For all your power as a mage, you’ll never be able to do what my son can, what a HoloFae can, so how’s that for dignity, brother?”
She immediately recognized the anger that flashed across his face at her scorning words and regretted it. She knew how cold and dangerous he could be. She had watched him toy and torture the slaves of their house for years before she was exiled. Always practicing some spell or a potion on them, not caring at all if it maimed or killed them.
“I’m sorry brother, I meant no disrespect. I just miss my son is all.”
“Of course, you do dear sister, You and your slave husband have had such a hard time since your exile. So, I won’t make this any harder on you.” His words did not match the cruel look in his eyes. Nor did they do anything to relieve the terror his smile caused in her.
“Your son now works for me,” he said, as his face and tone became deadly serious.
“I have sent him on a most dangerous quest, one I require the means to track him on. You and your manservant will give me a vial of your blood, so I may do that when I choose.”
The woman’s eyes went wide with terror not for herself, but for her son. She had given him up to give him a better life, hoping the evil of her family wouldn’t find him.
“Brother, please, please don’t hurt my son.” She begged, falling to her knees at his feet. Her husband slowly began inching from the bed, hoping to rush the mage before he could cast another awful spell.
Zannith saw the movement, though, catching it out of the corner of his eye. From under his cloak, he quickly drew a wicked-looking dagger. He brought the blade out of its sheath and flung it at the man all in one smooth motion, striking him in the side of the throat. The man dropped to the floor and tried to speak, but all that came were the sounds of bloody gurgles.
Zannith grabbed his sister by the hair and jerked her head back, so she was forced to watch her dying husband,
“You see, sister, no, not sister, Miriam! You’re not worthy of being my sister anymore.” She tried desperately to escape his grip, but the more she struggled, the harder he pulled. Until finally, her hair could not take the strain and pulled loose from her scalp as she tumbled backward onto the floor.
She managed to grab hold of a sturdy iron rod as she fell, the one that Zannith had used earlier to stoke the fireplace. Then swung it at him with all her might.
Which the mage simply leaped back from, dodging the wild swing with ease. And before she could swing again, he cast another spell. Causing her body to jerk and heave as the magic-infused pain now surged through every limb.
Miriam crumpled to the floor and lay there, unable to even scream. All she could do is watch as Zannith retrieved his dagger from her now-dead husband, then filled a small glass vial with his blood.
Wiping the blade clean on the man’s shirt, he rose and moved to where she lay. Grabbing her hair once more, he pulled her head up from the floor, then straddled her back and placed the blade under her chin.
Zannith leaned down and kissed her on the cheek as he whispered in her ear.
“Don’t worry, Miriam, once your son’s quest is complete. You will see him again, I promise.”
As the last of his words filled her ear, he slid the blade across her throat and dropped it to the floor. Then he produced another small vial and quickly filled it with the fresh blood.
He held her there suspended from the floor until he saw all light fade from her eyes. Then he released her hair and let her drop back onto the floor. He didn’t even retrieve his dagger, as he tucked the vial into a pocket under his cloak and headed outside.
Now he had what he needed, both the blood to track his nephew, and no one left besides his mother who could challenge him for Luna’Dwell. And his mother would not be a problem for long, not once he had the Dragons Heart in his hands.
He couldn’t help but smile at the thought of finally taking his place as king, and at having his vengeance on those who stole that from him when he was exiled.
18
Thankfully the road and weather had been kind to Rone and his companions. They had traveled for days now with no hint of trouble, allowing them to make good time in reaching the Moon elf city of Dusk Haven.
Something Rone was glad of, he knew things were grim in Agnar, but he wanted to keep a positive outlook as best he could. That reason alone is why he did not commune with the trees to check up on Max and the other Thorn Callers’.
They were only a few more days from their destination now, and even Trish seemed to be warming up to them, laughing and joking with Traijen or petting Fang when they stopped to water the horses or eat a meal.
At night when they pitched camp, she would sit for hours asking all sorts of questions about the Thorn Callers, forest magic, and what it’s like being a half-blood. A subject Rone would rather avoid but answered her questions anyway.
Through such conversations, she realized, though, that it offended Rone to be called a HoloFae. Something she actively worked to avoid now. Which unfortunately took some effort. As like most elves, it had become second nature for her to call half-bloods by that title.
These long conversations had served another purpose as well. They allowed Rone to realize Trish wasn’t as uptight as she seemed. She was merely uneducated in the way the world works.
Sure, she had plenty of book knowledge on the history and the races of Earthera, but she lacked any real interactions with them outside the walls of the tower.
She had been a mage in training most of her life, being left in the care of the Crimson Order since she was a young child. Rone felt a kinship with her over that, knowing what it’s like for one’s parents to pass them off without a look back. Upon learning something similar had also happened to Rone, Trisha’s whole demeanor towards him softened.
Which Rone felt was both a good and bad thing, good because they wouldn’t be continually bickering, bad because he caught himself staring at her when she wasn’t looking and admiring what he saw. Neither had he failed to notice Traijen doing the same thing.
A bark from Fang as they rounded a curve in the road told Rone someone was approaching. He whistled for the big wolf to come back to his side, and they watched as a wagon in the distance drew nearer.
“Probably a merchant,” Trisha said as they stopped and waited.
“Oh, I hope he has some sweet rolls, some jackleg pickpocket stole my last one back in Crag Moor.” Rone laughed out loud at the look of pouting Traijen displayed,
“You mean to tell me someone stole a sweet roll from the man who claims to be a master rogue? You must be slipping then.” Rones words caused Traijen to poke out his chest in defiance,
“I most certainly am not, they took them while I was in the privy thank you very much.
As the wagon drew closer, the fur on Fang's neck stood up, and he dropped his head low as the growl that emanated from him warned Rone something was wrong. He brought his bow up from the saddle, and Traijen laid a ready hand on the hilt of his daggers. Even Trish was unnerved by the sudden aggression of the big wolf.
The wagon continued forward, but Rone could see now the driver was slumped over on the bench. His hands still gripped the reins tightly, but their movement was purely a result of the jostling bumps of the road.
Rone spurred his horse and rushed forward next to the wagon for a better look, only to discover the driver wasn’t a man at all but a DokalFae woman.
The hood of her cloak pulled tightly around her head as if trying to hide her features. A deep gash ran down the length of her left cheek, and her clothes were tattered and torn. Arrows riddled both the back of her wagon and the body of the man inside it.