The prisoner looked up as he approached, and Terys’ steps faltered for just a moment. The man’s face was handsome enough, even with the rapidly deepening bruise, but his eyes—they were hard eyes, steel blue and penetrating. The eyes of a killer.
The guard stopped a few feet from the sulking prisoner, leaving enough room to draw his sword should the need arise. The man was still drunk, evidenced by his slightly swaying posture and his rapid, irregular breath, but there was no reason to leave himself completely vulnerable should the man’s anger overcome his common sense.
Terys ran calloused fingers across his goatee, in a move calculated to disguise his own tension. He regarded the prisoner briefly, hoping that the interrogation would move along quickly so that he could finish up for the night, but the man’s flat gaze revealed nothing.
Puzzled, he drew breath to speak but was cut off by the sound of a feminine voice. “There you are, Captain. I’m glad to see you’ve finally arrived.”
Terys flinched. The voice was rich and textured, almost sultry, but even he could hear the biting tone of self-conscious authority mixed with reflexive disdain. Noble, he thought. No doubt slumming the Poor Quarter, looking for some lowborn excitement before she returned to the trying world of servants and sumptuous meals. It wasn’t that uncommon. He just wished it had happened on someone else’s watch.
He turned to face the source of the voice, hoping that his face disguised the frustration he was feeling, and caught his breath. Before him stood one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She smiled gracefully, throwing exquisite features into stunning relief, and all at once he felt an ungainly fool. It wasn’t until he gazed at the gold ring and matching medallion, etched with the long-antlered stag, symbol of House Damar, that he realized just how complicated his evening had become.
“Milady, I was simply going to interrogate the prisoner,” he responded, looking back at the hulking drunk.
“Well,” the noble said, ice creeping into her voice, “I would hardly call a friend of the daughter of the Duke of Flinthill a prisoner now—” she paused “—would I?”
Terys swallowed hard. This wasn’t going well at all. “Milady,” he managed to force out the words, “other witnesses name this man the cause of the evening’s … brutalities. I do have my orders. He must be detained and questioned.”
“Nonsense,” she exclaimed. “You will release him at once, and I will take full responsibility for his actions. I’ve already paid the innkeeper—” she spoke the word with such disgust that it was clear to him what she truly thought of this establishment—“for any damages that may have resulted from tonight’s mishap. I’m sure you’ll agree that everything is taken care of.”
“B-but my orders…” Terys stammered. “Surely you understand that I have to follow procedure on this.”
“Now, Captain,” she said, drawing closer, and he could feel his face flushing red at their proximity, “I would hate to have to tell the city commander that I had difficulty with one of his captains the next time I see him at dinner.”
The threat was as real as it was politely delivered, and Terys found himself backed into a corner. Enforcing the law was his duty, but the labyrinthine complexity of Nyrondese politics was not unknown to him. The city commander would not appreciate the daughter of one of the major noble houses of the realm criticizing his troops. On the other hand, a favor delivered now might cause this Damarian daughter to smile upon the commander’s efforts, something he would surely reward the one who dispensed the original favor.
“Well, Milady. If you are taking responsibility for this … gentleman, then who am I to gainsay you? I will release him,” he replied, and ordered one of his subordinates to loosen the man’s bonds.
And may you both be damned, he thought.
“Thank you, Captain. I’m glad that we could come to such an understanding.” She smiled again, the graceful upturn of her lips belying the condescension that Terys could hear dripping from each word.
Bitch, he thought as he turned to go.
“Oh, and captain, one more thing,” the lady said, “next time we meet, please feel free to address me as Lady Majandra.” With a toss of her fire-red hair, she put a slim-fingered hand on her companion’s shoulders and guided him out of the tavern.
“Why did you help me?” Kaerion asked. His deep voice still slurred, though Majandra couldn’t tell if that was from the ale he’d consumed or the cracked and swelling lip that still bled.
She thought of her answer as they weaved their way through the narrow, angled streets of the Rich Quarter. After their exit from the Men O’Steel tavern, the bard had quickly started to guide them back to the suite at the Platinum Shield. They had made most of the trip in silence, their quiet journey broken by the whistling of Kaerion’s nose as he drew breath through his nostrils. It was only after they had entered this section of the city that the man had spoken.
“What good is being noble-born if you can’t use it to your advantage once in a while?” she said finally as they made their way through the servant’s entrance to the Platinum Shield.
A few of the serving lads and kitchen maids looked askance at their condition, but Majandra paid them no heed. A few silver coins would keep their tongues relatively quiet.
She started to bring Kaerion up the side stairs to her room, but stopped when she heard Bredeth’s arrogant whine close by. She cursed and guided the listing fighter back down the stairs and through a side passage. It wouldn’t do for any of her companions to see Kaerion like this—especially Bredeth. That highborn dolt would make an issue of it, and she didn’t want to risk the possibility of Kaerion walking away from their offer. They needed him.
Or perhaps you need him, a small voice whispered in her mind. She ignored the implications of that and tried once again to sneak him upstairs. This time, Norebo, god of luck, smiled upon her. Majandra breathed a sigh of relief as she led Kaerion to her bed and closed the door to her suite.
Gently, she helped Kaerion out of his tunic, wincing at the sight of fresh bruises and old scars that marred the sweeping cut of his massive chest and broad back. By the time she tucked silk sheets around his girth, he was half asleep, staring vacantly at the ceiling.
“Didn’t answer… question,” he mumbled as she made to leave. “Why… help… me?”
When the answer came, it surprised even her. “Because you have a tale to tell, and I’m a sucker for a tale. Especially,” she said, half to herself, “when it comes wrapped in a gorgeous frame like yours.”
But Kaerion hadn’t heard. Sleep had finally claimed him.
6
The days passed with a quiet hum of intensity as Phathas and his companions met with a seemingly endless array of merchants, provisioners, caravan masters, and even a few of the old wizards colleagues from the Royal University. The group checked and rechecked their calculations, measuring the distance against their available stores and trying to plan for most emergencies. Nights were spent poring over old maps and the notes from Phathas’ research, verifying the probable location of the ancient tomb and the safest possible route toward it.
Kaerion watched the preparations from a distance, trying hard not to remember spending his time similarly in the years when he commanded battalions of armed men. For that’s what the activities of the last few days felt like—preparations for a war. He just couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that they had already lost.
Why then, he asked himself several times, am I staying?
Ever since he had woken up the morning after his ill-fated altercation at the Men O’Steel, he knew that he would accompany Gerwyth and the rest of the group on their journey. Perhaps it was the perverse desire to confound and antagonize the hot-headed Bredeth, who had spent a good portion of that morning arguing with Majandra, Gerwyth, and Vaxor once he had learned about Kaerion’s activities of the previous evening. Or perhaps it was the fact that, despite his protestations to the contrary, a part of him still believed in the power of friendship and honor. Perhaps it was even the desire to remain close to the fiery-haired bard, the only person besides Gerwyth who, in the last decade, had ever shown him a measure of true kindness. In the din and tumult surrounding the last few days, it was difficult for him to identify his motivations. He only knew that he had woken up that morning with a blazing hangover and a commitment to the upcoming journey. Only one of those two things had eventually faded away.