Chapter 15
Zarek
THE DEVIL’S ARSE
It’s a three-day trip to the eastern outpost where King Malrik keeps his feral second son.
The tent barracks here are tucked into a series of low, dry hills, close enough to see the ocean on a clear day, far enough to be hot as the nine hells all summer long and miserably, biting cold all winter.
The outpost is named Rholos, but the men who are stationed here just call it the Devil’s Arse.
It’s windy and cold as I approach the Arse. There aren’t nearly as many tents spread in the low valley as I was expecting, and I only see a handful of horses in the pasture. Smoke rises from a few of the long command tents, but not all.
Odd. I haven’t heard about any recent troop movements. Admittedly, I was rather distracted by my sudden fucking marriage.
My horse snorts as I approach the guards flanking the road. One of them gives me a broken-tooth smile that makes my heart sink.
There are two types of men who choose to serve under Prince Syvan, and both are assholes. They’re either willing to set aside any sense of decency to gain an advantage, or they’re complete sadistic bastards themselves. This man’s smile makes me think he’s in the latter category.
“What’s your business with the King’s Army?” the man calls to me.
The King’s Army. Bold. Most people think Syvan will succeed his father, despite the unfortunate fact of his birthright. After all, Malrik himself was also a second son. But it’s a little on the nose to call Syvan’s regiment in the Arse the King’s Army.
I open my jacket, revealing the massive amulet that marks me as loyal to Vsenrog.
“I bear a message for Prince Syvan,” I say. “From his father.”
The man’s eyes widen, but only for a heartbeat.
“Then come right in,” he says with a sneer.
I nod as I ride past him. My eyes stay on the road, but my shoulders pull tight, as if I’m expecting a blade.
I don’t think I’ll spend the night in this camp.
“So, it must finally be time,” Syvan says with a tight, predatory grin as I enter his tent.
He’s leaning back on a large couch with a robe slung over one shoulder.
In the center of the tent, a brazier throws off heat and light, counteracting the chill wind.
There’s a woman on her knees beside the couch who appears to be wearing nothing but a thin silver rope.
I try not to look too closely, but it’s hard to miss her black eye.
It’s a weak man who hits a woman, my father would say. I clench my teeth and force myself to bow.
“Greetings, Prince Syvan,” I declare, staring at the dust on my boots.
“And what brings a snake to the Devil’s Arse?” Syvan asks. “Are you looking for a hole to crawl into?”
The guards flanking the entrance to his tent both snigger. I smile politely. I have seven knives hidden on my body; I could take down every man in this tent if I had to.
“I bring a message from your father,” I announce.
Given the way he greeted me, Syvan already knows what I’m about to say. He either has a spy in his father’s court, or he just assumed there’s only one reason I would ever pay him a visit.
“That old bastard’s not dead yet?” Syvan replies.
I clench my jaw, continue smiling, and remember my long-held hope that I never have children.
And then I think about my quite possibly pregnant wife.
My smile falters. I bow to hide it.
“He’s quite well,” I say. “And he wishes for your return.”
Syvan laughs. “I bet he does.”
The prince comes to his feet. The woman kneeling beside him flinches as he moves, and rage rises in the back of my throat, hot and sharp. Syvan adjusts his robe.
“Finally,” he says. “It’s time.”
I keep smiling. Syvan’s made no secret of his plans to seize the throne, which is how he ended up in the Devil’s Arse in the first place. He probably thinks this is an open invitation to sink a dagger between his father’s shoulder blades.
Gods, I’m tired of this. I remember sitting across from Petrys in the nasty little pub, drinking bitter ale and watching the lines that now branch out from his eyes, an indelible record of all the years we’ve given to the Kingdom of Vsenrog.
I want out, I realize with a sudden ferocity. I want a little cabin in the mountains, maybe some chickens, maybe a few fields to grow my own malt and barley and brew my own beer. Maybe with a wife—
The memory of Princess Lilias bending over my sword flicks through my consciousness, bringing an entirely inappropriate flash of arousal. I bow again.
“What message shall I bring to your father?” I ask.
Syvan chuckles. “Good little snake,” he says. “He keeps you close, doesn’t he?”
“I serve Vsenrog as best I can,” I reply.
“That you do,” Syvan remarks with a nasty grin. “I’ll write him a note. As for you, tell him I’m coming. And my men are ready.”
I bow again, then turn and step out of the tent.
Away from the brazier, the wind feels even colder.
I walk back and forth on the tent’s rickey porch, running my hands up and down my arms, as I wait for Syvan’s letter.
He was never the world’s fastest writer, and I doubt his literary skills have improved much out here.
Finally, a guard pulls back the tent flap and thrusts a scroll of parchment into my hands. It’s closed with Prince Syvan’s wax seal, which is still warm.
It’s only once I’m back on my horse and heading away from the Devil’s Arse that I remember Syvan also has a wife, a small, pretty little thing, the daughter of some insanely wealthy merchant whose competitors were served with eviction notices after the wedding.
She sobbed during their wedding ceremony. She cried so hard, in fact, that she couldn’t say the vows, and the priest had to wave his hands and claim Mirdia’s unheard blessing.
I could have offered to bring a message back to her, but I quickly dismiss the thought.
I doubt Syvan even remembers her name.