The Kinshield Legacy (3 page)

He removed another gem from his pocket. “That’s right. We’ve known each other a long time.”
Sola familula,
he mouthed. She couldn’t see the small stone split apart in his hand. She did not need to.

“Yes,” she said. “I remember now. You’re–” 

“Brodas Ravenkind. Your very good friend. We were in love, remember? We are in love.”

She nodded slowly as the crease in her brow relaxed. Her eyes welled with tears. “Where have you been?” she whispered.

Brodas smiled and took her hand. “I’ve come to fulfill my promise. Our promise. We were betrothed. I just had some business to take care of first. Now I will take care of you.”

The woman wept, reaching for him. He took her into his arms and held her, stroking her hair, smiling. He’d brought along six gemstones to focus his spells, in case she had the strength to resist.

“Shhhhh!” he said. “It’s all right now. You must sleep. I will take care of Dwaeth.”

“Sleep, yes,” she said. “I’ve been so tired.”

The door opened, and Dwaeth returned with the glass of water. He gave it to Brodas.

Brodas produced a small vial of purplish liquid, which swirled endlessly within the container. He poured it into the water and handed it to her. “Drink now, and you’ll start to feel better very soon.”

“What’s that?” Dwaeth asked.

“This is a powerful healing potion. It will help your mother to get better. We must leave her now so that she can sleep and heal.”

The boy nodded. A tiny smile lifted his lips.

“Run along then. I’ll be right behind you.”

When Dwaeth was gone, Brodas leaned forward and kissed her burning forehead. After handing him the empty glass, she settled back against the pillows. He brought the blanket up to her chin. “I’ve just one thing I need you to do before I let you sleep.” He drew a scroll from the pocket in his cloak and unrolled it. “Just sign your name here so that I can take care of your affairs while you rest. The lordover has been demanding his tax payments, but I don’t want you to worry about any of that. You need all your strength to get well.”

She nodded. Her eyelids hung low over her eyes. He dabbed the tip of his quill into a small inkpot and put it into her hand. She would begin to lose control of her muscles very soon. “Right here,” he urged, placing her hand on the parchment. She signed her name in a shaky script.

Ah, splendid,
Brodas thought, fanning the ink dry. He now owned this quaint manor. He stood, went to the door and reached for the handle, then paused and turned around. She looked so peaceful there. Helpless. He returned to her bedside.

Bending over, he whispered into her ear, “Your death will be slow but painless.” Her eyelids flew open. A look of terror contorted her face. “You’ll soon lose control of your mouth and tongue, your muscles, your bowels and bladder. Then your lungs will fail to inflate, and you’ll suffocate. That is, if you don’t drown in your own vomit first. But worry not about your son. I have a friend who’s quite fond of little boys.” He gave her a wink.

She opened her mouth as if to scream, but only a pitiful squeak came out.

Brodas smiled as he left.

When the manservant cleared his throat, Brodas looked up from his writing. “I’ve brought you some tea, my lord.”

“Good,” Brodas replied. “Now find Warrick and send him in.” He signed his name with a flourish and set the parchment aside to give the ink time to dry.

While Brodas arranged the books on the shelves of his new library, aligning the spines along a straight edge, he hummed a tune. The acquisition of his new residence had gone smoothly and positioned him well to begin the next phase of his plan: to capture the rune solver and seize the throne. For that, he needed an army.

He pulled a book from the shelf and caressed its buttery surface. His name, B. Ravenkind, had been burned into the leather cover, and below it, the numeral two. A length of blue silk ribbon marked his current page, and he turned to it.

Penned in his own exquisite script was the personal information of his newest armsman, Domach Demonshredder. Both parents were deceased, but the young man had a sister. From the way he’d gone on and on about the wench, Brodas knew she would be a valuable asset if ever Domach needed some incentive. Yet, Brodas doubted he would ever have need of her. Domach laughed too loudly at Brodas’s jokes, was over-eager to shake Brodas’s hand. He was drawn to power like leeches to a fat man in a bog.

Brodas dipped a quill into an inkpot and began to write. A strong, enthusiastic young man, Domach has a hungry look in his eyes. I have no doubt that he will do whatever’s asked of him, given the right incentive.

An ambitious man was an asset. Men who hungered for nothing eventually became dangerous, as they couldn’t be easily coerced. Brodas had learned that lesson nearly five years ago at the hands of Gavin Kinshield. But Kinshield had learned his own lesson.

Brodas bent back to the page. I need more battlers like Domach: well-armed mercenaries ready to defend my rights when the time comes, willing to fight for my destiny by way of their own security. An army of them, with a commander who would follow my every command.

Someone knocked on the doorframe. “You wanted to see me?”

Brodas looked up at his cousin and wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of sweat. While he admired Warrick’s height and broad shoulders, Brodas considered himself the more handsome of the two. They both shared their mothers’ black hair and brilliant blue eyes, and each had his own version of what Brodas thought to be a dashing smile. But Warrick tended toward impulsive behavior at times, as evidenced by a slightly crooked nose, which spoiled an otherwise handsome face. His thick mustache did not conceal the scar on his upper lip, one he’d gotten from brawling. Although Warrick had no magic ability, he was strong and capable with a sword and, when the need arose, a hammer.

“How are the repairs coming?” Brodas asked. He wiped ink off the quill and set it on a wooden platter.

“Slowly. The back steps are nearly finished, and Red has fixed the stalls in the stable. He’s working on the door now and should be finished by evening.”

Brodas scowled. “Urge him to work harder. There’s much to do. And see if you can fix that creaking stair, will you? Where’s the boy?”

“Under foot,” Warrick replied with an exasperated tone.

“Is he asking questions?”

“Are you jesting? He won’t shut up.”

“Is he asking about his mother?” Brodas asked dryly.

“Of course. I repeated your story about going to her aunt’s house. He’s asked why he couldn’t go with her at least three dozen times. Brodas, I don’t have the patience to play nursemaid.”

“Put him in the cellar if he’s in your way, then. I’ll have the steward deal with him until we can make other arrangements.”

“Why not just put him on the street? Isn’t that where orphans end up anyway?”

“Warrick, I’m surprised at you,” Brodas said. “He’s six years old. If we sell him to the slavers, everyone wins.”

“Yes, but until then, I have to put up with him. Did you want something else?”

“Yes. I need you to take this letter to the guild mistress of the Viragon Sisterhood. Don’t allow her underlings to take it to her; insist that you be allowed to deliver it yourself. Wait for a reply.”

“What is it?”

“We are inviting the guild mistress and her captain to dinner tomorrow. Be sure you are available.”

With a knowing smile, Warrick took the scroll and left.

Chapter 3

Gavin set his tankard down, wiped his mouth with a stained gray sleeve, and looked up. In his left hand, he rolled the hilt of his battered dagger between his fingers.

A hollow-faced man stood at a polite distance, dressed in the blue and white robe of a scholar with a velvety black scarf draped across his shoulders. When Gavin looked up, he took a step backward and gasped. His blue eyes blinked owl-like behind thick spectacles. Gavin didn’t know whether his gaze or his scars inspired the man’s misgiving, but the reaction disturbed him all the same.

“I’m Laemyr Surraent,” the man said in a cracking voice, “curator of the Gwanry Museum of History here in Ambryce.” He hesitated before stepping forward and extending a hand.

Gavin wrapped his paw around the man’s moist hand and gave it a squeeze. It felt like a woman’s. “Gavin Kinshield,” he said. He pushed a chair away from the table with his foot as an invitation to sit.

“Kinshield, did you say?” Laemyr asked as he eased himself into the chair.

“That’s what I said.” Bending close to the table, Gavin blew away the tiny chips of wood speckling the top, then wiped a hand over its rough surface.

“You must be proud to share a name with—”

“What’s the job, and what are you paying?” With his knife, he started scratching a vertical line into the wood, parallel to the one he’d carved moments earlier.

The barmaid approached and asked Laemyr, “Get you somethin’?”

Laemyr held up a hand and shook his head, and the girl left. He turned back to Gavin and leaned forward. “I need someone to recover a stolen necklace.”

“Thief hunt, eh? Not interested.” Gavin brushed aside the bits of wood and scraped harder with his knife to widen the line.

“The lordover’s men-at-arms have captured the thief,“ Laemyr went on, ”but he did not have the necklace. He claims someone stole it from him.”

Right. Thieves were pitiful foes and rarely presented the kind of challenge Gavin looked for in his work. He had enough money to live on while he waited for a more exciting offer. “See that buck over there?” He pointed his knife toward a slender youth sitting several tables away. “He’s your man.” Between the two lines, Gavin carved another, diagonal this time, from top right to bottom left.

“I need someone more experienced. It’s not just a necklace, you see. It’s an artifact from the reign of King Arek,” Laemyr said.

Gavin raised his eyes to the curator’s face. “What artifact?”

“Queen Calewen’s Pendant.” Laemyr took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “Someone broke into the Grand Mausoleum and desecrated her shrine, stealing the necklace and … urinating on the sarcophagus.” Laemyr scrunched his face into an expression of disgust. “The lordover has agreed to let me preserve the pendant with our other artifacts -- if I can get it back. We are not a wealthy institution, but I would make it well worth your while.”

Feigning indifference, Gavin bent back to the table and started again: another diagonal line crossing the first. “How well?” he asked, although it wouldn’t matter. He imagined holding in his own hand the pendant that King Arek had given to Queen Calewen two hundred years ago and grew edgy.

“I can pay you four dyclen.”

Gavin snorted. “If you consider that ‘worth my while,’ then you don’t value my time or my life much. Look, I have to eat.”

“As a piece of our history, it belongs in a museum,” Laemyr said. “It’s more than just a pretty bauble.”

Gavin blew the last bits of wood from the tabletop and inspected his artwork. Amidst the many names, declarations of love and occasional vulgar word or image, he’d carved a symbol.

“The fourth King’s Rune,” Laemyr said.

Gavin snapped his head up and met the curator’s eyes. “What?”

“Y-You carved the fourth rune into the table.”

Damn
, Gavin thought, licking his lips. What had he been thinking? Of course the man would recognize the rune; he was a scholar. And he might be clever enough to guess Gavin’s secret. “This is an hourglass,” he said, “and it’s time to go.” He started to rise.

“Wait, please. We haven’t much money in the coffer, but there’s something else I can give you.” Laemyr gestured for Gavin to sit back down. “Please.”

Gavin sat and tilted his chair back, balancing on its rear legs. He laid his knife atop the rune he’d just carved. Not many people this far south knew that the third rune had been deciphered. The fact that he’d carved the fourth rune, not the third, might have told the scholar more than Gavin wanted to tell.

“You’re a descendant of Ronor Kinshield, are you not?” the curator asked.

Gavin sighed. “So?” If he heard one more comment about what a hero Ronor Kinshield had been, he thought he would vomit. Heroes didn’t let kings die.