4. Bane
Chapter 4
Bane
T he carriage did not stop until the sunlight gave way to long shadows. The town of Thornvale, on the outskirts of the Rift, had been arranged as our shelter for the night.
It had high stone walls that had never fallen, even during the height of the Forian War. A palisade of sharpened ash stakes had been erected outside said walls, each deadly point smeared with a thick paste of wolfsbane.
It was the perfect place to keep my new bride alive until we reached the safety of Ravenscry.
The carriage rolled to a halt in front of the gates, and my ear swiveled, picking up the wallguard’s faint voice. “Hail, Ravenscry. The moon will be bright tonight.”
The stilted comment was a predetermined conversation, arranged by Olwyn before our journey to Argent.
“But not bright enough for the wolves,” Eryan called back, letting the wallguard know that we were uncompromised, with the future Lady in hand.
Cirrien straightened out of the small slump she’d been in for the last eight hours, her brow creasing as she peered out the window at the walls of Thornvale. She tucked a loose lock of crimson hair behind her ear, eyes flickering between the wall and the front of the carriage, whose driver she could not see.
“It’s a password.” Those green eyes flicked to me when I spoke, the first time she’d looked at me since her unreadable question had gone unanswered. “His answer means that we have you in our possession, and the guardians will be prepared to defend the inn you’ll be staying in.”
She nodded slowly, the crease in her brow fading. The bright light of intelligence shone in her gaze, another welcome relief. There was too much room for interpretation in the ‘young and healthy’ demand of the Accords for my liking.
“And if he had said ‘we don’t wish to travel under the moon’, that would have meant we were compromised entirely. They would have poured wolfsbane and oil on the carriage, and set it alight. Anything to emerge alive would be brought down with silver spears.”
Her eyes widened, and she tilted her head. Her hands were twisted so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone white.
I did not wish to frighten her, but she should be aware of her new reality. The threat of wargs was much greater in the Rift than in Argent, the walls of which had never been breached.
“The wargs find ways to slip through the cracks. The war is over on paper—but they’re still hunting.” Without intending it, my voice had slipped into a low growl. I cleared my throat, enunciating to make my thick speech understood. “If they had killed us and taken the carriage hostage, they would be able to hide behind the authority of the crest of the Rift—all the way to the castle doors. It only takes two wargs to slaughter a keep, and at least three would fit in here.”
She hesitated, then lifted her hands, slender fingers moving gracefully through the air.
I watched the dance of her hands, my brow furrowing. From my time on the frontlines, I knew certain specific words the Brotherhood had shaped with their hands, but they were words intended for use in battle: enemies ahead. Hostages. Charge. Retreat .
And possibly the most important, made with a single imperious gesture: get the fuck down or take an arrow to the eye .
Cirrien formed none of those words. Unlike the spare, economical motions of the Brotherhood’s warriors, hers were smooth and eloquent, almost poetic.
And I had no idea what she’d said.
She stared at me, willing me to answer or understand, and within moments of accepting that I could not, she looked away once more.
“I apologize,” I muttered, and was rewarded with another glance, a softening in her features. She shook her head and tapped her chest.
Outside the carriage, the guard ordered the gates raised. The clanking of iron chains filled the quiet night, and I watched Cirrien watching the gates rise, a strange feeling twisting within me.
Why had they not sent her with some way to communicate? It seemed beyond cruel not only to consign her to become my wife, but to leave her incommunicado as well.
I couldn’t keep the scowl from my face, though I knew it would make me far more ghastly than usual to her.
Wyn shook her head with warning, her lips pressed together.
The carriage jolted into Thornvale, the horses’ iron-shod hooves sending bright sparks flying from the road. It seemed to take mere moments to arrive at the White Lily Inn, where Wyn had arranged for half the rooms to be rented to our travel party.
Eryan, Wyn, and the maid would stay in the upper-level rooms. Cirrien and I would remain on the bottom floor. If the wargs breached the walls of Thornvale, they would expect for the Lady to be on the uppermost floors, as most vampire royalty lived—and Eryan and Wyn would hold them off long enough to bring Cirrien to safety.
Cirrien’s shoulders were tense as we waited. When Eryan knocked at the door—a three, two, four pattern with breaks between—I unbarred it under Cirri’s watchful, narrow gaze.
She did not bother to sign anything to me.
I was the first to emerge, glad to stretch to my full height after two days spent cramped in the carriage, followed by Wyn, who had the small trunk containing the Blood Accords and her witching kit tucked protectively under one arm. My advisor swept into the inn to make preparations.
I pushed the door open, holding a hand out to Cirrien.
“The pattern was to let us know it was safe,” I said, keeping my tone as gentle as I would ever manage. “There’s no warg-sign here.”
She slid over the seat, pushing aside the voluminous crimson skirts with a twist of her mouth, and managed to keep her hesitation to a single second before she put her hand in mine.
I wondered if I imagined that she shuddered.
The size of her hand was a marvel as I helped her from the carriage. It was… ludicrous. With her palm fully pressed to mine, her fingertips barely extended to the first joints of my fingers.
How could I be married to this girl, when I might so easily crush her? In a single moment without control, it would be as easy as blinking to end her life.
Cirrien stepped onto the streets of Thornvale, looking around with open curiosity at the stone houses crammed together, the briars for which the town had been named climbing over them in tumbles of thick green leaves.
She pulled her hand from mine, clutching her skirts to keep them from the muddy stones underfoot. I clenched my hand at my side, unable to feel offended at her need for distance, but the warmth of her palm still burned against my skin like a coal.
Five guards had been posted outside the inn, and Cirrien glanced at them as I led her to the door, her lips pressed flat.
The Eldest Sister should have explained this to her before our marriage. That as the Lady of the Rift, she was now not only one of the eight most powerful people in Veladar—but that a target as red as blood had been painted right between her shoulders.
Our precautions were not due to an overabundance of hysteria.
Andrus—the Lord of the Vale, the first of the fiends to take a human wife and uphold his end of the Accords—had lost his initial arranged bride on her journey to Stagpoint Castle.
The carriage was found pulverized, the girl herself strung from a tree by her own guts, her body hollowed out.
No natural wolf packs roamed the Vale these days. They had been annihilated in one furious night, giving the wargs nowhere to hide in his territory.
The only obvious solution after that was for each Lord to retrieve the chosen women in person, with precautions and checkpoints along every step of the journey. Andrus still had not forgiven himself for the senseless loss of the girl’s life. He never would.
The interior of the inn was filled with warm light, the nose-burning scent of lye soap and wood polish still hanging in the air. The innkeeper smiled at Cirrien, sketching a sort of curtsy for her. “My Lady, it is an honor to provide you shelter for the night.”
Cirrien smiled back, touching her hand over her heart with a nod to the innkeeper. She made a few quick signs with her hands, and the innkeeper’s eyes widened a fraction.
“I…oh. Well.” The woman hesitated, then led Cirrien down a short hall to a solid oak door, three inches thick according to Wyn’s specifications. The bloodwitch had already drawn a blood sigil on the wood, burning with a faint crimson light. “This is the room for you and the Lord to share. Please, let me know if you need anything.”
Cirrien’s smile had grown a touch stiff at the woman’s reaction to her lack of speech, but she touched the innkeeper’s hand, then pressed a hand to her heart again before pushing the door open.
I followed her inside, gently shooing the innkeeper away—not that the woman wanted to linger with me here.
Inside the room, there was one large bed, covered with tidy white linens, a reading chair and a small desk, and a wardrobe.
“The bloodwards will prevent intrusion.” I pushed aside the thick drapes to check the window, but I shouldn’t have doubted Wyn. A sigil had been drawn on each pane of glass. “They’re not a perfect shield, but they’ll provide warning if anyone tries to break through.”
Cirrien immediately sat in the chair, spreading her skirts in a froth around her, and began rifling through the drawers of the desk. When she failed to find what she was looking for, she exhaled a hissing breath, the first and only sound I’d heard her make, her eyes pinched shut with frustration.
“I will bring you paper.”
A beat passed. Her eyes opened; she gazed at me over her shoulder, those green eyes lighting up, then extended a single finger to the bare wood of the desk and began to slowly shape large letters, using the common Veladari alphabet and pausing between words. She glanced up at me after each word had been formed.
P-A-P-E-R. I-S. E-X-P-E-N-S-I-V-E.
I couldn’t stop the upward twitch of my lips, though my smile was as frightful as my scowls. “You are soon to be the Lady of the Rift. Paper is not too expensive for you.”
S-L-A-T-E. W-I-L-L. D-O.
“You will be my wife tomorrow, and you will have paper. I’ll have Wyn stay here with you while I’m gone.”
At that, Cirrien shook her head, her crimson hair loosening from its braid and spilling down her back in waves. The motion sent her fragrance spilling through the air, the sweet roses and musk of skin beneath it.
My mouth watered. I swallowed hard, forcing my nostrils shut. I wanted to reach out and touch that hair, feel the silk on my own undeserving fingers.
Instead, I clenched my hands, knowing she would not appreciate my touch.
Cirrien did not see; she had already turned back to forming letters.
I. W-O-U-L-D. L-I-K-E. T-O. B-E. A-L-O-N-E.
“My lady… you are to be kept under guard until we reach Ravenscry. The risk is too great, even with walls and guardians.”
P-L-E-A-S-E.
She looked up at me again, her gaze trailing over my face like an almost physical caress… and the tightness of her jaw, the line of white around her lips from keeping them still, made it clear to me what she was truly requesting.
Not merely privacy, but time to grieve.
Leaving her alone would be terribly unwise. She could sob alone in the safety of Ravenscry if she wished.
But now that I saw the signs of strain, I could not stop myself from wanting to give her something, whatever tiny gift would make up for having her life torn away.
Why had I agreed to the Accords? What was it but a century of thin tolerance and carefully-disguised horror ahead of us?
The folly of youth… never had I imagined, when I was young and handsome, that a woman would cry tears of mourning on our wedding night.
“Very well. Keep the windows shut. Do not open the door for anyone but myself or Olwyn. I’ll be back.”
My voice came out in a thick snarl, and my bride flinched. That was the last I saw of her as I swept into the hall, pulling the door shut and locking it behind me with a small key.
Wyn was descending the stairs as I strode towards the front door. “She’s locked in her room and she wishes to be alone. Keep an ear on her, but don’t intrude.”
I didn’t wait for my advisor’s reply before I stepped into the cool night air. Crickets sang, the breeze whispered, and I stood still in the street, calming myself.
Soon we would be home.
Home for me, but not for her.
She would have an entire tower of the castle to herself, and after tomorrow, she could choose to never lay eyes on me outside of the required duties as the Lady.
Wyn’s consolations echoed in my ears, that there were other options.
But I did not want those options. I had come to Argent expecting to find one of those women who shrieked and fell all over themselves to get away from me; I hadn’t expected cool determination, nor even the frustration of not being able to speak to me at all.
Or the kindness of throwing the silver and rowan outside the carriage.
I realized I wanted Cirrien to look at me with something other than disgust. It would never be love, nor even simple lust, but perhaps—companionship.
Paper. I would bring her paper, and it would please her. It was strange for a woman with a lai in her name to be concerned about the cost, but perhaps her family had been high nobility in name only. Many coffers had been drained to fund the defense against the Forians.
Most of the shops in Thornvale were closed for the night, doors locked and lanterns dim. I walked past open taverns, my ears swiveling to pick up hushed laughter and filthy jokes, until I found a bookshop with the lanterns still lit.
A brass bell jingled as I pushed the door open. An old man was stacking books behind the counter, grumbling to himself.
He turned, freezing in place when he saw me, but as he took in my face he relaxed. “Lord Bane. What can this humble scholar do for you?”
I thanked the ancestors that the people of the Rift had welcomed my kind with almost entirely open arms in their desperation to be free of the wolves’ predation. They might not be entirely comfortable with me, but Wyn and my legions had gone a long way in ensuring that the humans would not panic in my presence.
At the very least, they knew they trusted me with their lives—and I had done well enough at preserving them that the Rift-kin were respectful.
I thought for a moment, looking over the neatly-alphabetized stacks and tidy spines. “Paper. I need plain paper, and a pen. And ink. And maybe something to read that a young woman would enjoy.”
The bookseller’s brows rose, but he did not mention the Lady. The news of Andrus’s first bride and her ultimate fate had traveled across the country like lightning. The superstitious Rift- kin would not speak her name until she was safely ensconced in Ravenscry.
“I have paper,” he said, digging under the counter for loose-leaf sheets, and several bound journals. “Look over these while I find a book.”
He puttered off to the shelves while I sorted through the selection. Loose-leaf would be unwieldy. Of the journals, two were too thin. The last one was thick, two inches’ worth of pages, and large enough to serve as a ledger. It was bound with crimson leather, a good omen.
I opened it and looked over the creamy white pages, wondering what Cirrien’s writing would look like when it covered that empty expanse. What thoughts filled her head that she couldn’t send into the world with a breath?
“This one.” The bookseller returned, placing a book on the counter with an air of satisfaction. “ Very popular with the young women around here. A handsome vampire knight and a…”
He trailed off, seeming to realize his mishap, but I laughed. My laughter was a low, grating rasp, but the old man’s look of dismay faded.
“At least she will have a handsome vampire in her fiction,” I mused, and stacked the book on top of the journal. “I would like these.”
He brought out one of the metal pens of Nord design, which was smoother than quills or the glass fountain pens of Serissan import, and a refill of ink. When he’d asked if he was to wrap them, I elected only to have the book wrapped. As soon as the journal was in Cirrien’s hands, I hoped she would begin filling it with words.
As I strolled back through Thornvale’s streets, I felt lighter. The anger had flowed out of me with the laughter, with the notion that soon Cirrien would not be upset with her silence.
I would have to apologize for my outburst of temper.
This was not her fault; even if she had been raised to expect this for the last decade, I knew my appearance would come as a shock to her.
There were only four fiends in Veladar, and none of us had spent much time in the cities. Ancestors only knew what stories had traveled to Argent; had I been more or less hideous than she’d expected?
As I walked past a tavern, I glanced inside, long enough to see the white robes and leather armor of a Silent Brother. He motioned to the barkeep with one hand, his eyes fixed on the bar as he drank.
Wyn still waited outside Cirrien’s door when I returned to the inn. The bloodwitch had found a chair, and she sat reading a book, her spectacles riding low on her nose.
She looked up at me with sharp gray eyes. “The girl has been crying.”
“I know.” Some of the weight returned, settling on me all at once like a mountain slumping over my shoulder.
“Give it time, Bane. Don’t frighten her. To be fair, she is much better than I was expecting. She ate the entire meal she was given. I have high hopes, and none of them involve poppy.”
“Did you think I frightened her on purpose?” The growl slipped into my tone, and I unlocked the door, sidling into the room.
Cirrien had sprawled out on the bed, still in her wedding gown, and was sleeping quietly. The skin around her eyes was puffy and red, sore-looking. I would have to ask Wyn for a salve to soothe it.
Her red hair framed her head like a scarlet halo. My fingers itched.
Moving slowly, careful not to make a single sound, I leaned down. Brushed my fingertips over the gleaming spill, as soft as I’d imagined. Softer.
Cirrien shifted, releasing a nearly-inaudible sigh. I drew away, ears twitching, and set the gifts on the desk before creeping out.
Wyn said nothing as I locked the door once more. I handed her the key, and stepped back out into the night.
The Brother was still sitting at the tavern bar. I took the seat next to him, and spilled a bag of gold in front of his beer. “I wish for you to teach me the signs of the priest’s tongue.”
The monk, vowed to silence, raised his brows, then picked up a gold coin and bit it. He cut one hand in a smooth motion, punctuated with a quick wriggle of the fingers—a question I understood from the supply lines and black markets in the encampments during the war. How much do you want to know?
“Everything,” I answered.