Chapter 4 #3
‘Nothing.’ He briefly closed his eye, then drew in a slow breath and added, ‘How much do you know about my – our – death?’
‘Only what was said about it at Estien,’ I said, unable to help a small, biting grin at the memory. ‘Which was a lot, admittedly. You’d killed our favourite princess a few months before. Not sure how accurate the more colourful rumours were, though.’
Something twitched at his sharp jaw. ‘Please stick to the sensible parts.’
I aimed my gaze at the ceiling, not sure where to start.
The claims that he’d died in the same bed where Pol had breathed her last breaths the day before their wedding?
That his father hadn’t even bothered to give him a proper burial?
That they’d found his body mostly in one piece, with the exception of—
Well. Probably shouldn’t ask about that.
‘Public word was they didn’t know who’d done it,’ I said finally, deciding to start with the safer facts. ‘Which in my experience usually means they do know who’s done it, but don’t want that person to get in trouble. So I figure it was either your father or—’
‘My darling half-brothers,’ he finished, looking away. ‘Yes.’
Ah.
Half-brothers. Emphasis on half.
They were the sons of Varraulis’s first marriage, Lorigern and Nalzen; their mother had died in childbirth, if my memory served me right.
Durlain and his sister were the children of the king’s second wife, who’d also died a tragic death.
Not in childbirth. I wasn’t sure of the official story, though.
The Thrice-Dead King and his twice-dead wives had been a popular tune in Estien for a while. I figured the man before me wouldn’t be too grateful for an impromptu rendition of it.
‘Why?’ I said.
His face tightened. ‘Why, what?’
‘Why did they kill you?’
‘Because they both want the Ashen Throne,’ he said sharply, ‘and I’m a stronger mage than either of them. They had a common enemy in me, as much as they loathe each other.’
Cosy. ‘And now you’re back.’
‘Yes.’
‘And they don’t know.’
‘No.’ Something unsettling had snuck into his eye.
It wasn’t icy or indifferent, that gleam.
More than anything, it looked … feral. ‘They won’t know until I’m ready to return the favour, and this time no one is going to come back from hell.
I do advise you not to spread that news – the throne should have been mine last time father dearest turned up his toes, and I’m not inclined to let anything stand in my way a second time. ’
A threat, more or less.
It was a confession too, though.
Should have been mine. Oh, yes, that must have been an unpleasant surprise for a power-hungry princeling with his eye on the throne – because King Varraulis shouldn’t have been able to come back after that third death, just like he shouldn’t have been able the second time.
Once was the limit. All the stories said so: leave Niflheim once and you’ll never leave again; if I stabbed Durlain Averre to death over our midnight dinner table, Death would hold on to him for the rest of time.
Or so it should be.
All the same, the Thrice-Dead King was still ruling his kingdom with an iron fist, and his son was hiding in a humble inn, hundreds of miles away from the throne he believed to be his own. If I hadn’t hated Varraulis as much as I did, it might have been amusing.
‘Is this where King Lesceron comes in, then?’ I said, finally beginning to connect the dots.
Again that little flutter at the bastard’s jaw. ‘Yes. I went to see him, hoping to secure his support. My mother was his cousin. Figured I’d better take my chances with him rather than with Aranc, given that—’
‘You murdered his beloved niece. Makes sense.’ I crossed my arms on the edge of the table. ‘But Lesceron didn’t bite?’
‘Lesceron didn’t bite.’ His voice was back where it had started, flat and frigid, as if that short flash of all-revealing honesty had never happened. ‘More specifically, Lesceron decided to take my little sister hostage to … to keep me from acting at all.’
I blinked. ‘What?’
A flicker of a caustic smile on his lips. ‘Yes.’
‘He— But that doesn’t make sense, does it?
’ Perhaps it did to him. Perhaps Lark would have found some sort of logic in it.
All I could see, however, was idiocy. ‘He should be overjoyed to have you on that throne, shouldn’t he?
Your brothers have an Estien mother! Wouldn’t it be terrible news for Garnot if Averre’s next king cosies up to Estien at their expense? ’
Durlain hesitated for a fraction of a moment – too short to be noticed if he’d been anyone but his own razor-sharp self, but telling, very telling, from his lips. ‘One would think so, yes.’
He was hiding something.
The prince of many faces – of course he was hiding something. I just wished I had the faintest clue what it could be.
Most of his story seemed true, or at least not false.
His anger was unmistakable. His motive could justify his reckless actions.
Lesceron Garnot was by all accounts a treacherous cunt, and rune magic would certainly be useful to get a young fireborn girl out of those hellish dungeons – a lot more useful than fireborn magic, which could do little else than add more fire to what was already way too much of it.
I just didn’t like that little pause.
Then again …
Was I giving up on Lark over a pause?
‘And that’s what you want me to do?’ I said hoarsely. ‘Get Cimmura away from Mount Garnot so you’re free to conquer the world again?’
His eye narrowed at the sting, but he held back. ‘Do you think you could do it?’
Did I?
Any other day, I’d have said no.
It wasn’t just the rescue itself. The journey there would be bad enough, at least three weeks of travelling – through the barren Estien highlands, past Mount Estien itself, and then across most of Lesceron’s own kingdom, which was said to be all poison and lava plains, and which I’d never set foot in.
Even with Lark it would have been a challenge.
And he had been the thinker between the two of us, while I was just the blades and the magic – so if brute force alone wasn’t enough to get me through it, then how in the world was I going to survive this mission on my own?
Then again …
I wouldn’t be entirely on my own.
Durlain Averre wouldn’t be kind. He certainly wouldn’t be gentle. But he had a better brain than he had any right to, and a damn good reason to keep me alive – so maybe, just maybe, that would suffice as long as Lark wasn’t yet back in the world.
I had held the fucking door, after all, and that thought made me feel strangely better.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I think I can.’
Durlain’s shoulders loosened just a fraction.
But there were no words of relief as he rose, no I’m glad to hear it or I look forward to our fruitful cooperation. Perhaps he didn’t want to lie. More likely, I simply wasn’t worth the effort of civility to him.
‘Shall I take the stables, then?’ I added, a little more sharply than intended.
‘Don’t be a fool.’ He didn’t look at me as he made for the exit, slim and graceful, stepping nimbly aside to circumvent the neat little row of my knives. ‘Take the bed – I’ll make some arrangements while you sleep. We’re leaving at sunrise tomorrow.’
So much for the cooperation.
I was too tired to object.
The door slammed behind him, and I was once again alone in the smothering heat of his room. Around me, the world was quiet except for the crackling of the embers and the constant, distant rush of the Silver Horn waterfall.
My headache had grown vicious.
I ate the last two strawberries, since Durlain hadn’t touched them.
I counted my knives two, three, four more times.
Then I slipped into the bed, fully clothed, and tried not to notice how little the sheets smelled like Lark’s summer scent – how much they smelled like black roses and deadly nightshade instead.
I’d better forget about that, too.
It was my last conscious thought before I sank into a dreamless slumber.