Chapter 2 | Sephania
Sephania
Skartovius and Garroway press bootprints into the dirt of the various trails then swipe away any tracks of us exiting the tunnels. They move to the sheer cliff face that leads up the way we came through, staring heavenward at the imposing trajectory of the mountain slope.
It’s certainly nothing I could climb. I don’t think any human could, especially in the cold darkness.
Vallan notices my hesitance and grunts as he stands beside me. “Grab hold, silverblood.” He pats his huge shoulder.
My brow furrows. In true bratty form, I rest my hands on my hips. “Not until someone tells me what the plan is. This secrecy is unbecoming of my mates. The half-blood you just killed like animals said the horses are ready downhill.”
Skar glowers over his shoulder. A look of annoyance crosses over his handsome features. “When our followers exit this tunnel, they will go the obvious route down the mountain. They’ll follow these footsteps”—he points at the diversionary tracks he and Garro created—“which will buy us time.”
“So it’s another lie,” I snarl. My other mates and Palacia look at us, recognizing the tension and reading between the lines of my words. They see something is off between me and Skar but say nothing. “We’re going back the way we came?” I add. “What’s the point of—”
“We need a place to sit and think of our next moves, Sephania. After tonight, our resistance is hanging by a thread. Losing my manor is the first tower to topple. Others will follow.”
“Action would be better than sitting and thinking,” Vallan says.
“Where are we going then? What is north, here in the countryside, besides hills and woods and prairies?” I pry.
“An ally,” Skar answers. “Demilord Tymon Aldion has a nearby estate hidden among the trees. He can provide us respite for the time being. Besides, his mate is a friend of yours, I believe.”
Aelin, the tall, pretty, lanky Grimdaughter I hope to never see unless I have to. “Calling her a friend of mine is a massive overstatement,” I mutter.
“Because she molested your fabricated comrade in your story to Chronicler Kleora?” Skar probes, folding his arms.
“Just because Jinneth was fake doesn’t mean Aelin didn’t actually hurt a friend of mine.
It was just a different one.” I tilt my chin defiantly, growing frustrated.
“So we’re housing with a vampire I hardly know, when Overlord Aramastun said the countryside manors will be the first he reclaims?
Sounds stupid. Why not go to the Chained Sisters? ”
“And put them in more danger than they’re already in?” Skar growls, baring his fangs as he steps toward me. “Your recklessness is showing, love. I thought you cared about your mother—the true Jinneth—and Iron Sister—”
“We would never make a westward trek through the country and into Olhav past Aramastun’s army, lass,” Garroway interjects, simplifying Skar’s lashing before it can become more venomous.
I pout at the vampire, nodding. “Fine.” I’m only saying fine because it’s him saying it rather than Skartovius.
“Can we get going? We’re wasting valuable time,” the ex-lord growls, turning to the mountain wall. “We can talk all about my lies and truths once we’ve found safe harbor.”
My eyes glance past Garroway, to the other half-blood in our gang. Lukain scrutinizes our group with his eerie purple-red eyes, staying silent. He undoubtedly recognizes the budding fracture between us, and I wonder if he understands he is at the center of it.
Vallan kneels in front of me, showing me his expansive back bulging with muscle. “If you will, my lady.”
I snort a small laugh and climb onto his back, wrapping my arms around his thick neck. His beard tickles my forearms. “So embarrassing.”
I glance sideways and see Palacia unceremoniously hop onto Lukain’s back, her slight form and yellow-green hair blowing in the wind. “I think it’s rather glamorous, treating us ladies like dainty princesses when they know we’re not.” Into Lukain’s ear, she says, “Lead on, Master.”
Her quip makes me smile. Lukain’s awkwardness only makes it funnier to see her riding him like an oversized backpack.
As a fullblood vampire, there is no need for Palacia to use Lukain as a steed up this cliff.
She could make the climb as easily as the rest of them—possibly easier than a dhampir like Lukain with her newfound strength.
But she wants to put the man who turned her in his place, and her cutting words prove that.
Once Pala has her legs wrapped around his hips, Lukain shuffles to the cliff and flares his nostrils. “Fine, so long as you don’t dig that thing into my back, princess.”
Palacia shimmies on him, muttering, “I’m afraid it can’t be helped, sir.”
Lukain shakes his head and begins climbing from the left side of the tunnel exit. He precariously places his feet on stones, on the craggy cliffs, and ascends. Garroway and Skartovius take the right side of the exit, doing the same.
Vall and I are last. I inhale Vallan’s earthy scent and take the same body-hugging stance as Palacia, listening to the deep breaths of my huge mate and growing warmer by the second in the brisk chill. “This isn’t so bad, is it, my big brute?”
A low, guttural sound passes his lips. “Best part of my night, having you clambering over me.”
“Only out of necessity,” I remind him, smiling.
He grunts as his muscled arms extend to the next hand-hold in the rocks.
I’m reminded of the time I hid in the shadows of the North Mines overhang, watching as a plethora of enemy vampires stole Palacia and other yellow-haired interfolk miners in huge bags slung over their shoulders, and jumped up a sheer rock face like this.
“Perhaps once we’re safe in a room tonight,” Vallan murmurs, ripping me back to reality with his smoldering tone, “I’ll come and show you how necessary it is for you to have your hands all over me, silverblood.”
Heat pools in my belly from his brooding promise. I become aware of his every muscle beneath my clothes, flexing and contracting as he climbs an impossible climb. I lightly squeeze my hips around his, grinding against him. “I can’t think of a better way to end this harrowing evening, brute.”
Once we’ve ascended the steep face of the mountain, Vallan and Lukain put me and Palacia on our feet and we resume our journey. I try to ignore the heavy mound swishing in Palacia’s nightgown as she walks off, growing jealous because Lukain is my mate and not hers.
Lukain steps up beside me as Palacia waddles toward the rest of the group walking slightly bowlegged. “Don’t worry, little grimmer, she enjoyed it far more than I did.”
I snort, smiling, and bump his shoulder.
For some reason, out here in the cold freedom of night, with the wind catching our hair and the sights of the mountain crests and valleys crisp in every direction, the intensity of our predicament simmers.
I still feel the pervasive sense we’re in mortal danger, yet it’s lessened by the protection cocoon of the Olhavian Peaks.
Skartovius leads us northward, cutting the way we came underground but in a wide berth that skirts far outside of Manor Marquin. Aramastun Wyvox came to us with an army, and we don’t want to test the size of his company.
We flee into the thick woods east of the manor, sticking along the outskirts. The familiar stuffiness of the caves returns once the broad canopies swallow up the moon. Fear also returns as I notice we’re skating a thin line, getting close to the auxiliary chain of Aramastun’s army.
Our eyes swivel in the dark woods, everyone pin-drop quiet.
The trees are gnarled, slightly curved from the ever-present wind blowing into them for eons.
It’s hard to see anything—Skartovius wisely discarded our torch once we exited the catacombs.
The last thing we need is a single orange beacon signaling our whereabouts to anyone beyond these woods.
So I walk blindly. Flies and rodents avoid us as we dig deeper into the forest. I wonder if they sense the death of my vampire mates, the danger they bring to this enclave of nature. Bushes rustle and tree limbs creak from the night critters watching us traverse the woodlands.
We make it through without incident, evidently clearing the scope of Aramastun’s army. Perhaps he left the area once he realized we were no longer in the manor. His regiment could be under our feet even now, traveling through the same catacomb tunnels we did before we doubled back.
Past the woods, we reach a valley of prairies. I haven’t been this far north before, though it looks much the same as any other grassland. We jog through, having little cover from prying eyes, and then dash into more woods.
It is here we stumble upon the entrance to Demilord Aldion’s abode.
It’s a quaint castle of old stone and brickwork with a curling wall of vines and roots climbing up the windows and pillars.
The place looks abandoned, dark as we make our approach.
I wonder if we’ve made a mistake coming here.
An abandoned outpost would be preferable to conversing with Aelin, I wager.
A lantern flickers to life inside the small fort, through a window on the second level. It trickles down a hall, past more windows, and eventually descends to the first level. The double oak doors open a moment later, and the demilord stands before us.
Tymon Aldion is a broad-shouldered, squat fellow with a bulging belly.
He was a larger man when turned, and clearly saw no reason to trim his physique once made a vampire.
His brow furrows, hand placed at his shoulder for the hilt strewn across his back.
His hand twitches and drops when Skartovius steps in front.
“Lord Ashfen,” he murmurs, surprised and more than a little suspicious. “What brings you to my home?”
“Necessity, Tymon. The Night Judge has seized Manor Marquin. We seek refuge.”
A slight shadow slips behind Tymon to stand beside him.
Aelin is still as beautiful as she was when she left the Grimsons. Her dark flowing hair frames a gaunt face with the succor of human blood in her cheeks. The tall, skinny noblewife hauls a whining babe on her hip, and her belly is nearly as bulbous as Tymon’s, showing another whelp on the way.
Aelin was chosen during my first shadowgala as broodstock for Tymon Aldion.
I had been horrified, imagining such a pretty girl as a concubine or forced breeding mare for a vicious vampire.
But the lifestyle seems to fit her immensely, and she offers me a coy smile as she takes place in her husband’s shadow, over his shoulder.
She’s nearly a head taller than him, making her close to my height.
“My home is always welcome to the lord of my court,” Tymon says with a small bow.
He steps out of the doorway, blocking my sight of Aelin, and sweeps his hand past him to the hallway.
“My lady, prepare rooms for these men, women, and . . . friend.” He trails off on a drawl when noticing our interfolk companion.
“I have two infants to feed and can hardly make it up the stairs, beloved,” Aelin says in a sultry voice.
She’s had two, soon three half-blood whelps with Tymon Aldion, in only a handful of years? I muse. Yes, this place is certainly well-suited to her wants and needs.
There’s a calculation in Tymon’s eyes when his noblewife doesn’t fall in line immediately. I see a flash of it, a hint of danger, and my stomach sours. He says, “Right, right. Get the vowagers to set the chambers, then.”
My brow twists. “Vowagers?” I haven’t heard the term in years—the name for the mute, beige-robed priestesses of the Truehearts. Mother Eola, head vowager of the House of the True, raised me alongside Father Cullard. She was a mean old bitch, but hearing the word brings a pang of nostalgia with it.
“Yes, Lady Lock,” Tymon says. “They are the—”
“I know what a vowager is,” I grumble. “I’m just confused why you have them.”
The demilord fixes me with a glare. He’s never liked me. Never appreciated what I represent alongside his lord’s side, as a human. He tries to hide his distaste at my interruption.
In a warning tone, Skartovius says, “Demilord Tymon is our host, and we are his guests, Sephania. We would do well to respect him here.”
I clench my jaw. Over Tymon’s shadow, Aelin gives me a small smile. It seems someone appreciates my candor, at least.
“The mute sisters of the True suit our purposes well,” Tymon explains, sniffing indignantly. “They are hardy servants and keep quiet.” When I think he’s finished and he begins turning to walk away, he adds, “Plus, their blood is sweet, like the nectar of the damnable Trueheart deities themselves.”
I freeze in the doorway, my body running cold and tensing. Lukain and Garroway nearly bump into me from behind. They stand at my sides, ready to strike should I order it.
I keep down my anger. “Lord Ashfen is correct, sir, and I apologize. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Tymon Aldion bows low, putting on an arrogant smile that curls at the corners of his lips, as if to prove he’s won this battle and I have no fight here.
“Of course, Lady Lock. You are most welcome as our guests this cold evening. Please, Noblewife Aelin will show you to your quarters. Perhaps you can catch up on old times.”