The Gray Wolf Throne (10 page)

Freezing to death wasn’t a bad way to die. it seemed preferable to what Gillen had in mind.

But if she allowed herself to be bound up, she’d have given up 75

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any chance of fighting free. She was the descendant of Hanalea, the warrior queen. She would not die bound hand and foot in a cave. or ravished and tortured to death by this traitorous lowlife.

She lifted both hands in appeal. “All . . . all right. Just don’t hurt me.”

Gillen focused on her left hand, on the heavy gold wolf ring on her forefinger. “Gimme that ring,” he said. “i need something to take back, to prove you’re dead.”

raisa pulled on the ring, struggling with it. “it’s too tight,” she said. “it won’t come off.”

“we’ll see about that,” Gillen said. “i’ll cut it off if i have to.” His hand snaked out, and he seized her left wrist, yanking at the ring with his right hand.

raisa straightened her arm, allowing Byrne’s dagger to fall free of her right sleeve. She had to catch it, and she did, gripping the Lady hilt. Gillen was focused on the ring, wrenching at it, swearing.

raisa rammed the blade through soiled wool and the soft flesh of his belly, up under the rib cage, as far as it would go, until the crosspiece rested against his shirt.

He screeched and let go of her hand. He tried to shove back from her, but she followed, keeping pressure on the blade with both hands now, twisting it with all her strength, knowing she’d have one chance, and one chance only, to deliver a killing stroke.

if he survived the first one, she’d live to regret it, but not for very long.

Mac Gillen’s fist slammed into the side of her face and she flew backward, colliding with the stone wall of the cave. She lay there stunned for a few moments, swallowing blood from 76

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her bitten tongue, half expecting Gillen to come and finish her.

But he didn’t. Finally, she lifted herself upright, propping herself against the wall to keep from falling over.

Gillen still lived, though he probably wouldn’t for long. The sergeant lay sprawled on his back on the floor of the cave, breathing wetly, an expression of sick bewilderment on his face, blood bubbling on his lips. He’d managed to yank out raisa’s dagger, and it lay next to him, caked with blood and dirt.

She recalled what Cuffs Alister had said a lifetime ago:
Next
time you go to stab someone, do it quick. Don’t study on it so long.

He’d be proud, she thought. She hadn’t hesitated with the blade, and she’d struck true. was this progress—that a street killer would be proud of her?

And then she knelt on the floor of the cave and heaved out her midday meal. After, she cleaned out her mouth with a fistful of snow.

That’s all right, she thought. killing should never come easy, not even for a warrior princess.

Gillen finally lay quiet, his eyes wide and fixed.

retrieving her dagger, raisa wiped it clean in the snow at the cave’s entrance. She restored it to its sheath and tucked it into her breeches. She forced herself to search Gillen, hoping for clues or proofs of who’d hired him, but found nothing of consequence. A purse with a few coppers and crowns, and a hip flask—that was it.

it was unlikely he’d be carrying that kind of evidence anyway. what did she expect, a death warrant from the queen her mother? A scribbled note from Gavan Bayar? These were the kind of orders that were whispered in the dark corners of the world.

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Her head pounded and her right eye would no longer open properly. She pressed a fistful of snow against the side of her face, hoping it would reduce the swelling. All the while she tried to ignore the small voice that whispered, what’s the use? you may as well surrender. you are totally alone now, and these hills are filled with your enemies. what was it Byrne had said? well fed, well mounted, and well armed. And you have a dagger against them.

recalling Gillen’s concern about being interrupted, she knew she had to go, and quickly. Their trail would be easy enough to follow. Gillen’s comrades might arrive at any moment.

Gillen’s horse waited outside, apparently a well-trained military mount. The gelding rolled his eyes at her approach, but did not protest when she searched through the saddlebags. He was even more cooperative when she fished out an apple and fed it to him, stroking his nose.

Gillen’s gear included a large heavy sword in a scabbard, a crossbow and a quiver of bolts. A bedroll and a canvas tent. one entire saddlebag was packed with trail food, which would prove useful, assuming she lived long enough to get hungry.

She fingered the crossbow. Unlike Byrne’s longbow, it required no great strength to draw it. A memory came back to her: her eight-year-old self trailing Amon to the archery field.

She’d refused to leave the butts until he gave her a chance at the crossbow. At first, the quarrels had gone wide of the straw target, but her aim improved quickly. Amon had loaded the first few bolts for her, then shown her how to cock it herself, his patient hands over hers.

on her next name day, her father, Averill, had gifted her with a longbow, made to fit her size and strength. That was her 78

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preferred weapon, but her bow had been left in the pass.

Fitting her foot into the weapon’s stirrup, she spanned it, grateful for the muscles her year at oden’s Ford had built. She clipped the bolt into its channel. She’d have one shot, at least.

Methodically, she adjusted the stirrups to her small frame, wanting to hurry, but making sure she did it right. Leading the gelding alongside a fallen tree, she used the trunk to vault aboard.

A glance at the sky told her that dawn was not far away. By then she needed to get a better fix on her location and find a hiding place. if she weren’t already dead or in the enemy’s hands.

79

C H A p T e r S i X

Simon Says

The day after his meeting with Crow, Han rode in a kind of worried stupor. His head ached and his stomach churned, like he’d been drinking stingo and chasing it with blue ruin.

He would have made an easy target, had any of his enemies happened by. Fortunately, most of his fellow travelers were refugees simply intent on making it to a place of shelter for the night.

if he nearly rode over a few, well, they managed to get out of the way.

Could it possibly be true, what Crow claimed—that the infa-mous Demon king of the Fells had lain fallow in the serpent jinxpiece that Han now carried? That the powerful evil he represented had never gone out of the world?

Han had been overconfident—even smug about his ability to manage risk when it came to Crow. His theories had been true—

as far as they went—but nothing had prepared him for this. How could it possibly be safe to partner up with the Demon king?

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The mean streets of ragmarket seemed friendly and welcoming, their dangers completely manageable, next to this.

All of Han’s life, the specter of the Demon king had been used as a cautionary tale to frighten misbehaving children and would-be sinners. He had been the club held over everyone’s head, the justification for a peculiar system of rules and boundaries restricting the queen, the wizard Council, and the clans.

Alger waterlow was the reason the clans kept wizards on such a tight leash; the reason their amulets and talismans were no longer permanent. He’d done more than anyone else to birth the Church of Malthus, with its interdiction of magic. He’d been the reason the Seven realms had fractured into seven warring pieces.

He’d broken the world.

And there was that connection of blood. How diluted could that bloodline be if Han carried such a virulent strain of magic?

what else had he inherited?

Demon-cursed, Han’s mother had called him. And it turned out she was right.

would it be better or worse if Crow knew they were related?

if he knew that Han Alister, a streetlord and thief, was his descendent? if he knew how far the family fortunes had fallen?

How could it be a good thing to forge a link to waterlow that could never be broken? it was one thing to be related to a Demon king who had died a thousand years ago, and whose tainted blood had been diluted by centuries of intermarriage. it was quite another for him to be resurrected and entwined in Han’s life.

Then again, Han was beginning to question everything he’d always believed. who was he to preach sermons, after all?

if Alger waterlow and the Bayars were enemies, who would he 81

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choose between them? And Lucius—Lucius Frowsley had been waterlow’s best friend. He’d believed in him. Defended him to Han.

it had been difficult enough to go back to Aediion. now Han was more confused than ever.

He arrived in Fetters Ford in early afternoon, on an unusually warm early spring day. He made his usual rounds of inns and taverns, asking after rebecca. in one called the purple Heron, the taproom was deserted, save a sturdy-looking boy wiping down tables.

The boy looked up at Han’s approach, his round face wary.

“if you’re hungry, we got a ham we can slice down, and the bread’s fresh made,” he said, swiping sweat from his face with his sleeve. “if you’re looking for a hot supper, you’ll have to wait.”

“i’m looking for a girlie,” Han said.

“we don’t host that kind of trade,” the boy said. “you might try Dogbottom’s, down the high street.”

Han shook his head. “i’m looking for a particular girlie,” he said, wishing he had an image of rebecca to show. “She’s small, with green eyes and black hair, maybe chin-length.” He stuck out his hand, indicating her height. “A mixed-blood. pretty.” The server’s head came up, and he glared at Han, his cheeks smudged pink. Then he turned away and resumed scrubbing like he meant to take the finish right off. “Don’t remember nobody like that,” he said.

Han stared at his broad back, made temporarily speechless by the server’s reaction. “Ah. Are you sure? She might have been with two charmcasters, tall ones, a girlie and a boy, about our age.”

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“nope.” The boy flung down his rag and moved to the hearth. Snatching up the iron poker, he thrust it into the flames.

“if you’re not here for food and drink, you’d best move on.” Han threaded his way between the tables, moving in closer.

“Could have been a few weeks ago,” he persisted. “Are you sure you haven’t—?”

with a roar, the boy wheeled around and charged at Han, wielding the heated poker.

Han danced aside, hooking his foot around the boy’s ankle so he sprawled forward onto the stone floor, the poker pinwheeling across the room and clattering against the wall.

Han guessed this tavern boy hadn’t been in many street fights.

in a heartbeat, Han had planted his knee above the server’s tailbone and twisted his arm behind him until the boy cried out in pain.

“Twitch, and i’ll break your arm,” Han said through gritted teeth.

The boy said nothing, but he didn’t move, either.

“now, then,” Han said softly. “Let’s have the truth. Start with your name.”

The server turned his head so Han could see one round eye.

“S-Simon,” he said. “it’s Simon.”

“All right, Simon,” Han said. “Don’t waste my time. what do you know? when was she here, and who with?”

Simon shook his head carefully. “Do what you want, but i’m not telling you nothing,” he mumbled. “i’m not talking to any cutthroat, thieving highwayman.”

Han took a deep breath, his pulse accelerating. keeping 83

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pressure on the arm, he put his free hand on Simon’s shoulder, allowing unchanneled flash to trickle into the tavern boy.

Simon twitched. “Hey! what do you think you—?”

“Simon,” Han said, lacing his speech with persuasion. “i don’t want to hurt her. i only want to find her and keep her safe.”

“you’re—you’re—you’re . . .” And then he seemed to forget what he was about to say. Simon’s visible eye was going droopy-lidded. “i don’t know anything about any girlie. i don’t trust you.”

“There isn’t much time,” Han said. “She’s in danger. you have to help me.”

Tears pooled in Simon’s eyes, spilling down his cheeks. “it’s too late anyway. She’s dead.” He sniffled wetly. “it’s your fault.”

“what do you mean—she’s dead?” Han demanded, louder than he’d intended.

“ow!” Simon said, thrashing under Han’s weight. “you’re burning me.”

Han let go of Simon’s shoulder and gripped his amulet, channeling the power torrenting through him. He lowered his voice, but somehow it came out sounding deadlier than before. “i’m going to let you sit up,” he said. “And then you’re going to tell me what happened.
Right now
.”

Han sat back on his heels, one hand on his amulet. Simon sat up, facing him, his expression sullen and wary and frightened.

Han reached out and gripped the boy’s wrist and opened the flow of power.

Simon’s eyes fastened on Han’s face like he was witch-fixed as he stumbled into speech. “She stayed here three or four weeks. i could tell she was running from somebody, but it was like she was 84

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waiting for somebody, too—somebody to help her. She always wanted to know about who else was in the taproom. now i know. She was running from
you
,” Simon said bluntly, persuasion freeing his tongue.

Han said nothing, and Simon continued. “Two days ago, a group of rovers came in, and one of them—scruffy-looking, he was—he was bothering her, trying to buy her drinks and like that. well, she’d have none of that. She told him off, then walked out in the stable yard, said she needed some air.” Simon gulped in some air himself. “An’ that’s the last i saw of her. i know she didn’t leave on her own. She left her things in her room, but her horse was gone, and them rovers that was bothering her, too.”