Veiled lightning crashed in the distance, grumbling again and again, as if the sky cursed in tongues of thunder.
Chemoise’s heart froze. “I’ve only heard such a sound once before—at Castle Sylvarresta. It sounds like a Darkling Glory is coming!”
19
A Warm Welcome
Inkarran politics are subtle and hard for an outsider to grasp. The royal families are at war on so many levels that only one thing is sure: for every friend you make in Inkarra, you will make a dozen enemies.
Cold water slapped Sir Borenson’s face. He woke in near total darkness and tried to reach up to wipe himself dry, but the shackles on his hands were chained to his feet, and he could not move.
He could smell the musty scent of Inkarran blankets, and the peculiar odor of Inkarran flesh, a scent that somehow reminded him of cats. He could smell the mineral tang of an underground room, but he could see almost nothing. He knew that people surrounded him. He could hear them breathing, moving about.
He tried kicking with his feet, but they were chained to his wooden bed, as was his neck.
In the darkness, King Criomethes stirred, setting an empty flagon next to his head. “So, you wake now. Very good.”
“Where am I?” Borenson demanded in almost a shout. He wrenched his head around. He could see just the slightest glow of coals in a hearth. By their light, he could pick out some shapes in the room—a few pillows on the floor, low tables. Nearby, in almost total darkness, lay another board made of heavy wooden planks. A woman was chained to it, hand and foot, lying on her back. “Myrrima?”
“She not hear you,” Criomethes said. “The poison, she get more than you. Still sleep. We let her sleep.”
“What are you doing?” Borenson asked. He sensed that hours had passed. He recognized this room. The fire had been burning merrily in the hearth when he and Myrrima first entered.
“Must talk to you,” Criomethes said. The old king came and leaned over Borenson in the darkness. His pale skin was as white as cloud, and Borenson could make out some of the details of it. His eyes were cold, so cold. He peered at Borenson as if he were a bug. “You very willful man. I like.”
“Willful?” Borenson asked.
“Take willful man to pass wards in mountains,” Criomethes said. “Great will. Few can do this, no?”
It had taken every ounce of determination that Borenson had to cross that border. No words could describe the torment he’d felt as he forged ahead, plodding on with each step, even as the wards filled him with self-loathing.
“I don’t think many would try.”
“Ah,” Criomethes breathed out, as if deeply satisfied. “In Inkarra, most men take endowment from family. You know this? Father, when old, give endowment to son. Uncle give to brother’s son. This best way. Endowments transfer best from father to son. You know this?”
“No,” Borenson said. “I’ve never heard that.”
“Unh,” Criomethes said. “That because Rofehavan facilitators very fool. Very backward.”
“I’ll take your word on it,” Borenson said.
Criomethes smiled, a grandfatherly smile, yet somehow sinister. “Taking endowments only in family, not good,” he said after a moment. “It weaken family. My thought, best take endowment from enemy. Yes?”
Borenson knew where this was going.
“You my enemy,” Criomethes said in a tone so cold it hinted at murder. “Understand?”
“I understand,” Borenson said. “You hate all of my people.”
“I buy you endowment. From you. Want endowment. Best endowment is will? Understand?”
A flood of fear surged through Borenson. For ages, rumor said that the Inkarrans transferred endowments of will, but no northerner had ever seen the rune that controlled it.
Borenson knew what was being asked of him. What he didn’t know was the cost. How could a man live without will?
“I don’t understand,” Borenson said, stalling for time. He considered calling for help, but this room had been at the end of a long hallway.
“Please,” Criomethes said. “Must understand. Will. Will is good. Will...it make all endowment strong. It add much effect. Give man strength, he pretty strong. Give man strength and will, he become very strong. Ferocious! See? Give man wit, he pretty smart. Give him wit and will, he become very smart. Sit up, think all night. Very cunning. See? Give man stamina, he not very tired. Give him stamina and will, he unstoppable. So, you sell me will?”
“No,” Borenson said, trying to buy time.
“Oh, too bad,” Criomethes said. “You think about it.” He stepped aside.
There was movement over by the fire. A shadowy figure hunched above it, peering into the coals. Borenson recognized Prince Verazeth, all dressed in black. He advanced on Myrrima. He reached down and picked up something, a metal rod that looked like a long, thin knife.
“Wait!” Borenson said. “Let’s talk about this.”
But Verazeth didn’t want to talk. He stepped over to Myrrima, grabbed her tunic, and ripped, exposing her bare back.
“Stop!” Borenson begged. He heard squeamish cries across the room. The Inkarran women were still here. “Help us!” he called.
Verazeth plunged the dagger into Myrrima’s back at a shallow angle, burying its entire length just under the skin. There was the sound of sizzling flesh, and steam rose from the wound. Even in her drugged stupor, Myrrima cried out, her head arching back up off her wooden table as far as it would go.
“Zandaros!” Borenson screamed with his might. “Help us!”
“No one help you!” Criomethes said calmly. “Zandaros and other lords leave hours ago. He chasing after reavers you tell about. All day gone by. No one help you. No one help wife. Only you can help wife. Understand?”
“You won’t get away with this,” Borenson said. “Zandaros will be angry when he finds out.”
“Zandaros not find out,” Criomethes said. “We not want peace, not want open border. My friends, they tell Zandaros that you go home.”
Prince Verazeth left the burning metal in Myrrima’s back, and she whimpered as he returned to the fire and picked up another poker. He spat. The poker made a sizzling sound.
In the dim light, Borenson saw the profile of the prince’s face. He was smiling. His silver eyes reflected the red coals of the fire.
He enjoys this, Borenson realized. There was a coldness to his smile that hinted at something worse than malice—complete indifference.
“Is shame,” Criomethes said. “Wife very beautiful. Is shame to scar her. Is shame to torture, make die.”
Verazeth approached Myrrima, and Borenson’s heart beat wildly. He kicked at the chains that bound him, tried ripping free, all to no effect. The oversized chains and shackles were made to hold a man who had many endowments.
Verazeth plunged the second knife under Myrrima’s skin, just above the kidneys, and smiled as he twisted it into her flesh.
Myrrima’s head arced up, and every muscle in her went rigid, but the chains that held her were as strong as those that held Borenson. She let out a howl of pain that broke his heart, then fell back in a stupor.
“Please, stop!” he said. “Let her live!”
“You sell?” Criomethes asked.
“Yes!” Borenson said.
“Must want sell very bad,” Criomethes said. “Must want sell more than want life itself. Must want give with all heart.”
“I know,” Borenson said. “I know. Just let her go. Promise you’ll let her live!”
“Of course,” Criomethes said. “You give me will, she live. I promise. I man of honor.”
“You’ll set her free?” Borenson demanded.
“Yes. We take her hills, set free.”
“Let her go, then,” Borenson said.