47. Zarek
Zarek
OUR LESSONS
Iknow how people work.
It’s one of the things that’s kept me alive this long, understanding what people want and how to give it to them. Or how to make them think I’ve given it to them.
I can make the Vsenrog palace guards smile, laugh, and then spill all of their secrets without even realizing what they’ve just told me.
Gods above, the number of men who’ve confessed infidelity, smuggling, or embezzling over a pint of beer or a game of cards.
I could write a book. Hells, I could write volumes.
But I still cannot understand what in the nine hells Varitan wants out of me.
It’s been three days. He’s left me mostly alone in this room, which is on the highest floor of the palace, close to Malrik’s personal quarters.
There’s a large, lovely bathing chamber and a wardrobe full of elegant, expensive clothes that are roughly my size.
The windows open on a sheer, four-story drop.
Food is delivered through a door in the wall, like a dungeon.
Varitan is the only one who ever enters the room.
Half the time he does so, he ignores me completely.
He messes around with the devices on the table, or does something I can’t see that makes my skin crawl and my gut pull tight.
At first, I tried asking questions, but he scowled at me until I stopped.
And sometimes he attacks me.
Occasionally, he’ll use his body, moving with a staff or a dagger. He’s fast, much faster than I would have expected.
But mostly he uses the silver chains.
Sometimes I’m fast enough to dodge the attack. Sometimes I can block it with a serving tray or a chunk of wood from his table.
And sometimes I stop the attack in other ways.
I’ll feel like I’m about to be sick, like something is getting ripped out of a deep, secret place in my body. And the silver chain will fall to the ground before it hits me, snapping and rattling on the polished stone floor.
I can’t block all the attacks, though, and when it hits me, the chain leaves strange, raised welts on my skin, almost like burns. They fade as the day wears on, although they leave me feeling jumpy and uncertain, like I’ve had too much black tea.
Varitan said he would teach me. And maybe this is what he meant. Maybe hitting me with a chain is what that sadistic bastard considers teaching, or maybe he’s waiting on the real lessons for some reason I can’t yet fathom. Either way, I keep my mouth shut.
Because he also said he would hurt Lilias. And I doubt that was an empty threat.
I sigh, then rock back on my heels. Through the expansive windows, the sun sinks toward the western mountains.
These rooms have a view of the palace courtyard, and this evening, the courtyard is buzzing with activity.
Malrik is clearly preparing for something.
He’s probably going to hold some sort of victory party to celebrate the way he slaughtered everyone who worked in Ethiria’s castle.
I cross my arms over my chest and turn back to the room. I’ve examined it rather painstakingly, starting with the massive table holding a mess of mysterious items. Shit, Varitan called those things when I first woke up here. Stage dressing.
But it’s not all stage dressing.
There are four daggers on the table, including one that’s so similar to the dagger I was wearing when Varitan abducted me that I’m certain Varitan left it here as a test. If I take it, I give him a reason to punish me.
There are also half a dozen unopened wine bottles, pushed against the wall on the side of the table, almost as if whoever set this particular stage wanted it to look like the wine wasn’t really part of the display. Like it was here for whoever wanted to drink themselves into oblivion.
I shiver, then turn away from the row of bottles. If this is an attempt to manipulate me, it’s rather transparent. I can almost hear Malrik directing whoever set this place up, trying to fill it with things that would tempt the snake.
I turn back to the window before my eyes can catch on the strip of red silk coiled between a collection of rough clay bowls.
I haven’t dared to touch it. I haven’t even dared to look at it too closely.
There’s no way it’s the same ribbon the priest used during the wedding ceremony to tie my life to Lilias’s. But the very fact that it’s here, that Malrik knew me well enough to choose something that would torture me that effectively—
Gods. It’s enough to make me want to break open those damn wine bottles.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
I turn back to the table. I’ve avoided the obvious traps, and I’ve still managed to find several things Varitan probably intended to keep hidden.
There’s a secret compartment in the desk, for one, that holds sheaths of parchment covered in a language I can’t read and a leather bag filled with what looks like fist-sized lumps of gold.
And there are two drawers at the end of the table.
They’re locked, but the locks were almost insultingly easy to pick.
Those hold promissory notes from King Malrik granting Varitan a jaw-dropping sum of gold, a massive estate on the coast, the title of Lord Varitan, and control over an armed platoon of Vsenrog soldiers, to be granted “once our operations are satisfactorily completed.”
The platoon piqued my interest.
I went through the platoon’s list of supplies carefully.
At first, I thought Varitan just wanted a shitload of guards to take him to his new estate on the coast. But the supplies look more like he’s planning a trip to the mountains.
I thought of Dungal first, but I can’t imagine why Varitan would want to attack the shattered remains of my kingdom.
No, he must be interested in crossing the Vederill Pass.
But why? I can’t imagine him setting up shop below the pass, harassing smugglers and collecting tolls. Gods above, with the gold King Malrik gave him, Varitan could probably buy that entire road and all the farms along it.
So does he want what’s on the other side of that pass? But what could that possibly be? The Iron Mountains? The kingdom of dragons? The long, dangerous road to Silver City?
I shake my head, then pinch the bridge of my nose. There’s something else on the other side of Vederill Pass, isn’t there? It’s like a shadow on the edge of my mind, something I heard about and then forgot.
The door creaks open. My body pulls tight, ready to fight; my skin crawls as Varitan steps into the room. He turns toward me. I hold my breath.
“Your king wants to torture you,” he announces.
“Well, good evening to you too,” I reply.
His lips pull tight, creating an expression that looks almost like he’s mocking the idea of a smile.
“You’re taking the news well,” Varitan says.
“He’s not my king,” I reply.
Varitan shrugs, then moves toward the table. I watch him, waiting for the shift in his posture that means he’s about to attack.
“After my little show,” Varitan continues, “he wants a funeral for the son you murdered. And then, naturally, you’re to pay for your crimes.”
My skin prickles in waves. Varitan must be doing something with the silver chains.
“It would be easiest to kill you,” he says, “but, stars, what a waste. I’m still convinced you have potential.”
I clench my jaw to keep from growling. After everything that’s happened to me since the day Malrik called me to his chambers and congratulated me on my upcoming wedding, I shouldn’t give a single shit about what this bastard thinks of me or my potential.
So why does that comment sting?
Varitan turns and frowns at me. “I suppose we need an illusion,” he says, as if the words are being dragged out of him. “Much as that’s going to slow down our lessons.”
Our lessons? I cross my arms over my chest. So far all he’s done is try to hit me, magically and otherwise. I don’t think I’ve learned a damn—
Oh. I blink as I suddenly realize what Varitan is teaching me.
“You’re teaching me to protect myself,” I say.
Varitan clucks, then shakes his head. “No.”
I frown. That’s all he’s done for three days, over and over. Hit me with those damned silver chains. If that’s not protection, then what is it?
Oh. Again. I clear my throat.
“You’re teaching me to protect,” I say. “What needs protecting?”
Varitan chuckles, and his lips twitch into a strange, hard smile.
“Me, of course,” he says. “This magic is dangerous. The last time I used it, I was—attacked.”
His face turns dark, and he turns back to the desk with a scowl.
The last time he used it? I think of Ethiria, of dust rising from the ruptured earth, blocking the sun. Screaming and smoke.
He’s not talking about that. No, the dark look on his face makes me think he’s remembering something else. Another war, fought with elves and magic.
That fragment of memory tugs at my mind, something connecting Varitan’s hidden plans to cross Vederill Pass to war, magic, and elves. Gods, what the hells is it?
Varitan growls, then turns back to me. I brace myself for yet another attack.
“My last conduit,” he says, spitting the word. “He was…unreliable. Difficult to work with.”
“Your son,” I say. It’s a guess, a random stab in the dark.
Varitan’s lips pull back in a growl, and a silver chain flies through the air toward my eyes. I don’t move. My skin prickles, and the chain crumples to the floor an arm’s length away from me.
That was a lazy attack. Varitan got angry, rushed, and made a mistake.
Thinking about his son sets him off balance. That’s useful.
Varitan growls again, then turns back to the table. He sweeps a collection of metal and wood onto the floor, where it makes a horrible crashing clatter.
I blink. This is the most emotion I’ve ever seen out of this bastard. And I can’t let him know I’ve noticed. I look down, like I’m examining my fingernails.
I think I know what’s on the other side of Vederill Pass, what he needs an entire platoon of Vsenrog soldiers to find.
This asshole’s son. Or what’s left of him.