2. Deep
Chapter two
Deep
The ancient city of Lakara nestled in the foothills of the Sinaturns, encircled by old-growth forest and the battlements of the mountains.
Imalroc squinted down from his vantage place in the open-sided cage, rocking over the road that twisted down into Lakara’s valley.
White marble gleamed in the sunlight, flinging up a blinding glare.
River Lakara threaded through the city’s heart like a sapphire ribbon.
In the far distance, the snow-capped Sinaturns hemmed the sweeping blue sky.
It was a breathtaking sight, but his stomach churned. This was no better than being carted into Kirinoll for the first time. He knew nothing about the battleboxes here, nor the fighters who called this place home. The city that glittered before him housed dangers yet undiscovered.
Admittedly, the land was absurdly beautiful.
Rerdas had come from here. Further north than Lakara, but still woods like these.
It suited the huntmaster. And it was too easy to picture Rerdas slipping through the alpine sunlight, learning to hunt in the green foothills, wading through the chortling water of mountain streams. Perhaps he had lain in the meadows. Perhaps he had not been alone.
That thought conjured an image of Rerdas flung back amid wildflowers, tunic half-unbuttoned, mouth flushed from kissing, and the hungry look in his eyes that meant he would do anything to please.
With a dull thunk, Imalroc dropped his forehead against the side of the cage, his eyes closed.
There had been no time in their quick exit from Kirinoll for a conversation.
And what was he even meant to spit out? In the cottage, he’d tried to ask where Rerdas might place him in the line of things the huntmaster wanted.
Safety, onyx, the duke’s favor… where did wanting another surprisingly good fuck stack up in that list?
He couldn’t say the painful truth aloud. He hadn’t come back across the border solely because of the mysterious Advocate, or a slim chance to fight the queen. He knew what flickering hope had tempted him back, and he was a fool for it.
Returning to Kirinoll was like having ice water dumped over his head, jolting him awake from the fever dream of Draal.
He was in his own dear shitheap of a country again, where he could expect to fight every day, in one manner or another.
Better to let each threat and indignity grind against him like flint striking steel, throwing up sparks and igniting the fire that kept him alive.
Imalroc shook himself and sat up. If he needed a reminder of what he was to Rerdas, it took only a heartbeat to look around and see.
Caged in, towed into a strange and hostile city, a rope coiled in the corner so he could pretend his wrists were secured if anyone looked too closely.
Some stupid, lust-addled part of himself might want something more than silence from Rerdas, but silence was probably for the best.
The woods cleared as they descended, and they passed a few houses scattered on the outskirts of the city. Thatched roofs and whitewashed walls gave way to old stones bordered with verdant moss.
They entered the city proper, where great gabled houses leaned right up against the winding road.
There were none of the ornate courtyard walls that marked the homes of Kirinoll’s nobility, but the tall fortresses they sailed past, with their masks of ivy and wisteria, had their own aura of wealth.
Imalroc’s teeth clicked against each other as the wagon rattled down a path ridged with tree roots.
Without warning, they emerged from the shadows of the enormous houses onto a broad riverstone road.
Riders, walkers, and carriages streamed around each other.
Imalroc scooted to sit squarely in the middle of the cage.
Reluctantly, he draped the rope over his wrists and fixed his eyes on the back of the carriage, ignoring the people they passed.
He still felt the prick of curious stares. Three children ran alongside him, their short little legs jogging to keep up with his cage. They swung their knapsacks in excitement and shouted to each other. The noise of the road drowned out their calls.
The cage slowed as they approached a wide bridge choked with travelers and what looked to be soldiers.
Their cloaks were patterned with Lakara’s crest, and no one skirted them the way the residents of Kirinoll avoided the Red Guard.
Imalroc risked a long, wary look before he pinned his gaze to the floor.
They crossed the bridge slowly but without trouble and rode further into the city.
When the cart pulled to the side of the road, he glanced up at the ornate structure looming over him.
It was a lavish building of dark red wood, overgrown with bittersweet vine, pale yellow blossoms cascading along the balconies of the upper levels.
The sharply peaked gable roofs that seemed so popular here cast long shadows in the afternoon light.
In front lay a decorative garden full of bright squash and pumpkins arranged with too much care to be natural.
Something clicked loudly against the slats of the cage, and he jerked his gaze back to his own knees, resisting the urge to look toward the sound. The carriage door squeaked open, and Etiana’s boots rang over the brick walk that led to the enormous house.
“Fair certain that’s the battleboxer,” a voice shrill with youth said from Imalroc’s right.
The children had followed them across the bridge.
And from the sound of it, their group had grown.
Imalroc snapped his teeth together. He did not like groups of children.
They could rival handlers for their cruelty.
“The one from Kirinoll? Took their time getting him here, didn’t they?” one asked.
“Maybe they were afraid to come. I heard they almost turned back a few times on the road.”
Someone snickered. “I’d turn back too if I had to face Vativa! He’s probably shit himself in there.”
Imalroc arched an eyebrow at his knees and stored the unfamiliar name away for further investigation.
“Ha, too true, Dansk! Weak Midland scum!”
After this reply, the sound came again, a hard rap against the side of the cage.
“Shut up, Frederic. The Toriems ain’t Midland. My daddy says they’re true Northern stock. At least the handler is.”
“But he’s not,” the boy snapped. A small stone sailed right past Imalroc’s nose and clattered onto the floor of the cage.
The little fuckers were throwing things at him.
They got bolder, too. Pebbles, twigs, and then bigger stones buffeted the side of the cage, accompanied by muffled giggles and a flurry of whispers.
Imalroc refused them so much as a sideways glance.
Then a clod of dried mud crashed into the slats, showering him with dirt. Enough was enough.
He snatched up one of the little rocks that had made it through and whipped around, chucking it straight into the forehead of the large, red-faced boy readying another hunk of crumbling mud.
“AHHHHHHH!” The boy’s wail was the sort of gargantuan waste of perfectly good air that could only come from a spoiled future nobleman. He sounded as though Imalroc had just axed off both his ears.
“What just—” Rerdas yelled from somewhere in the carriage. The huntmaster kicked the door open, and the children scattered. By the time Rerdas got around to the cage, Imalroc sat blinking placidly at his knees. He did not look up as Rerdas crouched beside him.
“What in the name of the Eternals was that? Did you just hit a child?”
“He started it.” He couldn’t help the bitter smile that escaped.
Rerdas began some admonishment, but cut short as he picked up one of the stones from the floor of the cage.
Imalroc leaned in to look at it and saw an odd crimson stamp on its surface.
He nudged another stone with his foot and spotted the same mark.
Some kind of creature with a ridged back, a long tail, and a toothy mouth.
“What is it?” Imalroc asked.
Rerdas touched the stone with his thumb. “It’s a crocodile.”
“And… what is that?”
“A vicious water creature.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.” Rerdas glanced around at the other stones that bore the crocodile mark. The late sunlight caught his eyelashes and lit the green crescents of his irises. He was too close; his furrowed brow was near enough to kiss.
Imalroc’s insides twisted with infuriating desire. He had to look away, toward the house. “What is Etiana doing?”
“Making sure we can get you in. We arranged to let rooms here, but we didn’t mention that you’d need one.”
“They won’t let a battleboxer stay with nobles,” Imalroc muttered.
“It’s been done before, when people visit with fighters from other cities. She’s arguing that with local animosity as it is, we can’t have you out of our sight.” Rerdas sighed. “Given that we’ve only just stopped and you’re already being pelted with rocks, it doesn’t sound far off the mark.”
Etiana emerged, followed by a retinue of servants dressed in matching livery. She stopped supervising the unloading of luggage long enough to fill Rerdas in.
“They’ve allowed it. We’ll have to pay a bit more, but he’s got a room beside yours.
You can take him up now if you like, and then—” She cut off as the servants pulled a long, narrow chest from the carriage.
“Careful with that one! Get more people on it and take it straight up to my room!” she shouted, lunging after them.
Imalroc heard Rerdas swallow. “Stop staring at it,” he muttered to the huntmaster. “You’ll call more attention to it than you want.”
The Toriems carried nothing so precious as what was hidden in that well-ventilated rug box. Or rather, who was hidden in that box.