Chapter 6
The garments Varka wore screamed of luxury, and she’d heard enough about the Beranek family to know she was moneyed, but Ksenia couldn’t help but gawk at the carriage that met them at the gates.
Lacquered black wood gleamed with bruised shades of purple and amber as the setting sun bled through the gaps in the impending rain clouds.
Their edges had turned molten where the rays broke through, a blend of copper and rust against deeper grays.
The carriage’s panes were joined with lead framing to form a noble house crest: a gilded longsword pointing downward against a background of greenery.
“Ahem, shall we?” Varka opened the carriage with an exaggerated bow, waving away her footman who protested before swinging back onto the velvet driver’s seat.
He wore emerald colors, as did the impressive pair of black stallions.
Varka shut the door firmly behind them before she settled into the cushioned seat opposite Ksenia.
She spread her legs out, leaving little room for her guest. “I admit, our friendship got off to an interesting start. You know who I am, evidently. But who are you?”
Ksenia scoffed at the generous term for what they were and bit her lip. She had mulled it over on her way to Hearth. She couldn’t use her old name without raising a few brows at the Drazan link, so she adopted something different.
“Senka.” Shadow. Fitting, considering she was a shade of her former self.
“Senka.” Varka hummed, turning over the syllables on her tongue.
Satisfied, Varka let her eyes fall closed as she leaned her head back. Had Ksenia not already tried and failed to attack her, she would’ve perceived Varka as an easy target.
She kept wary eyes on the noblewoman dozing off in front of her for several minutes, then dared to ease back in her seat, one hand still braced on Caromir.
The carriage took them from the bustling streets of Hearth toward the nearby quieter and more opulent town of Rothaven. Perched at the kingdom’s edge, it sat on a precipice that overlooked a vast black lake, so still that it reflected the sky like polished obsidian.
Ksenia had never ventured to affluent towns like Rothaven; Brannfels had been a working town with its tightly coupled houses, soot-stained walls, and crumbling plaster.
Rothaven’s architecture spoke a different language.
Stone buildings were laid out horizontally rather than vertically, with impressive stained-glass windows and slate roofs.
Carved lintels, intricate ironwork, and fountains served no purpose other than beauty.
“This is a good place to talk. No prying ears.”
Ksenia roused with a curse. “Gods—I thought you were asleep.”
“Nah, just waiting for privacy.” Varka gestured at the solitary road they were traversing before continuing. “Now, this may seem like a stretch, but I think you dislike the king.” Varka rested her chin against her hand, elbow sinking into the cushion.
Ksenia didn’t blink. “Make your point.”
“My point is that it’s hard to do anything about that. Even from my position as the head of a noble house. I have nothing on him, and it’ll take more than the Bound Eye to cause a disruption.”
Ksenia’s ears perked, but her eyes remained narrowed. “What do you know of the Bound Eye?”
“I know it is a rebel organization whose intentions are valiant but incapable of making change. At least without something short of a miracle.” The words fell smoothly from Varka’s lips, her brows knitted wistfully.
Ksenia chewed on her tongue. “It sounds like you’d favor a coup.”
“Straightforward one, aren’t you?” Varka barked a laugh and retrieved a silver flask from her pocket. She took a swig before offering it to Ksenia, who declined.
Varka shrugged. “All the better for us to be straightforward.” She leaned in, her hazel eyes meeting Ksenia’s golden ones. “I don’t know what happened to you. Or why you attacked the captain today. But I recognize vengeance when I see it.”
She held up her hands, cutting off Ksenia’s retort. “Don’t worry, I don’t need to know why you hate the king if you don’t want to tell me. Just that you hate him and have the guts to do something about it.”
They sat in silence, staring at each other. Varka was saying all the right words. She seemed sympathetic to the Bound Eye’s plight and delighted by Ksenia’s hatred for the king.
“And why do you hate him?” Ksenia’s blunt question cut the silence.
“Because he—” Varka’s hand clenched the rounded knob of her armrest, veins raised. “Because he killed my aunt and mother. I swear my life upon it.” She grew quiet.
Ksenia turned over her explanation in her mind.
It made sense and was the fate of many of Karsan’s victims. Perhaps her family was in the wrong place at the wrong time and found themselves at the wicked end of Radegast’s blade.
It didn’t matter what echelon you hailed from; Karsan did not hesitate when removing dissenters from his kingdom.
Varka’s conviction brought a lump in Ksenia’s throat. Being a bondsmith automatically made Ksenia and her family dissenters, written off as the enemy without sense.
She chose her words carefully. “I grew up near a bondsmithing family. Two girls, close to my age.” The black lake came into view, and her eyes unfocused upon its depths.
“We were friends before I understood the cost. One of them died, I was there. The other—I don’t know what happened to her.”
Varka offered no condolences, her expression somber.
Ksenia redirected the discussion. “What did Karsan have to do with your mother? Are you a princess?”
Varka doubled over in laughter, cursing between breaths. “That is the funniest thing I’ve heard today.” She swiped tears from her eyes. “I’d rather be damned to hell than be related to the butcher king. Thank the gods and moons I’m not a princess.”
Ksenia raised her brows questioningly.
Varka sighed, sobering up. “My mother and Karsan were involved in some relationship before her death. I was young, and she didn’t tell me much. I remember she was here one moment, then gone the next.”
Ksenia’s eyes trailed off to look at the greenery zipping by out the window. Varka’s recollections were not to be trusted; if a single drop of her blood had ever made contact with Radegast, then Karsan could rewrite her recollections if she divulged her opinions.
Regardless, Varka seemed to possess an astonishing amount of agency and presented herself as a well-connected potential ally. One that Ksenia could utilize in her pursuit of revenge.
The carriage creaked to a halt. The storm clouds had rolled in overhead, dark as night.
Ksenia stepped out, her boots landing in a shallow puddle. The worn corner of her sole loosened, flooding her left shoe with frigid rainwater.
The sight of the Golden Stag quickly washed away her frustration—a three-storied timber-framed building protruding slightly into the street.
A decorative wrought-iron sign hung over the door with the gilded silhouette of a stag’s profile and tall lancet windows were fitted with diamond-lattice panes, raindrops racing down their glossy surfaces.
A solid oaken door swung open as Varka approached, and a broad-shouldered man with graying hair greeted Varka. “Lady Beranek! Welcome back. Come in, come in. Your usual room, I take it?”
Varka exchanged pleasantries with the tavern keeper while Ksenia drifted in, her mouth watering.
The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, crackling fat, and ale, mixed with the melting tallow of the candles in the chandelier overhead.
The main hall of the tavern had long, solid oak tables, polished by use and care.
A massive stone fireplace dominated the back of the room, its mantel carved from dark mahogany and depicting a simple hunting scene.
Mounted antlers and stuffed big-game heads adorned the shelf above the fire, their fur blackened with soot, and oil paintings were fixed to the wall.
The patrons spoke in measured tones—merchants and guild masters, if their elegant garments were any indication.
This tavern looked like it had seen more clean business dealings than brawls, an environment that made Ksenia feel wholly out of place, and she leaned uncomfortably against the whitewashed wall.
In the far corner, a red-headed minstrel perched on a low stool, fingers idling at a lute.
A pleasant melody warbled from her mouth, and a few patrons tapped their feet.
‘The smiths had bound the steel with sin. King Karsan reined the devils in.’
‘Praise the king, praise the crown, who silenced the forge and kept us sound.’
The barmaid mouthed the chorus as she passed, her tray loaded with empty tankards.
Ksenia gritted her teeth and quickly followed Varka toward the staircase. The barmaid grimaced at her dirt-streaked attire on the way up.
On the second floor, Varka opened the door of a large dining room, where a veritable feast awaited them.
Ksenia shut the door. Through the floorboards, the tavern swelled with the next verse: ‘He took the sword his brother bore, and swore no smith would forge no more!’
She pried her grip from the handle.
A pang of hunger hit Ksenia, but she hung back warily, even as Varka sat at the head of the table and stuffed a chicken drumstick into her mouth.
“S’down! C’mon—I know y’don trust me yet, but starvin’ yourself is dumb as hell.” She wagged the chicken bone at Ksenia.
The woman had a point. She could eat a bit of chicken as well; it was less likely to be poisoned if Varka was digging in. She reached for a drumstick and sniffed it.
Varka was beside herself, heaping more food onto her plate and walking around the table, sampling whatever she desired with fork and finger.
Plopping back in her seat, Varka washed her mouthful down with a swig of black currant wine.
“To business, then? You’ve come all this way, and I haven’t divulged any details of the trials yet—aren’t you curious?”
Ksenia tore a hunk off the bone, grease slicking her fingers and mouth. Varka patiently waited for her to finish her bite.
“I’m listening.”
“Such a kind and captive audience you are. So I shall begin.” Varka uncorked a bottle of mead, seemingly bored with the wine.
“What do you know about the Sevrant?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What is a Sevrant?” Ksenia reached for a slice of the roast, recognizing the scents of juniper and black garlic.
“The Sevrant is a rare, singular position: the hidden blade of the king.”
“Well, it sounds very close to servant, so you mean it’s his minion who does all his dirty work.”
The noblewoman brought her palm down on the table.
“Exactly! The Sevrant trials are designed to find the crown’s next head of intelligence, testing their capabilities in infiltration, survival, escape, and fighting prowess.
” She counted each one on her greasy fingers.
“They’re deadly. We haven’t seen one appointed in the last few years, not since the last one died in the field.
And the captain has been at his wits’ end finding a replacement. ”
Ksenia paused mid-drink, a drop of wine escaping the corner of her mouth. She wiped it with her hand.
“—You mean Bohdan?”
“The very same.”
Ksenia slumped in her seat with a groan. She didn’t stand a chance in this competition if he was the one deciding the winner.
“Remind me why you’re suggesting I work with you again? You want me to be a lamb for slaughter?” Ksenia swallowed her bite thickly; the roast tasted bitter now. “Martyrdom isn’t exactly top of my agenda right now.”
She had tried that already.
Varka merely folded a napkin in her lap, and it was the most ladylike thing Ksenia had seen of the woman since meeting her.
“No. Not at all. Are the trials deadly? Yes. Are they insane? Yes. But are they possible? Certainly, yes! And I know you don’t trust my motives yet, but trust me when I say your survival is key to my plan as well as it is to yours—of course. ”
“And what do you know of my plan?” Ksenia quipped.
“That you sure as shit don’t have one!” Varka slapped the table, overcome with laughter at her own joke.
Ksenia scowled. That was true, but her entire world had been upended in the span of a single day.
Not that anyone would believe the story.
She had difficulty believing her own reality right now, but her dagger point digging into the soft column of her neck earlier had tangibly renewed her fear of death.
“My girl,” Varka drawled. “You are very lucky that I do have a plan, but it involves your commitment to the trials.”
“And if I change my mind?”
TCHAKKKK!
Varka broke open the rib cage of the pheasant before her. “There is no turning back. The trials are secretive; no surviving losers, only one surviving winner.”
Ksenia failed to see the benefit. “Why would anyone want to do this?”
“For the champions: money, lots of it. Power, prestige, holding the world in your very hands, being second only to the king himself,” Varka rattled off.
“For their patrons, the king’s favor, maybe an opportunity to weave their family lines with his.
Surely you’ve noticed that Bohdan, as hard as he tries, doesn’t appear any closer to becoming king?
People don’t think he will succeed the throne—so there’s an opportunity to gain power. ”
“All right, why do you need me to do this?” Ksenia barked. This world of subterfuge and court politics was above her station.
“Because I need someone crazy, no—insane! On the inside. To get close to the king. We have the same goals, don’t you see?” Varka brandished her knife excitedly, sending jam across her plate.
“That’s a bit offensive.” Ksenia rolled her eyes. “How would you even manage this?”
“Training. Lots of it. I saw you; you’re unrefined, but with the right guidance, you can become a well-honed blade. Move into Beranek Manor, and I’ll sponsor you as my champion.”
Ksenia stared at her plate. Varka continued. “You’ve got guts; you’re not afraid of taking what you want. I’d bet others think it’s your weakness, that bull-headedness.”
Ksenia could hear Danika’s voice in her head, exasperated from being the one to clean up the mess. You always do this—leap first, bleed later. Sometimes simultaneously. One day, you won’t be able to get back up. And what will I do then?
But she had gotten back up. And she wouldn’t spoil her second chance at life.
“Well? What do you think?” Varka’s question broke through her reverie.
Ksenia begrudgingly nodded her head. She was making more pacts than she had ever intended.