The lonesome crown, p.56
The Lonesome Crown, page 56
Bronwyn cast her dark gaze around the valley. “I daresay, we at least got our pick of good horses to speed our travels.” She nodded to Cromm. “To Amadon it is, then.”
“Not before we go back to Savon,” Tala said with resolve. “We go back for Jondralyn. We should never have left her atop that tower. I shall take her back to Amadon and my brother. She shall be buried as a princess of Gul Kana ought to be buried.”
“You’re bleeding,” Nail said, pointing to her arm.
Tala raised her arm. Sure enough, her wrist was drenched in scarlet. Her shirtsleeve was caked to her arm with blood. She slowly, painfully peeled back the sleeve clear to her shoulder, revealing two long cuts, the wounds showing red and angry in the musty air. The cuts intersected in almost the perfect shape of a cross, one cut longer than the other, the wound disappearing beneath her shirt toward her chest.
Bronwyn said, “We should wrap those injuries.”
“Aye.” Tala nodded, looking up at Nail’s frightened gaze. The Gallows Haven boy was staring right at her cross-shapped wounds.
Only starlight and silver can bring forth those true Aalavarrè Solas who were reared in the depths of the underworld. Only Dragon Claw can bring forth the Silver Throne. Only complete and absolute freedom can bring about true loyalty and devotion, even in the beasts of the underworld.
—THE ANGEL STONE CODEX
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE LINDHOLF LE GRAVEN
14TH DAY OF THE BLOOD MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
EAST OF DEVLIN, GUL KANA
Hedgerows, stone fences, and lush fields lined either side of the dusty road. Lindholf Le Graven’s horse moved at an easy stride down the long green hill toward their destination, a large white manor house nestled in the center of a farm on the outskirts of Devlin. Enna Spades was certain they would find what medicines they needed there.
They had both removed their black Dayknight helms some time ago, letting the cool breeze dry the sweat on their brows. Red hair flowed free around Spades’ freckled face. The bloody bandage around her neck was stark and white in the sloping sun. She suffered from the bites of Liz Hen’s dog, Beer Mug. Infected veins of a sickly green color could be seen twining like tiny serpents up the warrior woman’s neck under her chin. Some stray veins even traced green streaks up the sides of her cheeks. Her eyes were rimmed in bruises, her face pallid as bone. Enna Spades was dying.
“Sorry I have not found you any Shroud of the Vallè, Ser Lindholf Le Graven,” she said. Her speech was growing ever more sickly and slurred. She breathed heavily in exertion as she continued talking. “I know I promised you the Shroud. And I’ve been dreary company these last few days. But you should know, if I do not survive beyond today, I have grown to enjoy your company, Lindholf Le Graven.”
She always called Lindholf by his full name. She was respectful that way. Am I her captive or willing travel companion? Lindholf asked himself that daily. “You could be somewhere else,” he said to her, “eating a hot meal, sleeping in a warm bed, yet here you are with me. Here with all the weapons of the Five Warrior Angels.”
“And a festering wound,” she added. “Besides, soon there won’t be anywhere in the entire Five Isles with hot meals or warm beds. May as well be here with you, right?”
Her wound was growing more serious by the moment. She could hardly stay ahorse the last ten miles. Lindholf had nursed her along. He could tell the Sør Sevier woman continued the journey with naught but the force of her own will and sheer determination. Spades had assured him that if they made it to the manor house, medicines to stave off her infection would be there, along with Shroud of the Vallè for him.
The white sword, Afflicted Fire, was also greatly weighing her down. The long weapon was strapped to the baldric hanging over her armored back. The leather strap of the white shield, Ethic Shroud, was hooked over her left arm. All of that combined with her Dayknight armor was enough to wear down even the stoutest of knights. However, even in her infirm state, Enna Spades bore them with no complaint. On top of that, the five angel stones rode in the leather pouch at her belt.
It wasn’t as if Lindholf was having an easy go of it himself. Forgetting Moon was fastened to his back. At times, the battle-ax was heavy beyond belief. At other times, the ax felt as light as a feather. The battle helm, Lonesome Crown, and the crossbow, Blackest Heart, were in a canvas sack slung over the stout flanks of his mount.
Four days had passed since they had fled Savon, and all that time Lindholf’s mind had been reeling from the events he’d witnessed at the Preening Pintail: the death of Jondralyn; seeing Tala Bronachell and Lawri in the streets under the tower, the silver gauntlet attached to his sister’s arm; how he had failed Jondralyn.
Now he was a thief and traitor to his homeland, traveling with one of Gul Kana’s greatest enemies in search of drugs. But was Enna Spades his enemy? In the four days he had known her, she had treated him with more kindness and respect than anyone ever had. The fact was, Lindholf knew he liked the woman that first morning they were together after fleeing Savon.
It started at daybreak, before they broke camp. He was scared, lost, nervously polishing his black Dayknight armor with a strip of burlap and rainwater, mindlessly scrubbing every plate and joint for lack of anything else to do, trying to keep his mind on anything but his many failures. He could still remember when Gault Aulbrek had killed the man who once wore the armor he now shined—the man had shit himself and befouled the armor. And Gault had forced Lindholf to clean it, something Lindholf would not soon forget. And ever since then, it seemed as if he cleaned the armor constantly, just to take his mind off horrible things. Horrible and strange things, like how the woman he now traveled with was the woman from his visions. A fierce red-haired warrior woman in black armor and a long white sword, its hilt-guard the shape of a crescent moon. That was what the mermaid in Memory Bay had shown him. And he had been polishing the armor over and over as if trying to scrub away a thousand such ill memories.
“Exceptionally shiny, that armor,” Spades eventually commented, looking a good deal irritated that he was doing anything at all. But she always looked irritated that first day together. “It’s likely the cleanest armor I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks,” he answered, still buffing the armor.
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Oh.”
“Only useless ass-lickers shine their boots and armor and other such gear. And what’s even worse are the leaders who require such pointless exercises. Did you have some useless captain trick you into polishing your armor like that with false promises of earning rank and accolades just because your boots were the shiniest? Were you one of the ass-lickers who believed such garbage?”
He stopped shining the armor, embarrassed, dejected, confused.
But she threw him a wink and a curling little smile. “If you’d like to duel me over the insult, I’d be fine with that.”
She was joking with him. He relaxed.
She went on, “You remind me of an idiot Hound Guard I had the misfortune of talking with after the sacking of Gallows Haven. He’d shined his armor so bright he almost glowed. Don’t know if he even lived out the night. Can’t even recall his name.” She paused, reflecting. “But one cannot be expected to recall the names of every idiot soldier one meets. However, I do recall Ser Angus Mark. He was my captain when I was first recruited into the Rowdies some ten years ago. A man plum full of needless ideas: shine your boots, shine your armor, press your breeches, press your bedsheets, and make your bed at the beginning of every day. He went so far as to claim one could not become a worthwhile soldier if they didn’t properly discipline themselves to make their bed each morning, and make it with extreme precision and perfection. And he drilled that frivolous bullshit into us recruits without ceasing. At times he was so focused on the minutiae of his piddly little rules he ignored the more important parts of our training: hard work, practice, swordsmanship, archery, shield work, sparring.”
“But I reckon you made your bed until you moved out of his unit?” Lindholf tried to joke back with her. “Like a good little soldier, no?”
“Not quite,” she answered. “I deliberately did not make my bed for several days, earning his wrath. Then one morning in our barracks, as he stood over my untidy bed, lecturing me on all my faults as a soldier and a woman in front of all the other Rowdies, I drew my sword and rammed it up under his chin and into his brain. I watched him slip from my sword and fall over backward onto my unmade bed, dark, warm blood pumping from the hole in his neck all over my unpressed sheets. When Aeros heard of the incident he threatened to throw me into the dungeons of Rokenwalder. It wasn’t hard to change his mind… if you take my meaning. Point is, I despise fancy armor, and I certainly don’t number any shiny-armored knights as my friends. So if you aim to get along with me, stop buffing that fucking armor.”
Lindholf let the burlap fall to the ground, muttering, “I only clean it because the man who wore this particular set of armor before me shit himself in it when he died.”
“Interesting.” Spades raised her eyebrow at that. “I was not expecting that excuse. In fact, I can almost admire that reasoning for your precise fastidiousness. I can almost call you friend.”
“I’ve not had a friend in several moons,” he said, and then cursed the pathetic tone he heard in his own voice.
“Well, don’t look to me to be your friend just yet. I prefer traveling alone. I still haven’t decided which will take more energy: carrying all the weapons myself, or having you along as a helper. I seldom like traveling with strange men. I have little to say to most men, when they invariably have much to say to me.”
“Because you’re so pretty,” he blurted. “They desire to talk to you because you are pretty. The White Prince did not throw you into the dungeons because you are pretty. All men become babbling fools around pretty girls.”
She laughed. “And I just ain’t inclined to pointless conversation. And you are correct, pointless conversation is all most men have to offer when around a pretty girl. It ain’t polite for you to say. But I do enjoy your honesty. Men do only talk to me because I am pretty.” She winked at him. “It’s a curse and burden we pretty folk must bear, no?”
“Well, I’m only talking to you because you’re the only one around,” he said.
Spades laughed again. “You’re more of a scoundrel than you let on.”
Lindholf laughed too, relaxing even more now. He enjoyed her conversation and minor teasing. “How long have you been a Dayknight?” he inquired, to be polite. “Where are you from?”
“I ain’t a Dayknight.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you not listen to anything I just said?”
“Right.” He nodded. “Pointless conversation.”
“Avoid pointless questions like that and we should get along just fine.” She winked at him again, smiling. “Besides, you know my Dayknight armor is stolen, just like yours, Ser Lindholf Le Graven.” And that was the moment when she had started calling him by his full name.
Lindholf knew he could not escape Enna Spades if he wanted, which he didn’t, for he also knew his own lack. He could not steal the weapons and stones from her and go his own way. He knew exactly why he stayed with her. He liked her. She was pretty. And her promise of Shroud of the Vallè consumed his mind at all times.
He felt a fierce need for the white powder. It was like the blood in his veins was doing battle with every other part of him, just awaiting its taste. No. He could not steal the weapons and angel stones. Even sick and near death, Enna Spades was competent enough to track him down. And he needed the promised Shroud. And, all things considered, she was a better travel companion than either Gault or Delia had been.
His mind back in the present, craving the white powder, he asked Spades, “Are you sure those in the manor house below have any Shroud of the Vallè?”
“They will.” Spades cast a wan smile his way. “I know what oghul lives there. I passed this way once before in search of Mancellor. He was kind enough to have his farrier re-shoe my horse.”
“An oghul lives there?” Lindholf questioned.
“The type of oghul who deals in dark oghul magics and secret Vallè alchemy.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.” Lindholf started off toward their destination. It looked like a thriving farm clinging to the outskirts of Devlin, its centerpiece a broad three-story manor house posturing before the dirty town like a jewel. Lush and groomed gardens of rosebushes and ivy marked the entire farm and gated entrance, and the roadway leading up to it.
“Just remember your job at the Preening Pintail,” Spades said. Sweat was clinging to her pale forehead. “When we reach the house, stand stiff in your armor at my side, stoic and calm, like the doorman at a tavern. Standing still is exceptional intimidating behavior for any knight, in my view. Plus, we will both keep our helmets on. And above all, keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. A silent knight can be a forbidding knight. And all I need from you is forbidding. From here on out, silence is to be your virtue, Lindholf Le Graven.”
* * *
The long-nosed, pipe-smoking oghul introduced himself as Gin D’rhu upon their entry into the airy foyer of the manor house. He wore a plush black robe that reached below his knees. The robe had two large breast pockets sewn in with golden thread. Gin D’rhu was barefoot, and the red teardrop tattoo on his cheekbone just below his left eye marked him as—Enna Spades claimed—one who dealt in dark oghul magics and secret Vallè alchemy.
The oghul led them from the foyer down a wide hallway and to the drawing room, two oghul footmen at his side. The footmen wore black pantaloons and wide leather belts with green tunics buttoned over tan shirts. Lindholf had seen four other similarly garbed footmen stationed in the gardens of Gin D’rhu’s estate; each of those footmen had also worn wide leather belts girt with shortswords at their hip, hands on hilts. And who knows how many more such beasts might be crawling around the large manor? Lindholf thought as he entered the drawing room.
Overall it was a handsome chamber, with many open windows casting wan yellow light into a surprisingly comfortable space full of a myriad of wooden cabinets, bookshelves, tables, bronze sculptures, and woven rugs. Everything about Gin D’rhu and his residence was sophisticated and fine.
“I hope your horse is still well shod, good Ser,” Gin D’rhu said, eyes on Spades. “Sit.” He beckoned, puffing vigorously on his pipe, cracked, leathery lips pursed about its ivory-colored stem. “The both of you, please sit.”
“Your blacksmith did a grand job.” Spades stayed standing. Her voice was rough, strained with fatigue and illness under her black Dayknight helm. “But we are here for a different purpose today.”
Lindholf stayed standing too, though comfortable seats were aplenty in the large room and he desperately wished to sit.
Spades still carried the five angel stones in a pouch on her belt; Afflicted Fire and Ethic Shroud were strapped to her back. Lindholf also wore Forgetting Moon on his back. Blackest Heart and Lonesome Crown were in the canvas sack slung over his shoulder. Spades dared not leave the stones or weapons with their two mounts, which were tethered to the hitching post just outside the oghul’s opulent manor house. And Gin D’rhu seemed unconcerned that they both had carried so much weaponry into his home. Perhaps he dares not question two fully armed and armored Dayknights knocking at his door.
Still puffing on his pipe, Gin D’rhu sat on a long, plush velvet couch in the center of the room. A shortsword was on the end table within easy reach. His two burly footmen flanked the couch on either side. “So what can I do for two Dayknights this time?” Gin D’rhu asked.
“We come for medicine this time,” Enna Spades said. “I’ve an infection that needs healing. We’ve not much coin. But we’ve brought items to bargain with.”
Spades motioned for Lindholf to set the sack containing Lonesome Crown and Blackest Heart down on the floor before him. He did just that. His heart was pounding at her insinuation that they were going to trade away the weapons, but he was determined to remain silent, mind focused on the Shroud of the Vallè Spades was about to procure. The weapons of the Five Warrior Angels were easily worth the price.
“We’ve also come for Shroud of the Vallè, if you have it,” Spades continued. “And we wish to remain anonymous in the transaction. In fact, we insist.”
“Well, I reckon I already know who you are, Ser Knight,” Gin D’rhu said with a cordial nod aimed directly at Spades. “I’ve learned much about you since you passed this way before.”
Lindholf figured the long-nosed oghul was just being flippant, or perhaps purposely obtuse, for he’d seemed an odd sort from the moment he and his two footmen had led Lindholf and Spades into the drawing room. Gin D’rhu was not oghul-like at all, leastways not oghul-like in Lindholf’s limited experience with the creatures. Other than his pocked gray face and exceptionally long gray nose, his overall royal demeanor was one of utter pipe-smoking sophistication.
“Indeed, I fear I now know exactly who you are, Ser Knight,” Gin D’rhu repeated, leaning back on the velvet couch, puffing again on his long, curling pipe. “Though, I imagine, in your modesty you wish to remain anonymous for sure.” Gin D’rhu spoke with an eloquence Lindholf had never before heard in an oghul. The two wedge-faced footmen behind Gin D’rhu adjusted their weapons on their fancy belts for effect.
To Lindholf’s surprise, Spades removed her Dayknight helm. “You know nothing of me,” she said, setting the helm in the crook of her arm. “And that shall be your official answer to anyone who may ask. And trust me: it would not go well for you if you said anything different.”
