Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) (61 page)

If I’d have had any inkling of the full consequences of what I did that day, would I have ever had the nerve to kill father?
Blaine wondered.
I was willing to die. I thought that would be the end of it. Would it have changed anything if I’d still have been here when the magic died? Mari would have had more years of abuse. I probably couldn’t have stopped Carr from going off to the war; I would have likely gone with him. I’d have married Carensa and probably left her a widow if the war took me like it took Carr. Perhaps it doesn’t matter which road was taken. There seems to be sorrow and despair regardless of the choices.

Wrapped in the old robe he found in his wardrobe, Blaine found himself alone in the sitting room. He felt chagrined that he had carried his sword with him, yet caution had been the foremost lesson of the years in Edgeland. The servants had left him to his bath and had poured a generous portion of whiskey into a glass on a small table beside the tub. In the candlelight, the room revealed little of the shabbiness that Blaine knew would be unmistakable come daylight. Resolutely pushing dark thoughts from his mind, Blaine dropped the robe and laid his sword aside, then slid into the hot water, which was gently scented with lavender.

Only then, when he had sunk chin-deep into the water, did he allow himself to relax. Blaine closed his eyes and took a sip of the whiskey, willing himself to dwell neither on the distant nor on the recent past, and to banish his worry about the future. Just for a few, precious moments, he focused on nothing
more urgent than the delectable experience of soaking clean of the sweat, blood, and dirt from the journey home.

The water grew cold far too quickly, and with a sigh Blaine climbed from the tub. He dried himself off and finished the whiskey in his glass. On a side table, the servant had set out a bowl and a razor. A large mirror hung on the wall with enough light from the candles in the wall sconce that he stood a chance of shaving without butchering himself.

He paused, regarding the reflection that looked back at him. Mirrors had been scarce and expensive in Edgeland, and over the years, he had caught only glimpses of himself in windows or still water.
Who in Raka is that man?
Blaine wondered, meeting his gaze. He’d been just twenty when he was exiled; now the man who stared back at him looked older, careworn. Fine lines were etched around the corners of his eyes from squinting against the harsh glare of the Edgeland sun. He did not remember the hard set to his mouth, nor the steel in his blue eyes. With several days’ growth of dark beard, he looked rough, and much more wary. Pleased that he only cut himself once with the straight razor, Blaine finished his shave and wiped off the blade. He slipped a shirt from his wardrobe over his head, and was surprised to find that it now fit too snugly across the arms and chest. It took a few moments to find something that he could wear.
All that time in the mines and on the herring boats apparently put some muscle on my bones
, he thought. When he had dressed, he tied his damp hair back at the nape of his neck, disdaining a formal queue.
It’s a little late to be putting on airs.

Once again, the servant’s tapping roused him from his thoughts. “When you’re done, m’lord, Lady Judith desires your company in her parlor.”

“I’ll be there,” Blaine replied. Bathed, shaved, and dressed,
he looked almost respectable, and he headed for the door, wondering how it could be that he felt like a total stranger in his childhood home.

“I know you must be tired,” Judith said as Blaine entered the room. His aunt’s private parlor looked just as he remembered it. The walls were covered with expensive wallpaper in a delicate floral design, imported from the Far Shores. Judith’s furniture had a fine-boned, feminine sense, far different from the dark woods and sturdy pieces in his own room. Candles glittered around the room in silver and crystal sconces, and over the porcelain-tiled fireplace hung an oil painting of Judith, her late husband, and their two children, along with two favorite hunting dogs.

The candlelight flattered both the room and its occupant. On second glance, Blaine could see where water had stained parts of the ceiling and wall, where the elegant wallpaper was coming loose, and where the imported rug had gone threadbare in places.

Judith smiled from her seat on a small couch and beckoned for him to take the chair across from her. Between them lay a small plate of tea biscuits, a decanter of brandy, and two glasses. Even by candlelight, Blaine could see that the fine crystal was chipped and that the silk upholstery of the seat cushion was rubbed thin in places. Judith had also taken advantage of the time since his arrival to change her gown. Her dress was much less elaborate than what Blaine remembered her favoring, and it was frayed along the hem.

“Please, have something to eat,” Judith said, pouring drinks for both of them. “I know you’ve been up for a long time, but I’ve sent the servants to set supper for you and your friends.
The food will take a little while, and I thought you and I could talk for a bit, before we join the others.”

“You never used to play coy with me, Aunt Judith,” Blaine said, taking the proffered glass of brandy and leaning back in his chair. He crossed his legs, feigning a level of confidence that currently eluded him, and he wondered whether Judith’s cool demeanor was likewise just a bluff. “What is it you want to ask me without the others around?”

Judith blushed and looked down. “You always preferred to come straight to the point, Blaine,” she said, swirling the brandy in her glass. It occurred to Blaine that Judith usually chose sherry over brandy or whiskey, and wondered if the change in liquor was coincidental or a concession to harder times and bitter memories.

“Are we unwelcome here?” Blaine’s voice was carefully neutral.

“Of course not!” The outrage in Judith’s eyes seemed real. “Glenreith will always be your home.”

“But we’ve upset things, showing up like this,” Blaine supplied, guessing at the reason for her discomfort.

Judith shrugged. “We feared you were dead,” Judith said quietly. “Having a ghost walk through the front door takes a bit of getting used to.”

“A ghost with outlaw friends and a vampire bodyguard.”

Judith managed a faint smile. “That, too.”

Blaine found that the brandy did nothing to take the edge off his mood. “I really never thought I’d come back,” Blaine said quietly. “Even after Velant fell, we guessed that whatever havoc the death of magic brought to Edgeland, it had worked more chaos here in Donderath.” He paused, and the silence stretched out between them.

“Believe it or not,” he finally continued, “I’d made a decent
life for myself in Edgeland. I earned my Ticket of Leave, which meant I was a colonist instead of a convict. My mates and I pooled our earnings to buy a homestead and build a sturdy little house that kept the cold out. Had a right nice little farm going, and hard as it might be to picture it, Kestel was quite at home tending the chickens and the rabbits and the sheep.”

Judith chuckled. “I’d have had to see that to believe it.”

Blaine stared down into the amber liquid in his glass. “After I left Velant, I made a handfasting with Selane, a lass from Bodderton who’d been framed for a theft she didn’t commit.” He knew his voice was thick with bitterness. “Not exactly a hardened criminal,” he added, then paused. “Until the fever took her, we were as happy as I guess anyone could be in Edgeland.”

For a few minutes, both Blaine and Judith were silent. Finally, Blaine forced himself to ask the question that had haunted him since his exile. “After I left, what happened to Carensa?”

Judith looked down at her hands and then raised her head to meet his gaze. “She mourned you,” Judith replied quietly. “In the weeks after your ship left, Carensa refused to eat, until she collapsed. She took to her bed, and we were afraid we might lose her.” Judith paused. “Finally, she rallied. She asked her father to allow her to enter the women’s university, to study astronomy and become a scholar.”

Blaine frowned. “Did he allow it?”

Judith shook her head. “No. Instead, he brokered an arranged marriage with Oten Simmons and forced her to go through with it.”

Blaine drew a deep breath, struggling with the sudden pang of loss that lanced through his chest. “I knew Oten. He was a decent sort, but much older.”

Judith nodded. “Older, established, dependable, and just threadbare enough to barter his respectability for the Rhystorp fortune.”

Blaine winced. “Respectability,” he repeated bitterly. “I’d always wondered how badly my actions damaged Carensa’s reputation. I guess that’s my answer.”

“Carensa changed after you left,” Judith said quietly. “She shut everyone out. Despite her father’s protests, she managed to get Oten to allow her to study with a tutor, and the studies seemed to be her only passion, even after her son was born.”

“Son?” The word caught in Blaine’s throat. He had resigned himself to the possibility that Carensa had become another man’s wife, but the reality that she had borne someone else a child hurt like a fresh wound.

“I saw him once or twice, at a distance,” Judith said. “He was a healthy lad, who took after his father.”

“When the magic died, was Rhystorp spared?”

Judith met his gaze and slowly shook her head. “Rhystorp was completely destroyed. Oten and the boy are buried in the family cemetery, along with Carensa’s father.”

“And Carensa?”

“Her body was never found,” Judith said. She reached out to touch his hand. “I’m sorry, Blaine.”

Blaine swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you for telling me. I shouldn’t be surprised that she moved on; after all, I married Selane. All these years, I told myself it was likely that she’d married. I wanted her to be happy, to escape my shame. It’s just different, knowing for certain.”

Judith cleared her throat. “You never finished your story, about how you managed to return.”

Blaine sighed, grateful for the change of topic, thankful for his aunt’s perceptiveness. “When Velant fell, we found ourselves
sovereign, for all practical purposes,” he said. He gave a bitter chuckle. “Would you believe that I was named to the ruling Council?”

Judith shrugged. “You were, after all, a lord—by birth if no longer by law.”

Blaine shook his head. “No one knew that except for Kestel. To everyone else, including my housemates until very recently, I was just Mick, a common murderer with a penchant for settling brawls.”

Judith’s lip quirked in an almost smile. “Mick,” she repeated, and Blaine heard the amusement in her voice. “A solid street name.” Her smile faded, and she met his gaze. “So who is the man who sits across from me? Blaine? Or Mick?”

Blaine took a sip from his glass and did not speak right away. “I’m not really sure,” he said finally. “If it had been up to Mick, I’d have stayed in Edgeland. Life there is never easy, but I’d carved out something fairly comfortable, something thoroughly my own.” He let out a long breath. “Mick had no reason to leave. Blaine had no right to stay.”

Judith’s brow furrowed as she looked at him quizzically. “How so?”

Judith listened patiently without interrupting as Blaine told his tale. “So, according to some ancient texts and some equally ancient
talishte
, I’m quite possibly the last surviving Lord of the Blood,” Blaine ended his story. “And maybe the only one who can bring the magic back to Donderath.”

He waited for her response, half expecting her to break out laughing at his implausible tale. Instead, she rose from her seat, set aside her glass, and walked to the bookshelves on the other side of the room, returning with a worn, leather-bound book filled with yellowed parchment pages.

“Lord of the Blood,” she repeated quietly, untying the old
ribbon that bound the book together and carefully turning the fragile pages. “I haven’t heard that term for a very long while.”

“At first, I thought it was nonsense,” Blaine said. “But Lanyon Penhallow sets stock by it.” His hand went absently to the recent scars on his shoulder. “And apparently, Pentreath Reese is willing to kill me in order to stop me.”

Judith ran a thin finger down the parchment page. “Lord of the Blood,” she repeated softly, and then turned the book so that Blaine could see.

“This is a history of the McFadden family,” Judith said. “This book is quite old, and the history was copied down from the tales and names passed from father to son for generations.” She grimaced. “Aside from your father, the McFaddens had a distinguished and reputable line.

“I came across that phrase when I looked up some bit of family history to please Ian,” she said. “And it stuck in my mind. Here it is,” she added, noting a page near the very beginning of the book.

Blaine leaned over the book. The handwriting was small and the ink was faded, making him strain to make out the lettering. He frowned. “Lord Rogarth McFadden, liege man to Hougen, king of all Donderath,” he read aloud. “One of the thirteen Lords of the Blood.”

“Why did you come back?” Judith watched Blaine, waiting for an answer.

He leaned back from the book and sighed. “Crazy as it sounds, I came back to make the magic work again, if I can. I came back to go to Mirdalur and see if blood tells.”