Chapter 6
Wroth
The knight droned in my ear endlessly like a particularly annoying bee and I, the juicy flower.
“Three wagons have been reinforced. The quartermaster has the details for provisions and weaponry—he would like to add six knights to the detail…also, we require one more porter to manage the mules…” Silvain flicked a paper, consulting a long list. “The third cart has been designated for the bloodpowder supply. Do you wish to…”
His voice faded from my consciousness. From the corner of my eye, fel Arron poured tea into her cup and dropped in two lumps of sugar with a splash of milk.
The table before her was arrayed with various tools—needles, awls, pliers, delicate glass loupes, copper soldering irons, skeins of wire and innumerable bits and bobs I couldn’t see the purpose of.
She frowned at an iron hammer, stuck it through a loop on the thigh of her breeches, and paused just long enough to blow on her tea before gulping it like a man dying of thirst. I couldn’t help but notice that her dark hair was bound in a crown of braids, and she’d shoved an awl through them like a hairstick.
Who needed sixteen wrenches? Apparently she did. Two of them were on her person.
She wore her odd clothes unself-consciously.
Fine buckskin breeches, soft riding boots, a tanned leather waistcoat that laced up the back and sides like a corset over a linen blouse.
Whereas most ladies with a fel in their name wore frilly dresses, fel Arron’s mannish outfit emphasized the hourglass curvature of her form.
But everything was covered in a variety of loops and pockets. It was astonishing she didn’t clank as she walked. I’d even watched her slip a turnscrew in the side of her boot.
Over the last two days, the kitchens of Owlhorn had become our temporary base of operations as we prepared our expedition.
I had spent an entire night in the dungeons, replenishing my blood in a gluttonous feast until my body healed itself from the damage the sumac powder had inflicted, and returned to find the halls of the castle more or less abandoned and everyone packed into the kitchen and courtyard.
Knights scuttled through carrying tools and weapons, porters packed provisions, and Bram sorted and refined sanguimantic materials.
He held a stack of thin strips of paper, each one painted with protection sigils.
Fel Arron took up an entire six-seat table by herself, organizing and packing away those tools that didn’t end up somewhere on her anatomy.
Her golem lurked over her; unlike the fashionably delicate creations that the lais and fels favored, hers was a walking fortress of clockwork and nails and steel plates.
Somehow that seemed appropriate. I could no more picture fel Arron being followed about by Delicata than I could picture Esteri stuffing yet another wrench in her cleavage.
Those dark eyes flicked my way behind the magnifying lenses, and I dropped my gaze, the earth unsteady beneath my feet.
I had my Artificer. I had a bloodwitch, though Bram looked nauseated at the thought of going Below.
After so many years of loyal service, I felt a little nauseated myself at the thought of forcing him back through the streets of Liuridar, not least of all because I loathed the idea of leaving Owlhorn unprotected by a loyal sanguimancer.
Maybe we would find what became of those people. I might also return to find that Esteri lai Auvray had moved herself into my home and emptied my treasury.
But Bram put a brave face on as he spoke quietly to the Artificer. The knight buzzed in my ear about bloodpowder tea and black powder and lamp oil and candles and utensils, and I watched sidelong as fel Arron gave my bloodwitch a broad grin and slapped a heavy metal hammer into his hand.
“Just bash them in the head with this,” she said, with a brash, hearty laugh one didn’t often hear from tight-laced noblewomen. “Cold iron.”
Bram stared at the hammer, and I knew what he was thinking. If only he’d had cold iron the last time he was Below, it might be he’d still have his children…but cold iron was only ever a deterrent. A starving relic would risk the pain of cold iron or rowan for a meal.
He handed it back to her and gave me a look of stark despair.
Hell.
I swallowed the words that wanted to bubble up. If we walked into the Below without a sanguimancer, we might as well cut our own throats and be done with it.
Sometimes being the lord of a hold meant you were no man’s friend.
Bram looked away, face paler than usual, the muscles in his jaw clenched. He would not ask. I would not relent.
I could only hope he didn’t hold it against me forever.
“My Lord, I do require an answer on the question of the knights?”
“Yes,” I growled, tearing my eyes away from my suffering bloodwitch. “Add them. But no more than six, and don’t select my highest-ranking men. Some must remain behind to guard Owlhorn.”
Esteri was still lurking about somewhere, wearing out her welcome with a vengeance.
Silvain bowed with barely-disguised impatience and moved to the kitchen door, only to have it flung open in his face.
Everyone looked up at once at the intruder, and a strange feeling of both relief and apprehension fluttered in my stomach.
“Uncle Wroth! Congratu—my condolences, I mean.”
Marrion, my niece and god-daughter, the youngest child of Lord Bane and Lady Cirrien lai Darran, had barged in with her arms flung wide, and stopped dead in her tracks with ten people staring at her.
She was so like her father before he chose to go fiend.
Her thick black hair hung in a thick braid to her waist, and she had the exact arch of his brows, his strong nose, and high cheekbones.
From Cirri, she had inherited her mother’s forest green eyes, kind disposition, and the complete inability to suffer fools.
My niece, a bloodwitch whose mentor was Magus Olwyn, the greatest sanguimancer of our age.
“What in the ancestors’ names is happening here?
” she asked, gazing at fel Arron curiously.
“We received your, ah…distressing news, and I thought I’d come deliver my consolations in person.
Mother and Father say hello, by the way, and Father expressly wished me to pass on his opinion that you should take the entire year to make a new choice and not allow those snobby blowhards to force their selection upon you.
But this…this doesn’t look like a wedding preparation. ”
“It’s not,” I rumbled. “We’re undertaking an expedition. Thanks for your condolences.”
Had the entirety of our crew not been in the kitchen, packing gear and preparing, no doubt she would’ve offered her exuberant congratulations on my freedom from Kajarin’s hell.
I still remembered with great private joy when Cirri had visited Owlhorn years past, and a two-year-old Marrion had burped and vomited a mixture of blood and porridge all over Kajarin’s expensive dress.
This single memory led me to be a little more indulgent of Marrion’s whims than was good for her.
“An expedition to where?” Marrion crept closer to fel Arron’s tools with great interest.
“The Below,” fel Arron offered, eyeing Marrion with equal curiosity, and I wanted to slap a hand over my face. It was the worst thing she could’ve said. “Possibly Liuridar itself.”
“Lovely. I’m going, too.”
“No, you’re not,” I snarled, pointing to the kitchen door. “Out. You’re in training, you have no business going Below—”
“On the contrary, Uncle,” Marrion sang out.
“I’m on sabbatical. My aunts are visiting Serissa and Hélléne, and Mother and Father were kissing in the library again.
I thought I’d do them a favor and give them some privacy.
What better way to expand upon my education than with some good old-fashioned hands-on work? ”
“No.”
She shot me the look I knew so well from her mother’s face. “Aunt Wyn has proclaimed me proficient. You know what that means. I’m perfectly within my rights to operate as a full-fledged sanguimancer now.”
I rubbed my jaw. Nothing satisfied Olwyn. Calling Marrion’s abilities ‘proficient’ was akin to the gods themselves stepping down from the sky and laying their hands upon her with fervent celestial blessings.
I could save Bram from his own personal hell, and leave Owlhorn well-defended.
“Your father would gut me.”
“Oh, please, he would not. When he was my age he was tearing wargs apart with his bare hands. I’m Marrion, by the way. Uncle Wroth’s favorite niece.” She held out a hand to fel Arron, smiling broadly.
“Jesamin,” my Artificer offered, taking her hand firmly. “I’ll be handling the Artifice and machina for this trip, as you can see.” She gestured to the tools, and Marrion nodded.
I sensed an alliance forming against me.
Until fel Arron gasped, jerking her hand back, and Marrion, still smiling, held up a needle beaded with blood. She shook out her left wrist, around which was a silver bracelet dangling with thin glass charms.
Each charm was a tiny flat circle. Marrion selected one of clear glass, and smeared the drop of fel Arron’s blood upon it. She whispered a few words, and the charm flared a brilliant red, leaving the blood baked into the glass.
“There,” she said, examining it intently. “Now I’ll be able to find you if you’re lost. I’m already an asset.”
Fel Arron stuck her pricked finger into her mouth, and I tore my eyes away again. There was something indecent about those plush lips wrapped around her finger that made my collar feel oddly constricting.
“That’s quite brilliant, though,” she said, popping her finger out of her mouth and peering at the charms. The Artificer had a smoky sort of voice for a woman, a rich alto that made my ears prick up when she spoke.