to dwell among the living and take our lovers where we choose. When the last lord died, Dark Haven turned in on itself, and the outlanders stopped coming. No one to burn us, no one to spread lies about us to the mortals. We’ve been safe. Change can only bring grief.”

“The fact remains that the Lady Herself chose Jonmarc Vahanian as the new Lord of Dark Haven, and we are oath‐bound to the Lady.” Gabriel’s irritation was clear in his voice.

“Did she?” Uri asked, staring at the ceiling. “You were the one who claimed to. have the dream that foretold a new lord’s coming. You’re the one who said the Lady sent you to find Jonmarc Vahanian. And you’re the one who claimed the Lady made you Martris Drayke’s protector, even though it broke your vow to honor the truce. What do we have except your word that any of that’s true?”

“How can you doubt the will of the Lady?” Yestin stepped forward. “Martris Drayke won back the throne of Margolan, against the Obsidian King as well as Foor Arontala. Jonmarc Vahanian has survived against all odds. Surely the hand of the Lady is clear!”

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“I find that the will of the Lady is always clearest to those who wanted to go in that direction anyhow,” Uri replied with ennui. “So perhaps it’s the will of the Lady that the truce is broken. I understand that many vayash moru in Margolan have volunteered for the Margolan army, to hunt down Jared’s loyalists. And Vahanian trains with Laisren to fight vayash moru. Is that, also, the will of the Lady?”

“Considering your threats, he’d be a fool not to.” Riqua snapped. “The Lord of Dark Haven — and his Lady ‐ must be as safe among our kind as we wish to be among mortals. Prosperous mortals have no need to fear us. The mobs

turn against us when they’re hungry, driven by superstition and fear. Vahanian offers us a way of doing business we’ve not seen before, a full partnership where we’ve only ever lurked in the shadows. Why shouldn’t we support that?”

Uri looked from Riqua to Gabriel and the others. Malesh saw the hard glint that came to his maker’s eyes, a look that meant Uri had reached his limit. “We’re not meant to partner with mortals. We’re meant to rule. Like the wolf rules the forest,” he said with a glance toward Yestin.

“We are the top predator. It’s the way of nature. The strongest wins. And that is the will of the Lady.” He glared at Gabriel. “I’ll stop baiting your precious mortal lord when he proves to me that he can win his prize in fair combat. And if you can choose to break the truce as you see fit, then so can I. My patience with the Council is over.”

Malesh followed Uri from the room, studiously keeping his expression neutral. That couldn’t have gone better if I’d been Uri’s puppet master. The truce is dead. Uri’s cut off from the rest of the Council. He’s declared Vahanian fair game. Uri’s soft and slow. He’s about to find out just what the top predator looks like. They’re worried about the Lady’s will. But it’s my will that is going to remake Dark Haven— and there’s not a thing their precious Council can do about it.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Cam stood outside the inn for half a candlemark, watching patrons come and go from the shadow of an alley across the street. Overhead, the winter wind snapped at the pieces of laundry forgotten by their owners for the night, left to freeze on the lines. Behind him, a cat yowled. The alley smelled of urine and rotted food, and only the night’s chill prevented it from smelling even worse.

The Stray Dog Inn lived up to its name. Aberponte was Isencroft’s palace city, but the streets where its wealthiest residents lived were far from these twisted alleys. This was home to the city’s poorest residents, the people whose luck had let them down. The Stray Dog Inn made no pretense of long‐faded glory. It was clear that the Stray Dog’s building had been many things over the years, none of them very successful. Its thatched roof was bare in places, and the plaster beside the door was stained and cracked. A drunk slept off his wine near the front steps, unlikely to ever wake up again in this cold.

It was the kind of place Cam might have brought a dozen soldiers to shut down, either for cheating on taxes or rigging the card games. Tonight, Cam wore an old set of tunic and trews he had borrowed, from one of the palace’s gardeners. The clothes were stained, worn, and appropriately smelling of dirt; he hoped to fit right in. Two weeks had pas’sed since Cam’s return from the wedding in Mar‐golan. For most of that time, he had been watching the patrons come and go at the Stray Dog Inn. Checking first in both directions, Cam entered the inn.

“What’ll you have?”

The barkeeper looked up as Cam entered, and he looked down again just as quickly when he saw that Cam’s sword was sheathed. Cam put two copper pieces on the bar.

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“Give me an ale.” The barkeeper slid the tankard across the bar and Cam settled himself where he could watch the door. Near the fire, a pox‐faced bard warbled through an old ballad. The inn’s patrons were too drunk or too engrossed in their chatter to care how often the bard’s voice cracked or how flat his lyre was.

There’d been rumors that the divisionists met here, although as Cam looked around the room, none of the small groups of patrons seemed likely conspirators. If most looked up from their dice or their ale, it was to leer at the serving girls, who were as shopworn as the inn. A candlemark passed, then two. Cam kept an ear open to the conversations around him.

“Heard that grain’s going to cost double by summer,” a trader mused at the next table.

“What do you expect, after the trouble in Margolan? Lucky if we’ve got bread on the table by spring,” his companion said.

“Don’t mind going without bread, but I’d hate to see us run out of mead,” the trader replied.

“From the taste of this rubbish, the bar here ran out of mead a while ago. And the bread is stale enough to use for a brick. Fah. A couple of coppers used to buy more.”

Cam rose and let himself out the back door, heading for the privy. It was a sorry looking shack that stank even in the frigid air. Its rickety door was barely solid enough to screen its user from view and did nothing to stop the wind. Finished with his business, Cam was about to open the privy door when he heard voices nearby.

“What have you heard?”

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“It’s all been arranged. The Lord’s got his man in place in Margolan—couldn’t pay me enough in Trevath gold to live in that damned haunted castle.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“Keep the guards hopping. Enough fires and street fights and Donelan will be too busy to bother about what’s happening in Margolan.”

“How do we know Margolan won’t just march an army over to keep peace if Donelan can’t handle it?” .

“The Margolan army is busy. The Lord saw to that. Once King Martris is out of the way, you can have your princess back—and whatever brat she’s carrying as a bonus. You get yours, we get ours—nice and tidy.”