Chapter 6 | Sephania
Sephania
After a few hours of unsteady sleep in the back of the cave, I wake before night falls and before any of the others.
Some might call my moment with Palacia intimate or endearing. I call it mortifying, and now I need to do something with my hands. My stomach is also grumbling loudly, so I decide to stake out into the daylight.
I have my two swords and a boot dagger. I’m always well-equipped in Olhav because I have to be. But I’ve never been hunting, and it takes nearly an hour to find a suitable rabbit, oblivious to the goings-on around him as he chomps on a bushel.
It feels bad to skewer the poor beige fluff-ball in the back with my dagger. Much worse than punching Aelin in the face.
I gather a few berries that don’t look too poisonous, taking my winnings to the cave just as the others are rising.
“What’s this?” Skar asks when I kneel in the cave and slap the hare down on the ground. He’s sitting up, arms stretched wide. “Our temptress has become a huntress?”
I ignore him, feeling unwanted anger due to my hunger and also because Skartovius is trying to make nice. There’s also the situation with Palacia I can’t get out of my mind, which confounds me more than anything.
“We were just about to go looking for you,” Vallan says from a corner of the cave.
He’s adjusting ripped cloth around the wounds of his shoulder and leg.
Pala is leaning up against his bulky thigh, eyeing me curiously, and it makes me blush and turn to Garroway and Lukain—anything to avoid those bright turquoise-red eyes.
“I imagine you five are hungry,” I say, “and I know you need, uh, blood. But I wonder—”
“Yes, an animal’s blood will suffice when a human’s is not present, little honey badger,” Garroway says with a warm smile.
He groans and sits up, drawing one of his many daggers to start skinning the rabbit.
“Though a honey badger might have been better sized for our ravenous appetites.” He winks at me as he gets to work.
“I’ll start a fire,” Lukain announces.
Less than an hour later, after grimacing while watching my mates drain the poor beast dry, and then eating a few bites of smoky meat myself, we’re on our way.
Skar wants to make sure we get to where we’re going with haste, and none of us disagree.
The last thing we need is Aramastun’s army catching up to us.
We wind our way through the forest, which thins and eventually levels out to a rolling prairie atop the mountains. Past the prairie and a skinny valley, we reach a castle set in the shadow of the overhanging cliffs.
The moon is high when we arrive in the courtyard of the elegant estate—much more akin to Manor Marquin than the dilapidated fortress Tymon Aldion called home.
I hope this one doesn’t go as poorly as that one did. I’m tired of killing people. Supposed “allies.”
I recognize the tall, handsome vampire who welcomes us once a white-robed mute leads us into the four-story manse, past a foyer and antechamber, and into an elegant dining room.
The man shoots a wistful smile, his hands clasped in front of him. I know him as Demilord Godial, another fighter from Trithea Plaza. Once I see him, I know where we are and who I’ll be seeing soon.
“Lord Ashfen,” Godial says with a small bow, letting his dark hair flutter over his brow. “A pleasure to have you in my simple abode.”
Skartovius chuckles, looking around. “Been years since I’ve stepped foot in Manor Sirenchis, Demilord Godial. I am pleased to see you’ve kept it up nicely. Much nicer than Marquin, I daresay.”
“Nonsense, my lord. Yours is the jewel in the crown. Might I ask what brings you here, so far north on the mountain?”
“Betrayal, old friend,” Skar answers curtly. “Overlord Aramastun has seized my property and stripped me of my titles. I am no longer a nobleblood.”
Godial, excellent at playing diplomat, widens a smile.
“More nonsense, Skartovius. Once a noble, always a noble. The haughty overlord may strip your rank, but he can’t strip who you are.
You are welcome here, of course.” His eyes turn to me.
“And you, Lady Sephania Lock. A pleasure. Helget will be pleased to see you, I’m sure.
My bleak mistress will be downstairs any minute. ”
For some reason, my blood runs cold at the thought of conversing with Helget again. While I could never call Aelin a friend from the Grimsons, the same can’t be said about Helget. I had been close with the plump, affable young woman.
Tragically another rape victim in the Firehold, Helg managed to get her justice when I presented her with her rapist at our final shadowgala, when Skar planned to introduce me as the “Queen of Manor Marquin” to his court.
Peltos, his name was. A former Grimson and eventual Diplomat and accomplice of Dimmon Plank—my rapist. I watched stonily as Helget clutched Peltos’ heart out of his chest and ate it.
So, it can be said, Helget is not quite as affable as she once was.
She’s not as round and soft, either, with her curves transformed into muscle and veins the last time I saw her.
It was somewhat disappointing, that, because I always appreciated having another curvy woman by my side. Alas, all good things must end.
Godial lets us sit at his long table, where two other men are seated. They are both also strikingly handsome, and I think I recognize one from Skar’s galas, or perhaps other court affairs at Manor Marquin.
At the head of the table, Godial splays his hands out to either side to introduce the two men. The head chair remains empty until Helget arrives.
That’s right. Demilord Godial, likely the mate who turned Helget, refers to her as “bleak mistress,” as though she’s the leader of Sirenchis. I recall the other dark thing that transpired last I met these two, with Helget’s other mate, Ferar, meeting his end during our Trithea Plaza debacle.
Helget hadn’t seemed too broken up about Ferar’s death. Not as much as Godial, anyway. And my vampiress friend had said they would just have to find more mates to replace Ferar . . .
Which brings me to the two handsome bloodsuckers Godial gestures toward. They’re just as elegant and refined as the demilord himself. “Might I introduce Eldis and Darrien. If they look the same, that is because they are twins. Striking, are they not?” He speaks of them as if they’re trophies.
I’m taken aback, head lurching with a pout. Brothers, Helget? Seems you are getting quite kinky with your choice of mates. Can’t say I disparage you your choices though, True be true.
The two vampires blink at our group as we take our seats along the table. They remain quiet, unnervingly still, to which Godial says, “They are appropriately quiet men, which Helget and I both adore.”
Godial reaches out and cups one of the younger vampires under the chin, pinching his cheeks in an affectionate way that has the rest of my group glancing at each other.
Kinky indeed.
Footsteps sound on the winding staircase at the head of the dining room. All eyes turn to find Helget descending the steps, dressed in a form-hugging gown that leaves little to the imagination.
I recall the shadowgala where Helget was chosen as broodstock by Godial and Ferar. They pulled her between them, disrobed in a matter of minutes. Helg loved the attention, as she clearly loves the attention now, smiling at the group of nine awaiting her arrival with rapt attention.
Before her eyes land on me, they fall on Godial as she reaches the base of the steps. “Quite a bigger turnout than I expected, my sweet.”
Godial gestures across the table at me. “Look who has just arrived, my bleakness. A friend of yours.”
Helget smiles demurely, though it’s tight and not the friendly smile I remember from when she was a human.
Unlike Aelin, who succumbed to her place as a breeding mare for wicked vampires, Helget has managed to assert herself and transcend the “broodstock” title. Given the finery on her shoulders, the elegant gown, the smoldering way she speaks with her mates, it is clear who runs Manor Sirenchis.
In some diabolical way, I’m proud of her.
Helget reminds me of me—multiple mates, powerful stature and command over them—though she has done things more efficiently.
I imagine her life isn’t half as chaotic as mine, living out here in the wilderness under the curve of a valley with her devilishly handsome men.
Once Helget seats herself, it isn’t long before mute servants—much like the white-robes from Marquin—arrive to bring goblets filled with blood and trays of appetizers.
Cheese, bread, things I can eat. For vampires, these fine human foods do little in the way of sustenance, but they’re another way to show power to a room.
My group makes pleasant chatter with Helget’s, only delving into our predicament once we’re asked. I let Skartovius do the explaining, and notice Helg’s eyes are locked on the man seated next to him.
“Master Lukain,” Helg says at last. “I hardly recognized you at first.”
Lukain bows his head and scratches at his rugged, curly mop of dark hair. I have to wonder how he feels being in Helget’s mansion, as a guest, after lording over her—and me—for so many years when we were younger girls.
The tables have turned. I can’t deny sick glee at seeing Noblewife Helget come into her own. She has a lower voice now, a slower timbre, and she sounds nothing like she did when we were girls. She’s refined and elegant, transforming into her role as a noblewoman with aplomb.
“Last I heard,” she says to Lukain, “you were dead. Killed by the man sitting next to you, in fact. Our lovely liege.” Her chin dips toward Skartovius.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Mistress Helget,” Lukain says in a clipped tone, trying for civility. “I suppose it’s a miracle of the Truehearts that I’m still here.”
Helget flares her nostrils. “You would blaspheme the Damned in my own home?”
Lukain goes rigid, sitting upright and lifting his elbows from the table. The room falls silent. Floundering at first, he says, “Erm, no, of course not. Apologies, Mistress Helget. I only meant to mention a faith you and Sephania might recognize. I did not mean any harm—”
“I’m only jesting, Master Lukain,” Helget interjects with a smirk curling the corner of her lips.
There it is again: “Master” Lukain. Same mistake I made at first when he returned.
Old habits die hard. “You are free to believe any such nonsense you wish in this house. We are not the Faith Ward or Overlady Valenthia Yurlyth with her demanding zealousness for the Damned.”
“I, uh, we thank you for that,” Lukain says with a small dip of his head.
Helget looks to me, then Skar. “If Aramastun Wyvox is after you, Lord Ashfen, then you are free to stay with us until you feel safe to leave. I very much doubt the Night Judge would swing his regiments this far north in search of you.” She drinks from her golden goblet, smacks her lips, and twirls her wrist. “You said you have a few soldierly allies among poor Tymon Aldion’s remaining troop? ”
Skar nods his head low. I can tell it vexes him to be calling on favors because he’s a proud man. We all need help once in a while, and if there was ever a time to ask for it . . . “We are grateful for any assistance you can provide, Noblewife Helget,” Skartovius says formally.
The dining room falls into hushed slurping, soft chewing, and pleasant conversation once more. I can’t help but feel it’s a shiny veneer for a diabolical place.
This drafty, oversized castle in the valley, housing a madwoman vampiress and her three mates. I want to trust Helget like I did when we were younglings in the Firehold. But I see the tension here, the shift in power. And there’s something she said that stands out to me.
“You are free to stay with us until you feel safe to leave.”
As I ponder her words over my fine meal, I have to wonder . . . when will we ever feel safe again?