Chapter Four
Like something the cat hacked up
Tassos wasn’t dead; he felt far too horrible to be dead.
Every sweaty muscle ached; every breath was a twinge in his chest. There was a spike crawling deeper into his skull that pained with every heartbeat. He tried to lift a hand to check but that brought on the heaves. With a groan, he rolled to the edge of the cot and puked bile.
To his surprise, there was a bucket there, waiting. He gaped as spit dribbled from his mouth. Wait…a cot?
Where was the filth and stench of alley? Of his own reek?
“I wish you would stop doing that,” came a lovely, yet disgusted, feminine voice.
His vision, through gummy, crusted eyelids, was blurred. Still he turned his head just enough to see that a lovely woman that was seated in a chair close to a wall, all sharp cheek bones, hair as black as night, and lip curled in disdain. In a fine blood-red dress, with black and gold trim.
An odd hallucination, to be sure, but then, so was the bucket. Blood red of course, to remind him of his own blood-stained hands, his choices, his sins—
He retched helplessly. Even with the acid in the back of his throat, he longed for the bottle, the cup, for letheon to wash the memories away.
“At least you are bringing up less,” the hallucination observed.
“My regrets,” he coughed. No true harm in being polite.
“You’ve said that before,” She said.
“I don’t remember,” he blinked at the blankness in his mind, still hanging his head over the edge.
“You’ve said that before, too.” She grimaced. “At least this time you hit the bucket. Are you done?”
He lurched back on to the bed, his head hitting soft pillows, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
He was clean, warm, shaven even. Stone walls, stone floor, a curtained window, and a stout door.
“They don’t put curtains in cells,” he pointed out, even though the presence of a woman of quality rather argued against that eventuality.
“You are not in a cell,” she rose, moving about the room as she spoke, almost reciting.
“As I have said before, you are the guest of Queen Satia of Xy.” The clink of pottery and then the gurgle of fluid being poured.
“The Queen has graciously given you shelter and care during your…” she paused, standing over him, cup in hand… “illness.”
This close, he could see that there were wyverns embroidered on the bodice of her dress. Dread, icy fear hit his bowels. Fear, anger, rage, all washed over him and his whole body jerked in terror.
“Not again,” the lady grumbled. She grasped his shirt, pulled him until a seated position, and put the cup to his lips. “Drink,” she commanded.
His head flopped back, but she wedged it between her lovely breast and her shoulder. He caught the faint scent of ginger from the fabric before she brought the cup to his mouth. Then all that mattered was the cold, clean water. He drank greedily.
“We’ll see if you keep that down,” she said as she eased him back to the bed and returned to her chair. “And if you manage to stay conscious.”
He blinked at the ceiling, at the broad wooden beams that braced the walls. His throat was still parched, but his stomach gurgled like a…a full bottle of letheon as one drank it down. Ah. Memory returned, and with it all the pain that it carried. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
An odd sound caught his ear and he turned his head carefully toward it. The lady of quality was sharpening a dagger. That made as much sense as everything else. “Why am I sober?” he asked, when what he really wanted to know was why he wasn’t dead.
“That’s new,” the woman said. “A surprise, is it? Did you expect to die?”
“No,” he coughed. “Death isn’t the panacea you think it is.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” he returned to his contemplation of the ceiling. “Very well, why am I here?”
“Queen Satia has need of your services and she will tell you of it in her own good time, bloodmage.” The last word was drawn out, and sent another chill of fear rippling down his spine. That word was usually followed by torches and pitchforks and swords.
But she just sat, as cool as you please, looking at him like he was a particularly juicy bug. Her dark eyes pierced him, alight with curiosity.
“More water?” he croaked.
“That’s new as well,” she noted. She set aside the blade and whetstone before helping him to another drink.
If she had any fear of angering a bloodmage, there was none to be seen in those lovely eyes.
She pulled a clean bucket from under the cot and replaced the other with it.
“I’ll see to this and bring more water. Try to stay conscious. ”
“Nothing for the pain?” he asked.
She gave him a look. “Letheon, perhaps? You’ve had more than enough of that.”
“I might escape?” he offered, and she laughed, high and bright.
“And where would you go, pitiful one? A Guildmaster of the Mages is a frequent visitor here. One word from the Queen and the Guild would hunt you and kill you.”
“Good to know,” Tassos croaked.
“Then there is the simple matter of your condition,” she shrugged.
“Our healer has little experience in these matters, but apparently there are two ways to cure you. The warm kavage method, where you are weaned from the wine over time. Or the cold steel method, where you drink naught but water until your flesh is purged of the drug.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “The Queen is in a hurry.”
“Just so. It still might take a while, but it will be quicker.” She tilted her head. “Unpleasant for you, but quicker. The Bonded has need of your services,” she repeated. “I’ll return. Try not to piss the bed.”
She was gone with a swish of skirts.
So, he was weak and helpless and in the hands of his enemies, those he had sworn to destroy by any means. Tassos closed his eyes and cursed the demons that had brought him to this, then winced when he realized that the demons were his own.
He’d done this before, once or twice. Tried to go without. Clammy skin, cramps, shaking with cold or sweating through the bedding, burning with fever. Not to mention the runs, the vomiting, all so familiar. Each time he had tried, he’d returned to the wine’s loving embrace.
He plucked weakly at the blanket that covered him as goosebumps started to come up on his arms. He shivered.
Bonded. She’d said Bonded. He’d heard rumors about Satia, before he’d tried to— No, his thoughts skittered away from that memory, from just before he’d taken to the bottle. But how long had that been? He’d lost track of seasons, months, weeks, days…
When had he last killed for the power that flowed from blood?
His powers were as drained as the many, many bottles of letheon he had drained. But there was a smattering, enough to shift his perception to mage sight, and he managed it. Barely.
The room—nothing. The window, the door—nothing. No magic used to hold him here.
The door opened, the woman stepped in, and his heart stuttered.
Blood Bonded and done at a very young age.
A perfect matrix of silken, glittering, golden webs with sparks of red wove around her, mind, heart and soul.
Permanent bonds, created through blood magic…
and yet, something was wrong. Something very faint, deep within.
He tried to focus and was rewarded with the spike in his head driving itself further in.
He curled over, vomited, and missed the bucket.
The woman cursed and grabbed up a rag. “At least, tell me your name before you lose consciousness again.”
Tassos didn’t bother to flop back, just curled in on himself and let the fever take him. His name? No, he wouldn’t give a name; it would give them too much power. “You first,” he rasped.
Silence. She hadn’t expected that, had she? The response came grudgingly.
“Nora.”
He breathed, pain coursing through his arms and legs to settle in his chest. If he had any chance, any hope of surviving this—
“Riven,” he coughed as the pain rose, carrying with it a wish that it would all go away, and a deep thirst in his throat.
“I am Riven, that’s all you need to know.
Riven of home, of family, of love, of all that was dear to me.
” He curled tighter, shivering, closing his eyes to let unconsciousness claim him.
Her voice followed him down. “Oh good. Self-pity and whining added to the mix. Joy.”