Lady Of Regret (Book 2) (25 page)

“To seek the Wight Stone is to tread the path of doom.”

Rathe’s laughter masked his unease. “I have faced a thousand deaths, yet here I stand. Fate, it would seem, favors me. Please, lead me to my next assured end, so that I can face it, collect what I have come for, and be on my way.”

Wina looked to the captain. “Gyleon, please return to your duties.”

The Warden hesitated the barest moment, then gestured for his fellows to join him. Wina waited until the Wardens closed the doors, before leading Rathe and the others into the keep.

The place was dead still and empty, yet silver lampstands lit vaulted corridors more richly appointed than any king’s palace. Loro’s eyes bulged at the sight of golden breastplates, swords with mirrored blades and jeweled crossguards. Rathe kept his gaze on Wina’s slim form striding over tiles of blue-veined marble. So, too, did Yiri and Horge keep an eye on her. Despite his earlier attack, Horge now wore an expression of shame, as if he regreted his behavior.

Wina halted before a tall pair of oaken doors lacking all the finery of the rest of the keep. “Lady Mylene waits within. Do you still trust to fate, warrior, or would you take this, your last chance, to flee? Mind you, rare is the occasion I grant such an offer.”

“I will go after I hold the Wight Stone,” Rathe said.

“I expected no less.” Wina threw open the doors.

Yiri, Horge, and Loro hung back, but Rathe advanced. After what he had seen of Ravenhold, he was puzzled by the simplicity of the great hall. Here, cedar beams and arches, decorated with modest carvings, took the place of marble and gilt. Candles gave hazy light, instead of clean-burning lamps. Tapestries and carpets, while colorful, showed the wear of long years.

“Herein resides the memory of Ravenhold,” Wina said in a hush, “as it was before the plague … as it will remain, forever.”

Rathe barely heard her. At the end of an azure runner edged in gold embroidery, a woman in dark velvet sat rigid on a great chair of bone-white wood, its soaring back arced and carved all over with ravens in flight.
The ravens have followed me,
Rathe thought, with a tickle of unease. The auburn-haired woman’s gaze stole away the consideration. Lady Mylene’s eyes, black and glossy as polished obsidian, consumed the light.

“Gods and demons,” Loro gasped from between Yiri and Horge, all three still beyond the doorway. “What’s wrong with her?”

Rathe thought of all the hastily turned faces, the slitted visors worn by the guards and the Wardens of Tanglewood. Had they revealed such cavernous stares, he would have fought with his last breath to escape. He glanced at Wina, whose eyes were clear and bright.

“Lady Mylene carries in her the blessing of the Wight Stone,” Wina said, “as do all in Ravenhold. As will you.”

“Where is the Stone?” Rathe demanded, only half-hearing her. “Quickly girl!”

Without answering, Wina slammed the doors, and quickly turned the lock with a key taken from a fold in her dress. Loro cursed without, and began beating at the door.

Fury rose up in Rathe, and his sword came into hand. “Give me the Stone!”

“Ravenhold has need of warriors,” Wina said in answer. “Put away your sword, and accept the peace of the Wight Stone. In so doing, you will fill your life with purpose.”

“Is that what you name the life of a living corpse?” Rathe growled, glancing to Lady Mylene.

Wina’s eyes shone. “Those who are blessed by the Wight Stone live with the promise of eternal purpose. So, too, does Ravenhold benefit. Three hundred years it has withstood sieges and terrible long winters. Once it bore the countless scars of that abuse. Now, under the power of the Wight Stone, my people have remade it. Never needing to rest, they toil with thanks and love in their hearts.”

Rathe shook his head. “
You
are the Lady of Regret?”

“Named so by blind fools,” Wina scoffed, stepping before him. “Some also call me the Hunting Bitch. In truth, warrior, I am the restorer of hope to these cold and forsaken lands.”

She abruptly clutched his hand to the softness of her breasts. “And now I give to you a choice that I have never given anyone. Join my side, as my lover and husband, and we shall remake the Iron Marches.”

“Are you mad?” He tried to jerk away, but at her touch a terrible weakness had stolen over him. Rathe’s head spun. “I want neither lands nor wife.”

“You cannot say that. You must not!” She pushed him away, reached into her bodice.

Rathe backed away.

“Hold, warrior!” Wina boomed, the authority of her voice freezing him. She reached out, hand wrapped tight with the loops of a tarnished sliver necklace. Darkness pulsed between her clenched fingers. Rathe’s sword flashed, and Wina scampered back. Her eyes went ugly.

“The time of choices has ended,” Wina snarled, and thrust her fist toward him. Black radiance pulsed outward, devouring his will. Distantly, he heard his sword clatter against the floor. He followed it, sinking to his knees. Wina coiled her fingers through his hair and yanked his head back.

“Do not do this,” he grated, hating the fear in his voice.

“You will thank me.” Her fingers formed a cage around the impossible darkness in her hand. Coils of blemished silver chain brushed his face, and with them swaying, thread-fine wisps of the purest black. Prickling heat raced over his skin.

Wina bowed near. “You will become one with the Wight Stone and me, as have all the rest. Resisting makes it worse. Surrender, warrior, for the sake of your sanity.
Surrender
.” Her breath was sweet death.

Unbidden tears sprang from his eyes, furious, pained. “I … will … not!”

Wina’s face shifted in front of his, her stare clear and vast as a dawn sky. “It has already begun.”

Chapter 31

“I’ve got it,” Nesaea whispered, as the last elusive tumbler clicked. What at first seemed a simple lock, had proven far more difficult than any she had ever faced. Holding the fear of that golden wench’s promised return in the back of her mind had not helped steady her fingers.

“About time,” Fira grumbled. One whole side of her face had gone puffy and purple-black where the guard had struck her.

Now that the door was unlocked, the pressing need to find weapons and escape fell on Nesaea. She tucked away her lock picks, and settled a hand on the latch. “Ready?”

Fira joined her side, and Nesaea peeked out through the barred window. She frowned. The guard who had stood his post since their arrival was gone. She shifted position, looked the other way, saw only walls and a glowing lamp.

“What are you waiting for?” Fira asked.

“The guard left.”

“A good time to make our escape.”

Nesaea eased the door open a crack, looked through. At the far end of the corridor, she glimpsed the guard sprinting along on quiet feet, and then disappearing round a corner. Far-off, she heard the muffled sound of someone cursing and hammering on something.

Drawing a deep breath, she flung the door wide and raced into the corridor. Her eyes stabbed the few shadows, searching for nonexistent guards.

“There,” Fira said, lunging past her to reach a table stacked with their swords and daggers. The rest of their personal effects hung from hooks on the wall.

Nesaea did not delay in belting on her sword, dagger, and various pouches. While she worked, she cast about for an escape. Only one presented itself. The way the guard had gone.

“It’s the only way,” Fira said, when Nesaea pointed out their predicament. “Let’s be about it.” She drew her sword.

Nesaea mirrored Fira, the feel of a hilt against her palm comforting. She set off at a quick clip, ready to attack or block, as needed. As with their cell, the corridor and the rest of the open cells they passed were surpassingly clean. Strange for a dungeon to be well-lit as a library, and not carrying the reek of sweat, blood, and brimming chamber pots. Nor did she see any rats, moldy straw, or anything else that usually adorned such dismal places.

Stone stairs leading up met them at the corner where the guard had vanished. Decorative brass sconces marched up and up, until they seemed to join high above. Again, there was no other way to go, so they took the stairs. Two at a time, at first, then three and more.

Gulping breath, they came to a wide landing and another corridor, this one appointed with stunning tapestries, armor, and heroic busts tucked into niches, the floor tiled in blue-veined white marble. Lampstands provided an abundance of illumination, and the sound of hammering had grown louder. With it, rousing curses rang out, in a voice Nesaea was sure she knew.

“Is that…?” Fira began.

“I believe so,” Nesaea answered, believing it only because she had never heard such profanity before, save from one man. And if he were here, then his companion might be, as well. The chance of that, incredible though it was, quickened her heart.

Nesaea and Fira sprinted down the length of a wide passage, footsteps ringing. They slid around the corner to see Loro strike his sword against a pair of doors. He bellowed a bull’s rage, struck again, and again. Woodchips flew, driving back his two raggedy companions. “Damn you, open up, or by all the gods, I’ll break this accursed door and bury your corpse in the rubble.” What came after, spat through frothed lips, shocked even Nesaea.

“Stand aside!” Fira snapped.

At the sound of her voice, Loro spun, eyes bulging red and furious. “Fira? Nesaea? Gods and demons! What are you doing here?”

“Saving your bloated arse,” Fira snarled, and threw herself into his arms. Her lips smashed violently against his. She abruptly drew back and slapped him, hard. “How dare you leave me without so much as a word, you bungling oaf!”

When she made to strike him again, Loro caught her wrist. “There’s no time for this foolery, wench! Rathe is inside, with the Lady of Regret.”

“Rathe?” Nesaea gasped, stunned despite earlier hopes.

“Lady of
what
?” Fira demanded.

With a harried expression, Loro looked to the wretched young woman and an equally ragged man, each who looked enough alike to make them siblings. “Yiri, Horge, tell them, while I get this door open.”

“There’s no time for explanations,” Yiri said grimly, as Horge moved to an intersection of crossing corridors.

“And there is no time to make firewood of the door,” Nesaea said, sparing a sidelong glance at the two wretches. Neither was there time to wonder over how and why Rathe and Loro were here. “Did you see a guard come this way?” Three heads shook as one. “Then we must hurry, for he doubtless went for help.”

She knelt and set to work with the lock picks. There were no sounds beyond the doors. From the corridor came the heavy tread of running feet, the clank and rattle of armor. The alarm had been sounded. She worked faster, fingers shaking.

Loro put safe distance between himself and Fira. He looked to the man cloaked in hanging rags. “Horge, what do you see?”

“Wardens of Tanglewood,” the man squeaked. “A dozen or more.”

Loro turned, desperation on his sweaty face. “Yiri, can you use your
witchery
?”

The young woman’s small white teeth flashed. “But of course.”

Nesaea felt a tumbler go, then another. Behind her, a crackling heat charged the air. Loro shouted something, and Fira cursed hotly. Venomous green light flared, poisoning all other color. Nesaea’s head turned of its own volition, seeking the source of such profane light.

Yiri crouched at the heart of the crossing corridors, a wild sneer stretching her dirty cheeks. Her dark cloak and robes gave her the look of a scruffy bat. Between her hands roiled a jade ball of fire. Waves of heat blew back her matted hair, and her face shone with dread excitement. Her fingers curled, compressing the fireball, making it brighter, hotter.

“Do not wait on our account,” Loro said, backing away, wrapping a protective arm around Fira.

Crackling filaments of green lightning danced over the fireball’s surface. Forge heat baked the corridor, dried Nesaea’s eyes.
How can she hold it?

Running feet came closer.

“Before it’s too late,” Loro urged, thrusting Fira behind him.

“
Now
.” Yiri’s hoarse whisper filled the air around her with portentous weight. The Wardens dashed into the open, polished swords glittering emerald. Gauntleted hands rose to black-slitted visors. Yiri laughed, and the fireball became a column of blazing death. Snowy tabards blackened, chainmail smoked red-hot, withered flesh burst alight.

A moment later, the magical fire winked out. Yiri danced clear of falling ash, cracked bones, and gobbets of molten steel.

“Gods,” Fira breathed.

“Demons, more like,” Loro said, turning back to Nesaea. “How much longer.”

Blinking against searing afterimages, Nesaea went back to the lock. On the Isles of Giliron, there were masters of alchemy, and those who played at sorcery, but she had never seen the sheer raw power the likes of which this scrawny young woman had just wielded.

“We’ve wasted too much time already,” Yiri said fiercely, striding forward. Smoke curled from her robes, but the immense heat had only raised a pretty blush to her cheeks. Her black eyes sparkled.