17. Basten
Chapter 17
Basten
W hen people ask why I’m loyal to the Lord of Liars, I tell them about Beauty.
Beauty was Lord Berolt’s prized hunting dog, a russet bloodhound of unbelievable swiftness with a nose that rivaled my own. If a fox was within ten miles, Beauty would corner it before the other dogs even caught its scent. Back then, when I was a gawky-eared lad of fifteen, I’d silently accompany the riding party as the Whip, tasked with rounding up the stray dogs and herding them back into the pack.
Once, a dog latched onto the wrong scent—a rabbit carcass—and led me far from the main hunting party. While I was tracking it, I picked up on voices ahead, as well as the sound of Beauty’s pained whines.
Stopping my horse, I listened in on Lord Berolt speaking to the hunt master and Rian in the distance.
“ She’s our strongest hound, Father ,” Rian argued, his teeth grinding so hard in his jaw that I could hear it from nearly half a mile away .
“ Which is precisely why you must do it, ” Berolt ordered. “ The hunt is meant to make bumbling nobles feel as skilled at archery as Immortal Artain himself. Beauty is too good. She traps the fox before those dolts can even pull their fat asses into a saddle. She makes them look like fools. ”
Beauty’s whines clawed against my ears—they must have tightly leashed her.
I waited to see what Rian would do. If he would heed his father’s advice and slaughter the only competent dog of the pack to make some rich idiots feel better—or if he would spare Beauty.
“ Go, Beauty! Run! ” Rian yelled.
The forest filled with the sound of Beauty fleeing through the undergrowth with her leash trailing behind her.
“ You disobedient fool .” The sound of a sharp smack echoed through the woods.
“ Fool ?” Rian seethed. “ Fools kill their best subjects to spite the stupidest .”
After that incident, Rian was locked in his room for three weeks with only water, and when he was finally released, he’d lost thirty pounds—but not his cold, defiant smile.
That is the Rian I know , I would tell people.
Today, though?
Today, we aren’t youths scrabbling over hunting dogs. Today, Rian sits on a throne that, by all rights, should be mine. The power he wields exceeds what Lord Berolt could have ever dreamed. If Rian wanted, he could better this kingdom. Keep the fae gods at bay. Hell, maybe even improve life for the common folk.
But Rian isn’t still that boy who would defend the defenseless.
And I’m going to fucking end him .
After leaving Folke and Kendan, I head straight from the burned-out house to Hekkelveld Castle.
To Rian’s floor.
When I kick open Rian’s bedroom door, his decades of military training have him shooting up in bed, ready for a fight.
As soon as he sees it’s me, he yawns and squints at the window. “Fucking gods, Wolf. It isn’t even dawn.”
He must not notice that his two bodyguards are slumped in the hall, bruises forming on their unconscious temples, swords lying as useless as broomsticks on the stone floor.
He scrubs a hand over his sleepy face. “Why the hell are you?—”
I take a few powerful strides into his bedroom and cut him off with a hand around his throat. His thick eyelashes raise until I can see the whites of his eyes.
He tugs on my hand and garbles, trying to pry my fingers off.
“You. Sold. Her. Out.” Each word is a swift strike, foreshadowing the dark urge to drive my blade into him until his sheets run red. Leaning in until our noses nearly brush, I seethe, “You told King Rachillon where to find Sabine Darrow.”
His fingers freeze. For a second, the perfect still of his early-morning bedroom is broken only by both our heaving breaths, and then he lands a sharp kick right to my solar plexus.
It knocks the air out of me, and I stagger back, clutching my side. In a way, I wanted this. I welcomed it. Because I deserve it for even doubting the woman who haunts my dreams .
I thought she could be a traitor?
It’s been him.
Rian, all along.
Straightening, I roll out my neck, muscles flexing in anticipation like a shark who’s smelled blood in the water.
“Are you going to deny it?” I snap.
Rian swings out of bed, his bare torso rippling with the muscles hard-won from a lifetime of training as he massages his throat.
His eyes waver before hardening. “No.”
“Then why?” I explode, barely able to restrain my fever-pitch temper. “Why cut a deal with a foreign bastard who wants to wake the gods?”
He grips one of the bedposts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Beneveto was going to be named king. The Council had already determined it. I needed Rachillon to call off his lap dog.”
“You sold her out for a fucking crown?” Before I can stop myself, I lunge at him. My fist flies toward his chin, but he manages to dodge it and slam his shoulder into my chest.
He’s half-naked and groggy, but I’m still drunk on whisky and weak from being tied to a fucking chair—neither of us is anywhere near our sharpest.
With a growl, I loop my arm around his neck from behind and choke him. He snakes his ankle behind mine and sweeps my foot out from under me, sending us both crashing to the floor.
My knee connects with bare stone, but the crack of pain is so dulled by rage that I hardly feel anything.
I grab his calf and drag him across the rug until I can wrestle him in a bear hug from behind with his chest pinned to the floor.
“Don’t pretend to know my motives!” he shouts, head contorted to try to spit at me.
With my full weight pinning him to the rug, he can’t get free no matter how he struggles. “You never loved her!”
“What about you?” he counters, writhing under me like a snake. “You have no memory of her! Why the fuck do you care about a stranger ?”
I slam his head to the ground. “Did you know Iyre would take my memory? Was that your idea?”
“Get the fuck off me!” He gets one hand free and grabs for an iron boot scrape, which he smashes against my temple before I can dodge the blow. Pain ricochets across my skull, and I stagger off him as I clutch the bleeding wound.
Rian scrambles across the floor to his desk, where he grabs the knife he keeps strapped underneath it.
He shoves himself to his feet.
His bare chest is slick with sweat, gleaming in the early dawn light.
Clutching the knife, he shouts, “It’s where she belongs, Wolf! Hate me if you want, but if you think about it for one gods-damn second, you’ll see that I’m right. Sabine stood out here like a swan among pigeons. This isn’t her home . Her family is Volkish. Her people are Volkish. She has powers that run as deep as the earth’s core, deeper even than she realizes, and you and I both know it. Do you think she’d be content for one day at my side, ruling the kingdom that’s at war with her homeland? Or at your side, playing house with field mice while her people are slaughtered north of the wall?”
Maybe it’s the blood loss, but I stagger back until I can catch myself against his bedpost .
I drag in a few strained breaths. Truth be told, I can barely process what he’s saying. If it is right or wrong, sensible or folly.
I spit, “Don’t pretend for a minute that you did this for her.”
He tips his chin up, breathing as hard as me. “No. I did it for me. But I would never do anything that would hurt her—I swear that to you.”
“You swear? As if your word means shit ?” All I can see is a red wash of anger. “Rachillon is a madman!”
“And I am the Lord of Liars!” he explodes. “Do you think there has been a single monarch across the seven kingdoms, over three millennia, that has ruled like a fucking saint? Grand Cleric Beneveto is supposed to shepherd this kingdom’s souls, and he sold them out. Hell, even old Joruun had his vices. Sabine stands a better chance of thriving there than she ever did here!”
I crack my knuckles, seething. “Tell yourself that one more time, and maybe you’ll believe it.”
Rian slams the knife hilt on the table. “You fucked her in front of me, Wolf!”
A moment of silence stretches to let his shout echo.
“That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” I stalk forward. “She and I loved one another, when you wanted both of our love for yourself!”
He throws his hands sarcastically in the air. “Oh, what, have you magically recovered your memories? Did you find one of Iyre’s fae bottles? You suddenly remember your love for her?”
I flinch. It’s salt in a fresh wound.
In as steady a voice as I can manage, I say, “I may not remember her face or the sound of her voice, but I know what happened. That she and I were in love. I dream about her, and even if the dreams are gone at first light, my heart remembers. So, I’m going to do whatever it takes to get her back. Her and my memories. If that means strangling Iyre, all the better. If it means strangling you , well, I’m not opposed to that, either.”
Rian stares at me as though I’ve slapped the sarcasm out of him. His mask is gone now—his face is splotchy and flushed, his eyes wavering with a rare vulnerability.
His breath is ragged as it pushes out of his throat.
His brown eyes meet mine and don’t look away—for what feels like years, we stare at one another as if seeing who we’ve become for the first time since meeting over twenty years ago.
He leans over and spits out a line of blood. “I wanted the crown. I wanted to hurt you. But do not ever say that I didn’t love her.”
I take my time stalking across the blood droplets on the floor, over the wrinkled rug, and past his twisted bed sheets until our chests are an inch apart.
I haven’t forgotten about the knife clutched in his fist. Or that, at any second, more bodyguards will come charging down the hall to drag me to the gallows.
It’s just that some things are more important than danger.
I rip the First Sword brooch off my shirt and drop it at his feet. The sound of it hitting the ground feels final, like a door slamming shut.
“Keep your throne,” I growl. “I was a fool to follow you. To believe in you. I should have known right away. Should have seen it—the lies, the manipulations, all of it. I cared about you. And for what? You played me like you do everyone.”
He adjusts his grip on the knife, biting back his words. “Wolf?—”
“Basten, gods dammit! My name is Basten! I was stupid to think you ever gave a damn about anyone but yourself. But I see it now. You don’t deserve loyalty. Gods, it’s so clear. My dreams were trying to tell me the truth, but I wasn’t listening. I am now. I’m getting my woman—she is mine, whether I remember or not—and the only reason I’m not ripping your heart out is because I’m saving that pleasure for her.”
My shoulder knocks hard against his as I turn, shoving him back an inch onto his gilded desk, causing his priceless set of quills to clatter to the floor.
By the time the last one falls, I’m already storming out the doorway, stepping over the unconscious bodyguards.
As I make my way through Hekkelveld Castle’s tortuous hallways, I’m barely aware of anything except for the sound of my own throttled heart. I take the Faith Tower hallway stairs up a floor to the Valvere family members’ quarters.
The bodyguard stationed there glances at me, vexed, but he doesn’t dare cross the First Sword.
“Lord Basten.” He bows.
“Open her fucking door,” I order.
The guard’s throat bobs as he quickly turns the handle, looking away tactfully in case he should catch a glimpse of his mistress in early morning disarray.
At the sound of the door opening, Lady Runa shoots up in bed, her hand darting to the knife she keeps beneath her pillow.
She might be a coddled noblewoman who hasn’t once emptied her own chamber pot, but she’s still a Valvere. And they all sleep with knives.
“Wolf.” Her body softens when I step into the low light and nudge the door closed with my heel.
It’s too dark for her to see the blood on my temple. All she sees is a beast of a man supposedly risking everything to enter her bedroom. Mistaking my intentions, she drags a hand along her low neckline, her breath growing shallow as her pupils dilate.
“Wolf, I knew you would come?—”
She slinks out of the silk sheets and makes as if to touch my face, but I grab her wrist in the shackle of one hand and slap my other one over her mouth.
“Listen closely, you Valvere bitch. If you scream, I’ll strangle you until you’ll never make another sound. The locket. Point to where it is.”
Her mouth is damp against my palm, her pulse rushing through her veins in a mix of fear and sick arousal. For fuck’s sake. This is turning her on .
I wrench her arm harder behind her back. She moans breathily against my palm, and I roll my eyes. I wrench harder, and her moan finally turns to one of pain.
She uses her free hand to point to the wardrobe.
I drag her over and throw open the door. It’s filled with the usual silk gowns and lacy underclothes. Her finger flails toward the top drawer. I pull it open so hard it falls out, spilling priceless jewels all over the floor.
I nudge through the pieces with my boot until I see a locket engraved with an S.
I snatch it up, wrenching it open.
And freeze.
It's not just a beautiful face staring back at me—though, damn , she makes the fae goddesses look like heifers. It’s the defiance in her eyes. Sea-blue eyes. Eyes that snag me like a fishing lure and reel me in, stranger or no.
My breath hitches, and an intense warmth spreads from my fingertips to my chest. It's maddening, this unearthly pull. I don't recognize a single curve of this face, yet I feel bound to her in a way that's beyond logic.
She lives in more than memories.
Yes. Yes, she does.
I close my fist around the locket, then release Runa with a shove toward her bed. She catches herself on the mattress, looking back over her shoulder with pupils completely blown. Slowly, she runs her tongue over her lips where my handprint still marks her face.
“Wolf Bowborn. If you fight like that, you must fuck like a god.”
My jaw clamps so hard that my molars ache. As much as I want to shove this vile woman out the four-story window, I force myself to the door instead.
“The gods will be here to fuck us all over soon enough,” I growl as I leave.