Chapter 47 | Vallan
Vallan
Following the joint attack by Alacine Mortis on the Grimsons and Manor Marquin, my master called me to Castle Galfeld.
Barnabac Craxon is not a patient man, and I know I must get to him swiftly to avoid punishment or discipline of some kind. Not that my master’s punishment ails me—I’ve become accustomed to his abuse.
Still, leaving my mates at a time like this, with Sephania’s mother missing and a recent attack on Skartovius’ home, will raise suspicion.
There’s nothing to be done about it. When the headache building behind my eyes from my master’s incessant push becomes too much to bear, I leave the manor in the dead of night.
My boots drag me to the Military Ward without pause. I march through the gates, past my scowling Red Spawn brethren, and up the winding tower stairs to Barnabac’s chambers.
Barnabac is not alone in his room. The ancient vampire lord is surrounded by four bloodthralls, including my “brother” Kamlirn, whose jaw and neck look much better now that months have passed since I broke them.
I raise my brow, wondering why my master has an entourage. “Fearing something, my lord?”
“Have you seen Nuhav, boy? The cattle have set fire to their whole city!”
I nod slowly. “It does not bode well for Olhav if the Five Ministries cannot stop the rioting in the lower city.”
His sagging chin sways as he jumps to his feet from his sturdy chair. “Do you think I don’t know that? I won’t take any chances with this lot.”
“This lot, sire? You mean your Five Ministry brethren?”
Barnabac scoffs and throws his head back. “Brethren? The other four Ministers are just as much my brethren as the Red Spawn are yours, foolish brute.”
I say nothing. He is in a sour mood. At the very least, having four “offspring” at his side as bodyguards means I am less likely to be raped by my master. That is something he does when we are alone, not in mixed company.
I’ve never seen Barnabac’s beady eyes so darting.
He glances out the window of his tower over and over, as if expecting a coup at any moment.
After all, he may have said he reconciled with Alacine Mortis after the botched Trithea Plaza situation, where so many vampires died, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true.
“Might I ask why you have called me here, Master?”
“To join my retinue, of course.”
My stomach twists. “I am not to return to my coven?”
“Your coven is here, you impertinent ogre!” Spittle flies from his mouth as he yells, landing on the long braid of his beard.
“Then I shall stay, my lord.” My response is clipped.
“I know. I’ve instructed your brothers and sisters to cage you if you try to leave, in fact.” His eyes glitter with mischief, happy with the way my stoic face twitches.
I can do nothing to harm Barnabac Craxon, which means I can do nothing if he prefers to keep me caged.
I don’t care about being jailed. I’ve been imprisoned for decades of my life.
No, I’m only angry I will not see Sephania for so many evenings, locked at the beck and call of this demon.
Two evenings pass, and sure enough, I am kept in an iron-wrought cage, even though I said nothing insubordinate, or implied I might try to leave Castle Galfeld. Barnabac took preemptive measures and the cage he shoved me in is hardly large enough to fit my frame.
It’s more annoying than anything. I’m not sure why Master Barnabac is punishing me this time. He hasn’t told me anything I’ve done wrong, and I wonder if it’s solely because he can—because it delights him to see me suffer, after being away for so many years, which he takes as a personal affront.
On the third evening, a tall, stocky, female Red Spawn who used to throw spears at me for fun to see if I could dodge them, arrives in my cell room. “Overlord Aramastun Wyvox has called for an urgent meeting of the Five Ministries,” she tells me.
Sitting in the back of my cell, bored beyond belief, I slant my head. “Why are you telling me this, sister?”
“Because Master Barnabac wants you there. Wants as many Red Spawn as he can muster.”
A rumble starts in my chest, scoffing at my master’s aim. “Does he fear a knife in the back that severely?”
The flat-faced woman comes to the bars and presses her forehead to them, showing her fangs. “If you had the power Master Barnabac has, oaf, with the responsibilities of the Blood Baron, you would do the same.”
I shrug. She can get as angry at me as she wants, but that doesn’t stop her from releasing me from the prison under Barnabac’s orders.
Early that evening, our company leaves the Military Ward, heading past Trithea Plaza toward Aramastun’s sector.
The Judgment Ward is cloaked in an ominous red tint, the magicked light here made to put off threatening airs.
It works: Most vampires would not be caught dead traveling through the Judgment Ward.
The only good thing that comes of this circular district is to be placed in one of his many prison towers, such as Sutlis Spire where we rescued Sephania from.
This is the home of courts, tall buildings, jailhouses, and little to do in the way of entertainment.
There are no taverns in the Judgment Ward. Aramastun has forbidden them. Brothels are hidden. Aramastun the Night Judge, head barrister and executioner of Olhav, believes frivolities like drinking and whoring destroys the iron-fist reputation of the Five Ministries.
Many of the workers guarding the prisons, working the bazaars, and protecting the traders, hail from outside the Judgment Ward, only to return to their respective homes when their shifts end.
Like Liolen Sesk’s glittering, rainbow-hued Commerce Ward, Aramastun’s soldiery is largely made up of mercenaries, skilled militia, and soldiers of fortune.
Master Barnabac leads our group to the center of the ward, to a place called Seramesk’s Eye. It is an oval-shaped, squat coliseum where meetings between the Five Ministries leadership typically are held.
Dozens of vampires attend the mandatory meeting, shuffling into the auditorium. Each overlord or overlady brings their own escort of soldiers for protection. The soldiers are made to stand back when the conference is in session and keep a watchful eye on the other Ministers.
What it boils down to is mistrust. The Five Ministries may claim each other as unequivocal allies, but at the end of the night, each ward is led by ambitious, bloodthirsty, power-hungry vampire lords. Noblebloods one and all. It’s only natural for such powerful creatures to not trust each other.
The meeting is held on the center stage of the auditorium—a raised, octagonal platform thirty feet across, with a ring of stairs leading up to it. Rimming the circular meeting ground are inward-facing chairs for the Ministers.
When Master Barnabac takes his chair, I stand behind him with my arms folded in front of me. So do three others, while the rest of our group waits on the lower wings below us on the stairs.
The other Ministers make their grand entrances.
Overliege Liolen Sesk is a thin, hawk-faced halfkeeper.
They have a fae-like appearance, seeming to glide on the floor, and they’re dressed in elegant gold robes to match their status as Commerce Minister.
Rings line their fingers, also gold. Peach-colored rouge softens their gaunt cheeks, and the makeup around their eyes is a mismatching blue and red.
Liolen Sesk is typically bald, though the nobleblood wears wigs to suit the occasion.
This time, they wear an elaborate hairpiece of vying silver and black bands that run down their back.
Because of the Gilded Liege’s glamorous appearance and stature, no one knows if they were born man or woman. At this point, they are somehow both and neither.
Overlady Valenthia Yurlyth is a tall woman with straggly black hair that makes her look like a monster out of nightmares.
Her pale face is stamped with the symbol of her Damned faith, and the placid expression on her fine features is eerie enough to match my own.
She opts for a simple forest green robe, unflattering and dusty.
In all ways, the Damned Sister is the polar opposite of the materialistic Liolen.
She walks with a limp, hands hidden in the wide cuffs of her robe, and surveys the other chairs once seated. While Liolen’s mercenaries look as unique and colorful as they do, Valenthia’s ilk are muted and homogeneous—green robes, bowed heads, tattooed faces.
The next chair belongs to Overlord Aramastun Wyvox, the host of this event.
Often called the most cunning and powerful of the Ministers, the Night Judge is a handsome man with gray-black hair down to his shoulders.
Turned some time in his fiftieth winter, he wears no robe, instead arriving in a well-cut black tunic and pants that hug his slender frame.
He wears no ornamentation. His marble-white face is otherworldly handsome, with a noticeable scar running deep down his left cheek, to his chin.
No one knows how he received such an incurable wound.
The man has a serious expression and sharp eyes tinged with a silver glow, which he uses to scrutinize the other chairs.
It is only once the four Ministers are seated that the vacancy of the final chair becomes painfully obvious.
Alacine Mortis is not here.
“The Spymistress is dead,” Aramastun greets. His voice is like smoothest silk, warming to the senses.
I swear there’s a slight curve to his lip, a tiny smile. I could be too far to be seeing correctly. Despite being the master of law and order in Olhav, there is a definite chaotic quality in everything about Overlord Aramastun.
There are no gasps of shock at his announcement. I wonder how this could be: She attacked the Firehold less than a week ago. I was there. She stole Sephania’s mother.
“How can this be?” Barnabac asks, though there is no surprise or sadness in his tone. He’s asking because it’s expected.