Chapter 32 The Whitewing Queenpin
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The Whitewing Queenpin
The Whitewings were expecting Harrow Claver.
A letter had been delivered to the derelict plague house a day prior, announcing that the King’s Prophet would be paying a visit to discuss important state matters.
Harrow had anticipated a more defensive response from the Whitewings, who had only just laid down roots on Fallow Grange and were surely perturbed that their new headquarters had been discovered so soon.
But when Harrow arrived at the agreed upon time, the door swung open of its own volition, admitting him inside with a woeful creak of rusted hinges.
The plague house was pitch dark, and reeked of something very old and very dead, like the leathery serpent skins sold in apothecaries.
The front door pulled itself shut behind Harrow, and when his eyesight adjusted to the blackness, he picked out a straight, narrow corridor snaking away from the entrance.
The only light came from the top of a flight of rotted wooden stairs, a faint white glow with no clear origin.
“Up here,” called a voice—high, soft, female—from somewhere above.
Primal instincts prickling, Harrow drew his wand and climbed, certain his polished boots would crumble through a damp slat at any given moment.
The steps opened out onto an equally decrepit landing, the floorboards bare and flecked with black mold, blue wallpaper peeling away like fruit rind, a crooked chandelier dangling from the ceiling and emitting feeble flickers of light.
Harrow stepped through the lone open door at the back of the house.
The room had once been a parlor, judging by the scattered, sheet-strewn chaise longues and proud bookshelves.
Crates of neatly labeled substances lined the units, most of whose labels Harrow did not recognize, as well as several metallic lockboxes.
The drapes were so moth-eaten they might crumble under a particularly stern exhale, but efforts had been made to make the space more pleasant—embroidered rugs layered over grotty floorboards, a vase of fresh white roses on the curtained windowsill, three velvines purring around their mistress.
Their mistress, who sat behind a tall desk, feet kicked up, wand spinning between her fingers.
Their mistress, flanked by two white cloaked mages with larger muscles than really seemed feasible.
Their mistress, whom Harrow had met many times before.
Alucia Martou.
He stumbled backward.
Impossible.
For several moments, words failed him.
She looked different now—leaner, sharper, dark brown hair hacked off bluntly at her jaw, a white felt patch strung over one eye. Her white cloak had raised shoulder pads embroidered with black wings. A mark of seniority, perhaps.
“The King’s Prophet,” Alucia said, looking lightly amused by his reaction. “What a pleasure.”
“I thought I’d be dealing with Avar Martou,” Harrow eventually managed, trying not to wince as a velvine rubbed against his shin. He was a little allergic to the beasts, and already felt his nose twitch, red bumps rising on his skin.
Alucia shrugged. “My brother is dead.”
Recovering quickly, Harrow summoned his trademark charm, pulling his mouth wide in a charismatic smile. “I thought you were dead, my darling.”
“So Porrol Vogolan would have the city believe. Although my purported murder has been a useful guise as we’ve organized, these past few months.”
“Vogolan lied?” Harrow asked stupidly, for stupid reasons.
“By omission, I suppose—an outright lie would’ve seen the brand slay him.
I’ll admit he was clever to outwit it. He’d never have admitted to Lyrian Celadon that I’d successfully fled.
Though I hear they’ve both met their demise.
” A specter of old emotion ghosted over her face. “How has Levan taken it?”
At this, Harrow bristled (somewhat hypocritically). “I think you lost the right to ask after Levan many betrayals ago.”
“Merely a courtesy. I know everything important anyway.”
“You’ve been dealing some critical blows to the Bloodmoons, of late.”
“I presume that’s why you’re here. You and Levan always had a soft spot for each other.”
Harrow shot her a ravishing smile. “I’m here because I have a prophecy you might find interesting.”
Alucia dropped her heels from the top of the desk, leaning forward. “I’m listening.”
Though Harrow had always insisted that he was loyal to no throne and no cause—not House Arollan, not the Bloodmoons, not even Levan—he couldn’t deny the flicker of guilt.
Yes, he was following orders, floating abstractly above the great game of crime and punishment in Vallin’s capital, not caring all too much about who’d emerge triumphant, but the sight of Levan’s lost love made everything a lot more real.
“It won’t come for free, my dear.”
Alucia studied him calmly. “You don’t seem very afraid of me.”
Harrow shrugged. “Years of experience have taught me that I’m far too valuable for most people to consider killing.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t kill you—so far, the throne has largely ignored us, and I’d like to keep it that way. But there are other ways of extracting prophecies. Pain, suffering, truth elixir.”
Harrow withdrew a hip flask from his cloak pocket, taking a hearty swig.
“And what would happen when you let me walk out of here—which you’d have to do, to keep the Crown off your back—and I never returned, never again shared any fruitful foretellings with you?
Shouldn’t we come to a more civil arrangement? ”
Alucia seemed vaguely entertained by his easy air. “Very well. How much?”
“Oh, I have little interest in coin. I’ve never found myself particularly lacking in it. I prefer to trade in secrets.”
Alucia’s stare hardened like fresh forged steel. “My very existence is surely secret enough.”
“A valid point.”
“Continue, then. I’m awaiting a large drop of darkseed, and you’ve already outstayed your welcome.”
Harrow steadied himself to execute the chess move King Quintan had formulated.
“I saw a bloody uprising,” he murmured, imbuing his words with the sort of misty reverence he knew played well when sharing prophecies.
“The Palace stormed, scarlet cloaks flapping through the great halls, corpses strewn left and right like rag dolls. Screaming—so much screaming. The guards were dead. The throne room had been barricaded, but it would not hold for much longer.”
The two sentries flanking the queenpin exchanged hateful looks.
Alucia kept her expression neutral, but barely. “The Bloodmoons are going to take the Palace. And the throne?”
“If we allow them to grow in power, then yes, it looks likely.”
“But it could be prevented?” she asked, tone dark with hunger.
Harrow smiled faintly. “Perhaps.”
“Aren’t all of your prophecies guaranteed to come to pass?”
“Nobody truly knows. I just thought you might like to try and change such a fate.”
“So it’s for our benefit. Nothing to do with House Arollan trying to thwart their own downfall.”
“Our goals align.”
“Why doesn’t Quintan enlist the military he’s worked so hard to build? Eradicate the Bloodmoons over the course of a single evening.”
“And spit in the face of the justice system? The courts and the Silvercloaks were established to bring order, to promise fair trial and lawful arrests. Deploying the military would signify lack of faith in his own institutions.”
“So the king wants us to do his dirty work for him.”
“The king has no official position,” Harrow recited by rote. “I came of my own accord.”
Alucia shook her head, straining to understand the bigger picture. “Why are you doing this? Levan—”
“I care for Levan, yes. That does not mean I want the Bloodmoons on the throne. King Quintan may not be the most popular regent in Vallin’s history, but he is a pacifistic one.
For all I love to stir the pot, I don’t want to see the continent plunged into war.
Who knows where it would stop if the scarlets took control. ”
Alucia stood, spine wand-straight, pixie chin raised. “And you’re aware that in the process of attempting to prevent such a thing, Levan himself may lose his life.”
Something deep inside Harrow keened and twisted.
“I would rather he didn’t. But do as you must.”