Reign of Gods (Sorcery and Sin Book 2) Page 15

  Still, when Oriana envisioned the world she wanted to create, the change she wished to bring—she thought of Torbinen. This kingdom would serve as the framework for her transformation of Avestas.

  Farris had brought good to this world, Oriana knew. A goodness that was displayed in the smiles her people woke up with every morning, in their festive spirits, and in the jubilation and liveliness of their conversations. It was too bad, then, that the queen had also proven herself to be conniving and unscrupulous.

  But most of all, and the reason why Oriana had grown to hate her, Farris Torbinen was weak. She was afraid to expand her influence. She was scared to march on Avestas as the harbinger of change, to be known as the disruptor. It was why she’d made no move in the past nine months to do so, though she’d promised Oriana she was working on it.

  In the end, Farris was happy with having carved out a little pocket of utopia, and in that pocket she’d stay. With dragons at her command, who would dare move her? Oriana thought—no, knew—that was why Farris had stolen the whistles and why she’d taken the dragons. She had no desire to change the world, only to live comfortably and secure her legacy forevermore.

  There will be change one way or another, Oriana thought as she lowered her head and plodded down dark alleyways and through a sweet-smelling fruit market. And you, Farris, will be the herald, whether you want to or not.

  Now sandwiched between tall, rangy spires that rose up in the center of Torbinen, Oriana could see the citadel from where Farris governed. Where Farris lived.

  Workers pushing wheelbarrows full of loam navigated around her, heading to the East Shore. The wall there still wasn’t fully functional, having suffered catastrophic damage from when the clutches had assaulted it nine months ago. The sound of clanking hammers came from that direction.

  “An apple for the lady?” asked a mustachioed merchant, pinching a tiny purple apple between his fingers. It was the size of a strawberry.

  Oriana ignored him, walked right past. She’d tasted plenty of Friz’s Miraculously Tiny Apples during her stay in Torbinen, and they weren’t particularly tasty. Not bad, but not good, and certainly not worth her time at the moment.

  Spurts of raindrops fell from the sky again. Big fat ones that fell loudly on rooftops and balcony canvases. By the time Oriana reached the citadel steps, the rain had stopped. Two guards, Miles and Loppel, posted at the enormous emerald wood doors acknowledged Oriana with curt nods.

  “Miss Gravendeer,” Miles said. He was clean-shaven and had a pair of too-big-for-his-face ears.

  “Excuse me,” Oriana said, shoving herself between them. “I need to speak with Farris.”

  “Sir Dorull went off for a piss in the sea,” said Loppel. “He’ll be back in short order, I’d imagine.”

  “That’s what he calls his cock,” said Miles, smirking. “Short order.”

  The left guard belted out a raucous laugh that dwindled into a series of chuckles diminishing in intensity. “Aw, c’mon, Miss Gravendeer. You hold company with Rol. That son of a bitch tells far cruder jokes than either Miles or myself can imagine.”

  Oriana held the expression of a rock. “Men, open the door. I don’t need Sir Dorull to accompany me; I know where to go.”

  Miles spun the butt of his ceremonial pike into the ground. “Miss Gravendeer, you know the Citadel Standard. No one goes in without an escort, unless you’re on the council. And you’re not on the council. I’m sorry.”

  Oriana had made it a rule to shy away from argumentative outbursts, mostly because they rarely led to positive outcomes, and also because the further she distanced herself from her sister’s behavior, the better. But sometimes good old tactful manners don’t get you anywhere. Sometimes you need to put a boot up someone’s rump to make them move.

  She squared herself to Miles, creased her eyes. “Miles, you wish to discuss standards?” She ran a finger down the iron shaft of his pike. “If you don’t open this bloody door, I’ll have General Hastings shove this pike of yours down your throat and out the other side. We’ll fix a pennant on your shoulders and name you the new banner standard of the Tridents.”

  With a quick tug, Miles jolted his pike away from Oriana. He returned her scathing glare and, without breaking eye contact, said, “Loppel, escort Miss Gravendeer to the queen’s chambers.” His mouth twitched. “General Hastings will hear about this.”

  “Let him,” Oriana said, leaving her uncharacteristic belligerence at Miles’s feet and joining Loppel as he opened the door and led her into the citadel.

  The young guardsman was quiet as he brought Oriana up the spiraling ramp edged with vast planes of glass that offered a glimpse into the unusually choppy Glass Sea.

  A storm’s coming, Oriana thought.

  “Is the queen expecting you?” Loppel asked.

  Oriana had to decide between yes, she should be, and no. She went with the first one.

  They passed several landings that led into offshoot hallways, mostly quarters for the council and “esteemed friends of the crown,” which was a fancy title one could acquire by being born into the right family. As progressive a society as Torbinen was, it still clung to certain principles infamous in Avestas.

  At the very top of the citadel, the glass panes shrunk and became solid sheets of brick, upon which sconces were affixed. A cerulean rug lay before a single door with a silver doorknocker.

  Two Queen’s Blades—personal guards of the queen—stood at the door, dressed in the purity of plate from head to toe. They held their swords in one hand and their shields in the other. The yellow Torbinen eel was emblazoned on the chest of their tunics.

  Loppel, with his mail and wooden-hafted pike, looked outclassed compared to these men.

  Loppel coughed and thinned himself between the two guards, who didn’t flinch.

  “Lady Torbinen,” Loppel announced, lifting the knocker and letting it fall with a thud. “The Lady Oriana Gravendeer stands beside me.”

  A long silence made Loppel fidget.

  “Bring her in,” Farris finally answered.

  Loppel opened the door and gestured Oriana into the room. She fit herself between the two guards, who stared past her like inanimate statues. She felt a whoosh of air as the door closed behind her.

  Sitting on her four-poster bed, beneath a thin silk canopy, was Farris Torbinen. She rubbed her wrinkly, liver-spotted foot. “It’s too bad you’re not Sir Dorull’s boy, Samson. He rubs my feet and I give him a silver piece, and he runs off happy as a dog with a ham bone in his mouth.”

  Oriana noticed steam rising from a copper tub in the center of the room. It seemed Farris spent her life sleeping and taking baths. Somewhere in there she must have eaten too. Possibly. Oriana sat on a stool beside the tub, crossing her legs.

  “I have a problem,” she said. “My dragons are missing.”

  Farris continued massaging her foot, digging a nail deeply into the sole. “My, that is a problem.”

  She’s not even pretending to show concern. “My master whistles are also missing.”

  “They’re not missing, dear.” Farris slid a hand along the sheets of her bed and held up a brass chain from which dangled eleven silver whistles. “I have them right here. Regrettably, I left one behind. But it’s of little concern.”

  Oriana uncrossed her legs. “Those don’t belong to you.”

  Farris forked her fingers through her gray tufts of hair. “I’m sorry, Ori. I would have asked permission, but it was a delicate matter, and you wouldn’t have agreed.” She dropped the whistles onto the bed and removed the sock from her other foot.

  Oriana felt like her mind was screaming at her, each thought an explosive burst in her ears. She’d intended to play stupid, to lull Farris into a false sense of security, assure her that Oriana didn’t at all suspect her. And then she’d start tossing out accusations, unraveling Farris’s cool, collected demeanor.

  That, quite obviously, didn’t work.

  “Have you heard of the Harvals?” Farris
asked, paying special attention to a toe whose webbing looked dry and crusty. She picked at it, tasted a flake of skin, and swallowed.

  “I know of them,” Oriana said. During her father’s many forced teachings of history and alignments of power—education necessary for an heiress, he claimed—she had learned that the Harvals were among the prominent families who made up the Southern Ring of Power: a power base whose contingents were as unstable as they were unfriendly.

  “After much negotiation,” Farris said, still prying skin from her grotesque toe, “the Harvals and Torbinen have struck an alliance. Through the Harvals, we will acquire the allegiance of the Southern Ring of Power, which means we will have the entirety of the South at our side.” She looked up, making a face as she dug into the webbing of her toe. “That is how you make a move, dear.”

  “My dragons,” Oriana said.

  “Your dragons are central to this plot. The Harvals only agreed to an alliance if I could secure them three dragons and half a dozen whelps. I talked them down to two dragons and three whelps. I figured you would not agree, so—”

  “I don’t agree,” Oriana said sharply.

  Farris sighed. “A shame. The deal is already in place.”

  Oriana’s cheeks burned. She felt out of breath. “You have no right—”

  “I have every right,” Farris said, her voice measured. “You promised me the assistance of your dragons when I welcomed your lot of sorcerers inside my walls.” She brushed away loose skin from her toe as if it were dust, then lowered her foot onto the floor. “I gave you refuge.”

  Oriana bolted upright, slamming the stool back. It crashed against the copper tub, eliciting a loud clang that resounded throughout the room. “Don’t you dare suggest your actions came from the goodness of your heart. I told you if Torbinen didn’t put up a fight against the clutches, your kingdom would be lost. Avestas would be lost.”

  Farris unclasped a rope of sapphires and spinels and tanzanites from around her sagging neckline. “Terms are terms, Oriana.” She laid the necklace on her nightstand, then removed her bangles. She seemed to be readying herself for a bath. “You should have given them a second thought before agreeing.”

  Oriana’s stomach felt like a cauldron of emotions, sans happiness and joy. It would have felt so good, so right, to lash out and tell Farris Torbinen exactly what Oriana thought of her. Satisfaction—that’s what it would have given her. But she had to clear her head, regather her calmness, find a way out of what was quickly becoming a disastrous scenario.

  Or maybe… maybe the time was right for passion and rage.

  Standing tall and straight, Oriana approached Farris like a looming storm cloud. “I’m reneging on those terms. Give me my dragons, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Farris raised her chin, opened her lips, and declared, “No.”

  “I have over twenty sorcerers,” Oriana said. She allowed the obvious implication to hang before Farris for a moment, then added, “and very loyal dragons. If I manage to free even one—just one—I will hold back nothing. Everything you’ve built, I’ll destroy. Everything you’ve accomplished, I’ll reduce to nothingness.”

  Farris unbuttoned her shirt, slid her arms out of the short sleeves. “I was afraid it would come down to this. You’re a sweet girl, Ori. Obsessed and motivated, too. Why, those are the traits you want if you’ll be changing the world. But, dear, you’re much too kind. Kindness can take you only so far, and I’m afraid you’ve reached your destination.” She turned toward the door. “Agros, Phin,” she hollered.

  The door slammed back against its hinges and in walked two Queen’s Blades. The chime of unsheathed steel accompanied them.

  “Take Miss Gravendeer here to the dungeon,” Farris ordered. “She is charged with the heinous crime of high and grave threats to the queen.” She stood, loosened her sash and stepped out of her pants. She wobbled to the bath, lumpy hips and wilting breasts weighing her down.

  “Get away from me,” Oriana warned the guards, stepping back. She knocked into the nightstand. A glass of old wine teetered and fell, shattering into jagged pieces on the floor.

  The guards approached, their faces concealed behind wrought-iron helmets. “Sit,” one of them demanded, voice muffled. With a gloved hand, he pointed to the bed.

  “Farris,” Oriana said, calling for the queen but keeping her attention fully on the tall armored men before her. “Farris! Tell these men to stand down.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible today,” Farris said, water splashing as she submerged herself in the tub. “But you never know what tomorrow might bring, so long as you’re a good girl.”

  The old, fat queen with her many folds and liver spots smiled as she said those words. She threw her head back and sighed, scrubbing her neck with steaming water.

  Oriana considered her options. They were, frankly, limited. She had only one escape route, and that consisted of bringing forth a locus. But how far would that get her? Out of the room? Halfway down the steps? It would only take one guard hollering to another to alert the Trident ranks that Oriana Gravendeer—you know, the queer one who dabbles in sorcery and has a dozen dragons to her name—is wanted for threatening to murder the queen.

  Yeah, that wasn’t much of an option at all.

  Oriana raised her hands to show resignation. The butt end of a pommel flashed before her, and she heard and felt a deafening crack. Right between the eyes.

  She staggered back, falling into the nightstand. A leather-gloved hand grasped her wrist, yanked her to her feet.

  “Easy, men,” a voice said. It sounded like it was floating. Everything sounded like it was floating to Oriana at that moment. “Feed her well, and keep her bright and lively.”

  Oriana tried raising her fingers to the thump of pain pulsing between her eyes, but her hands were rather busy: they were being held by the guards and being used to drag her out of the room.

  “Oh, and Ori,” Farris said, “you would do well to remember how that felt. Because if you don’t tell me where your sorcerers are… well, I’ll allow you to piece together the rest.”

  Oriana opened her eyes and closed them. The world wasn’t spinning anymore, so that was good. A warm, wet trickle of what she presumed was blood slid down her nose. She stuck out her tongue to taste it.

  It was definitely blood.

  “Fork ’er over,” said one of the guards. “I’ll just haul her ass there, easier than dragging a sack of dead weight.”

  The world spun again as Oriana felt herself being lifted and wheeled around, thrown over the guard’s shoulder.

  Outside the citadel, it’d begun raining again. She didn’t know where she was being taken, but it seemed to be in the direction of the East Shore.

  Her hair had fallen out of its tight ponytail, and thick auburn locks draped her eyes. Still she could see people gawking and ogling, some of them she’d gotten to know during her time here. Nice as they were, kindly as they treated her, she’d always thought they held her in suspicion, and by the satisfied faces they wore, their suspicions had been validated.

  Oriana felt her eyes begin to tear, and she closed them. She wished to sleep, and right now at this rotten time she didn’t much care if it was temporary or permanent. But hope is both fleeting and fickle, and while it may vanish without a trace, it so often emerges at the unlikeliest of times.

  As Oriana blinked the tears from her eyes, she saw—through murky vision—a rugged, scarred face, and she knew it well. She’d touched those cheeks with her fingers, nestled her nose in the bristles of that beard. She’d kissed those lips and felt drunk looking into those eyes.

  Rol watched her being carried away, and probably he would have sprinted after her in stupidly rash Rol fashion. But a man beside him put a hand on his chest, steadied him. It was then that hope got tangled up with confusion.

  How had Rol found Horace Dewn? And why?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lavery grimaced with each step. Hunger pangs gnawed at his stomach
and told him he’d probably die soon. He knew that wasn’t true, because his father had told him a man could live weeks without food, and it’d only been three days since he’d devoured the last of his rations.

  Still, his vision was blurry sometimes. And he felt dizzy often, had even fainted once. There’ll be food to eat soon, he’d tell himself. There’ll be food soon.

  But when he woke in the morning, after shivering himself to sleep, he cursed. His horse—well, Elaya’s horse, really—had stopped breathing the day prior. So now he was on his feet, and the expanse before him unraveled into a choppy land buried in snow and ice. Hills rolled, and great mountains in the distance seemed farther away than ever. That was where he needed to go, where the City of Ice beckoned him. Where he’d find meaning and adventure and—

  “Argh!” he yelled, now lying flat on his belly, snow and ice burning his face. He quickly brushed it off, sat upright and stared at the unrelenting gray horizon. He cried then. He sobbed. Hot, salty tears slid down his cheeks and into his mouth.

  The Ancient Lands had beaten him. Why had he listened to that Wraith Walker, Haren? What could be gained by venturing so far into the North, where nothing lived—a home for only that terrible necromancer and his army of the dead?

  The answer was obvious: it was a chance for Lavery to rebuild the Wraith Walker Order, if Haren could be believed. But more than that, it was adventure and the possibility of discovery that enticed him.

  He looked at the mountains through wet, hazy eyes. They seemed no closer than a week ago. Maybe adventures weren’t very fun, after all. Maybe there was nothing to discover in the Ancient Lands, and he’d—was that a sign?

  Lavery wiped his nose and clambered painfully to his feet. He squinted. On a small hump there in the distance stood what looked like a wooden sign. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes and gave it another look.