Chapter 15
Valtar
I will never in a million lifetimes understand that woman.
The scarf feels too tight wrapped around my hand.
It’s neatly done work, however—I can’t fault her expertise.
Nothing bulky or awkward about it, and she’s tucked the ends so carefully, it won’t come undone without effort on my part.
I turn my wrist, watching the play of light from the fire across the silk folds.
Little roses picked out in delicate threads decorate the edges.
It’s a fine piece of stitchery, fit for a princess.
But it doesn’t truly belong to her. Not the real her. It is just another prop given to her by Alderin. Another piece of this spectacle, devoid of real thought or feeling.
But the way she tended my hand…Against my will, my mind lingers on that memory.
On the moments when her gentle fingers brushed my skin as she washed the wound.
Such a minuscule wound, hardly worth the attention she gave it.
It was as though she wanted to fuss, as though tending me gave her pleasure.
I shouldn’t have allowed it, shouldn’t have indulged her.
And yet, somehow, I could not resist her determination to care for me.
This is dangerous.
I lie back on the bed, resting the scarf-wrapped hand over my forehead, and stare up at the stone ceiling.
The rocky chamber has been smoothed by dwarfish craftsmen, and the ceiling is festooned with images from dwarfish lore, all depicted in the ancient, blocky jowar style, faded over many centuries.
It is a princely chamber indeed, filled with princely belongings.
Joro’s belongings, though I rather doubt he came by them honestly.
They did not bother to clear the room before giving it to me as replacement Sixth Champion, and I’ve felt no compunction in helping myself to whatever I liked.
Even the shirt I wore this evening belonged to the Pirate Prince, one of the few garments in his collection not grossly festooned with jewels and lace.
It had seemed more in keeping with the spirit of the occasion to wear a touch of color rather than my habitual black.
The shoulders were a bit tight for comfort, allowing little range of movement, but I’d not expected this to be a problem.
It was just meant to be dinner, after all.
Not all my years of training—of learning to anticipate the motives and behaviors of my marks—could have helped prepare me for how this evening would play out.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Gods above and below, she’d not hesitated for a single moment, ripping off that ornate frock of hers!
And all in a bid to save a gremler of all things.
I close my eyes, trying to banish the image of her, standing before me in her shift.
It’s no use—with my eyes closed, the vision sharpens in clarity until I am aware of every possible detail.
The way the scintil light showed through the thin fabric, revealing shadowy contours of female form.
The play of her golden curls, soft against the rough burn scars visible along the line of her shoulder and her delicate neck.
But more revealing than these glimpses of skin and shape was the wild recklessness of the act itself.
The complete abandonment of propriety that would shock the sensibilities of any man of discretion.
But I possess no such sensibilities. Whatever discretion was bred into me was stamped out years ago. So I was not shocked by the princess’s behavior; I was…enflamed.
My teeth grind until my jaw aches. Even now I feel it, that hot rush in my blood.
Nothing at all like the burn of hellfire, which I learned to wield all those years ago.
This is a new sensation, one I have never felt before.
I don’t know what to call it, don’t know how to understand it.
Is it hatred? No…I know the burn of hatred all too well.
Hatred has fueled my every waking breath since the day I watched my father’s execution.
What began as a furnace of raging heat has, over the years, transformed into cold fire, a freezing burn, more deadly than any inferno.
Heat means life and vitality—this ice in my soul is pure death.
I did not think anything could penetrate it.
And yet, here I am: my heart on fire. It’s difficult to breathe, to order my thoughts, to dwell on anything save that image of her in that pale shift or the shape of her wrapped in my arms. I can still feel the beat of her heart, pounding out a rhythm against my breast. That heart, so warm, so full of vital, brilliant life.
More alive than anything or anyone I’ve ever met.
That heart, which, in a matter of days, I shall rip from her chest and carry home across the sea. A trophy for my goddess.
A growl in my throat, I sit up abruptly and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
For some moments I remain there, my breath ragged.
Joro’s shirt lies discarded across the back of a nearby chair, but I’m still too hot, too uncomfortable in my own skin.
I wish I could peel it away and rid myself of this burning sensation, which moves relentlessly through my head, my limbs, my heart, gathering in a pool of molten heat in my gut.
Rising, I begin to pace the room. If I weren’t already damned, I would damn myself all over again for the sheer stupidity of joining this trial.
Too late for regrets now, however; I’m committed to this course.
And there are still four more days before the next shipment of fresh supplies will be sent to Stromin Palace. Four more days before my next opportunity to escape. In the meanwhile, I must keep up this pretense. I must maintain a rigid—
Sudden pain bursts in my head.
I stagger, sink to my knees. Both hands grip my temples, and I grit my teeth against an agonized cry. It lasts no more than a few seconds, but it seems like a lifetime. When it finally passes, I let a curse hiss through my teeth.
I know what this is. And it will come again. Soon.
Pulling to my feet, I allow myself no more than three shallow breaths.
Then I climb onto the footboard of the bed and, balancing there, reach for the ceiling.
The access panel to the air shaft is so artfully set in the stone, only those familiar with dwarf engineering would be able to discern the trick of it.
Luckily for me, I spent some years with the Magjor Tribe.
That was the early days of Mhoryga’s assault on Inithana, when my father sent both my brother and me into hiding with his ally Hagra, King of Under Evindal.
Hagra was not the gentlest of hosts. He insisted both Arun and I participate in the rigorous education and training required of all dwarf young.
It was this decision which ultimately brought about the ruin of the Magjor.
When I came into Mhoryga’s service, when I took her brand on my breast and her blood in my veins, she was able to pry out all the secrets of the kingdom under the mountains.
There’s nothing left of King Hagra and his people now, their way of life destroyed in green flame.
All that remains are burnt-out ruins and blackened caverns reeking of hellfire fumes.
I do not allow these thoughts to linger, however. Pushing them back to the deepest recesses of my mind, I pull myself up into the air shaft. I don’t know how much time I have before the next—
“Argh!” I gasp in agony as another incapacitating burst erupts in my head.
I can do nothing but curl up in that cramped space, shuddering, waiting for the moment to pass.
When at last it does, I shake sweat from my eyes.
“Damn you, Nyxia!” I growl, beginning to crawl forward in the dark. “I’m coming.”
She can hear me. Even at this distance, she can hear me loud and clear across this vicious connection. She won’t care. She’ll keep on summoning me, heedless of whatever pain she inflicts. And there’s nothing I can do to prevent it. I can only hurry.
Moving with all haste and perhaps not as much stealth as I should, I make my way through the air vents, finally exiting in a certain passage not far from the very spot where the princess and I dined but a few hours ago.
There are no longer any guards posted nearby; they’re all stationed around the princess’s private chambers now.
I enter one of the pulley lifts unseen, yank the lever, and begin my ascent before yet another jolt of pain knocks me to the floor.
When this bout finally passes, I lie where I’ve fallen, panting hard, listening to the dull clank-clank-clank of the mechanisms. These shafts and mining lifts were built an age ago, and all the dwarves who once dwelt here have long since died out.
Yet their ingenuity lives on, each engineering marvel continuing to function as smoothly as though newly wrought.
King Hagra would have given his favorite diamond-encrusted codpiece to get a look at this place.
But I won’t think about that. There is no room left in my mind for old friends or allies. There is only the future—a grim future with but one bright spot of hope remaining. I must not let my eyes deviate from that fixed point. Otherwise, I shall surely be cast adrift in darkness deep as hell.
The lift rises for what feels like hours.
The atmosphere changes, and my bones ache, and my ears pop.
The air grows thinner. I sit with my back against the wall, braced for another bout of pain.
But Nyxia is quiet in my head. Not out of any sense of mercy…
I know that much at least. Perhaps she’s grown bored with torturing me. Perhaps she’s distracted.