The Dragon Thief (Sorcery and Sin Book 1) Read online

  “You don’t have much more to shed,” she noted, pointing her chin at the large, empty surface atop Adom’s head that was absent of hair.

  “Elaya, I’m serious.”

  Her mouth tightened. “I know. I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

  “There’s, what, fifteen of us left?” Adom swung his head around, corralling the remaining mercenaries with his eyes. They were scattered about, lying in depressed brush like resting deer. “Was twenty a week ago. We need money. We need food. Actual food.”

  Adom was right, of course. Adom was always right. Almost. That bit about how squeezing lemon juice into open wounds helps flush out the bad stuff was entirely, thoroughly and decisively incorrect. This was also the story of how Adom was almost beaten within an inch of his life by a mercenary who quite disliked lemon juice being poured into his gashed arm.

  But the Eyes of Aleer did need money. They were dirt poor—one might even suggest bedrock poor—and had been now for months. Work had been increasingly difficult to come by as rumors circulated of intensifying tensions among the capital kingdoms. People aren’t as willing to part with their gold for assassinations, thievery, and other misdeeds when the threat of war looms. Better to amass your war chest in case you need to flee or make a quick bribe to keep your head upon your shoulders.

  There were quick ways to refill the Eyes of Aleer’s coffers, but Elaya refused to hijack caravans and plunder innocent villages. She had formed the Eyes of Aleer to maintain her freedom, not to inflict injustice on honest, good people.

  At this rate, though, the Eyes of Aleer wouldn’t exist in two weeks. She handpicked her mercenaries, so they were loyal as freelancers can be—but they weren’t dogs. They wouldn’t stick around while she starved them.

  “We need a big job,” Adom said. “Bigger than anything we’ve ever done. Doin’ a favor for a village elder and knockin’ off his rival for a fat purse of silver ain’t nothin’ to sneer at, don’t get me wrong, but you gotta make a decision, Elaya. Are we gonna be small-timin’ it forever, or will Avestas finally know the Eyes of Aleer?”

  Elaya ran a hand through her greasy raven-colored hair. Her eyes fell to the fire that crackled and flickered. “Capital kingdoms?”

  Adom tilted his head to one side and the other. “Yeah, I think so. Kings and queens pay far better than patriarchs and matriarchs of Podunk little hamlets.”

  “Their requests are also inherently more dangerous.” She threw up a hand to thwart his incoming protest. “Danger isn’t something I myself am afraid of. I only want what’s best for the Eyes. You know this.”

  Adom leaned forward empathetically, his scraggly chin lit a blazing orange by the licking flames. “If we fail, the Eyes of Aleer go quietly into the night. If we sit here and lick our wounds, the Eyes of Aleer go quietly into the night. Either way…”

  Elaya regarded her heavy, calcified hunk of bread with disdain. She nodded, but said nothing.

  Ten years ago, she would have been happy to have gone quietly into the night. She’d lived a life of horror, and that is being kind to the definition of horror. Forming the Eyes of Aleer was her escape from a brutal and unforgiving life where one misstep could—no, would—cost her her life. But simply existing had long lost its appeal. She wanted something more. Something bigger out of life. She wanted people to know who Elaya Ourval was. And accomplishing that task… well, Adom was right—it called for a big job. Bigger than she’d ever dreamed of pulling off.

  After gathering fallen branches and twigs to reinvigorate the fire while the other exhausted mercenaries slept, she and Adom began plotting and strategizing.

  Sometimes in life, often at the most unlikely times, it seems like the clouds part and your prayers and hopes are answered in unsuspecting and unpredictable ways. On Avestas, some believe this is Aleer or Pavrin or one of a hundred other gods responding to their calls for help, but most likely—one can never be absolutely certain when gods are concerned—the explanation is simply this: life loves her coincidences and delights in drama.

  Beneath a murky sky and racing with headlong winds came help, came a prayer, came hope, came drama. And it came in the form of an albino horse whose saddle carried either a squished man or a dwarf.

  Upon closer inspection, it was a dwarf. Or an imp, as their inciters enjoy calling them. The little ones themselves prefer being called people, as that’s precisely what they are.

  “It’s not natural,” Adom said, stoking the fire with a knotted branch. “Look at him. He’s flailing all about, looks like the wind’s gonna take him and chuck him off.”

  “He rides too fast,” Elaya agreed. “But there are worse traits for scouts.”

  Marlo “Porky” Sandally galloped into the makeshift camp with the kind of confidence and bluster that was wholly undeserved from someone of his reputation. He pulled tight on the reins of his milk-colored mare, slowing her as she approached the fire.

  “Ahoy, ya fuckers,” he said.

  He began untying something from his saddle. That something was a folded-up wooden stool, which he dropped to the ground and used to clamber down off his horse.

  “Ah,” he said in disgust, “quit eatin’ that shit. Here, put some meat in ya.” He tossed to Elaya and Adom what they discovered were pieces of dried lamb wrapped tightly in a cocoon of chestnut leaves. “Don’t eat all of ’em, you greedy bastards. It’s for everyone. So, perk yer ears up, I got some news. And it’s juicy. Jooooo-ceeee.”

  Elaya lifted her brow.

  “Craigh Opsillian is dead.”

  Adom and Elaya exchanged curious glances.

  “Far as I heard,” Porky said, gnawing on a piece of jerky, “natural causes. They just elected his boy as king.”

  “Lavery?” Elaya said. “He’s eleven.”

  “Funny. That’s what I said myself.”

  Unlike many kingdoms across Avestas, Valios operated on an elected monarchy, not a hereditary one. There was little reason, in Elaya’s mind, why Craigh Opsillian’s Council would elect his young son rather than one of themselves. Unless…

  “He’s a pawn,” Elaya said.

  “Got to be,” Adom agreed. “Family inheritance keeps things status quo, so the Council ain’t got to be worryin’ about uprisings and claims of rigged elections, and since he’s just a boy, they won’t have no trouble manipulatin’ him.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Just another day on Avestas, huh?”

  Porky opened his mouth and out came a stream of slurs and curses about the Valiosian Empire, but Elaya didn’t hear them. She retreated into the labyrinth of her own mind, exploring a sudden rush of what-ifs and maybes.

  “Elaya?” Adom said. “Hello?”

  Slowly, she lifted her eyes to meet his. “You’re right. We need a big job. And I just thought of one.”

  Porky shifted from one foot to the other. “What’s she goin’ on about?”

  Elaya traded glances between him and Adom. “Get some sleep. We’re riding east tomorrow.”

  Adom poked his head forward. “Er, why?”

  “We’re kidnapping a king.”

  Chapter Three

  Lavery desperately wanted to visit the mausoleum. And given he was now king of Valios and could do pretty much whatever he wanted, there was little stopping him—except for the fact he didn’t feel like a king. He felt like a prisoner. A slave.

  Maren O’Keefe had put him in a room within the keep, told him he needed to study if he were to rule the Valiosian kingdom with any semblance of his father’s success.

  Lavery looked up from the various texts and maps spread across the table he sat at. Two guards clad in plate stared back at him coolly. They had their swords withdrawn, idle at their sides, as if a werewolf might leap through the door and go for Lavery’s jugular. Or, as the eleven-year-old thought, as if he might try to leave.

  The thin flames of candles throughout the room bobbed and dipped, their shadows climbing the depressing gray stone walls and sliding back down.

  Lavery re
turned his attention to the map. It was old and wrinkled and yellow. The ink had been smudged in spots and missing altogether in others. Minimalistic castles marked each of the six kingdoms: Valios, the Roost, Haeglin, Plorgus, Torbinen and Wrokklen, the last two named for the families who presided over the kingdoms.

  Tiny tents noted smaller houses of interest. There were rivers and lakes, mountain ranges and passes. Lavery was to remember all of their locations and names, and then cross-reference them with texts to learn what significance each held.

  He sighed and grumbled, fidgeting irritatedly. He’d been studying for almost four hours now. His mind was stuffed to capacity. Nothing was sticking anymore. Names were vanishing from his memory as quickly as he read them. What was the point of learning all this boring history, anyway? What did it matter if Blane the Sixth of Urginton waged war against Lucille of Epith over the great potato famine?

  Who cares, he thought. I bet my friends in the tombs wouldn’t care. He enjoyed history, but only the exciting bits—stories of terrifying dragons and sorcerers who commanded the elements. Family lines and the like were not in the least bit interesting or exciting.

  He moved his hand side to side, examining the oversized ring he’d been given on the day of his kingship. It had been his father’s and his father’s father’s, and it probably went on for longer than that, too. Some kings got a crown; Lavery got a ring.

  He was supposed to get a sword, too—the King’s Blade, it was called. But Maren said it was still being crafted for his hand. As if he’d ever use it.

  It’d probably feel as out of place as the ring, which he hated. It was embedded with diamonds and flecks of gold, and the center stone—a black sapphire—had been jigsawed to resemble the Opsillian twin coiling serpents. It felt heavy on his finger and out of place. He wished he could take it off and throw it into the sewers, and with it his kingship.

  Why did you have to die? he asked silently, picturing his father’s face. He shook his head, jarring that image loose, forcing it to go away. He didn’t want to cry.

  A heavy knock at the door jarred Lavery out of his thoughts. With his sword ready to plunge into the softness of an exposed belly if necessary, one of the guards cautiously opened the door.

  “Lord O’Keefe,” the guard said, with a slight bow of his head.

  Maren returned the gesture and walked in, holding a parchment close to his chest. “How are our studies going? Well, I assume?”

  I could have him killed if I wanted, Lavery thought. That was a terrible thing to want, and it made him feel bad, but he hated Maren O’Keefe. Lavery Opsillian had never hated anyone in his whole life except Maren O’Keefe. Even when his father had sat upon the throne, the master-at-arms had chided him for playing instead of training with the blade. And then there were the rumors. The awful, terrible rumors that Maren would visit brothels and have sex with as many as ten women; those who didn’t pleasure him according to his standards would be beaten… sometimes killed.

  There were other rumors too, but Lavery preferred not thinking of them. It made his hatred for Maren that much stronger.

  “I’m getting tired,” Lavery said. “I think I’m going to take a break.”

  “No, you’re not,” Maren said, stepping up to the table and laying a parchment on it. “I need your signature.”

  “What is this?”

  “A letter to Haeglin kindly explaining to the Gravendeers that our previous trade treaty is now void given your father’s… expiration. This is an ideal time to renegotiate and acquire an agreement tailored to our terms.”

  Lavery read over the letter. He understood barely any of it. “What were the terms before? And what kind of trade do we—”

  “If,” Maren said sternly, “you would read your books, you would know what kind of trade flows between us and Haeglin. Numerous goods; nothing that we cannot live without while Raegon Gravendeer comes to an understanding that the Valiosian Empire will not bend. And the terms are simple: The Gravendeers will pay an increased tariff on all goods we import from them and all goods they import from us.”

  Eleven-year-olds, as a rule, do not have a keen understanding of economics. But they know an insult when they hear one.

  “They’ll never agree to that,” Lavery said. “Why would they pay us to take their goods?”

  Maren shook his head in admonishing fashion. “If you had been paying attention, young king, you would have noticed I said an increased tariff. They already pay one; we’re simply upping the percentage slightly.”

  Lavery wondered if this was true; he had no knowledge of Valios’s trade agreements. Maren could have been lying to him, making it seem like it was a minor renegotiation rather than a tear-down and rebuild of the previous terms.

  And that was precisely what Maren O’Keefe was doing.

  Valios’s imports from Haeglin were vast and included mostly luxury and unimportant goods, but among those vital to its economy were tin and silk, which fed the growing metallurgy and clothier industries in Valios. Without those two items, the economy would buckle.

  And so Valios paid a premium for them. Maren’s hope was that by starting from an absurd point—requiring tariffs—their negotiations with the Gravendeers would settle at what sounded like a far more practical position, one that would still be beneficial to Valios. If his gamble failed, Valios would face economic peril.

  If Lavery had known the consequences, maybe he wouldn’t have dipped his pen in ink and signed his approval.

  Maren folded the parchment up and clapped his hands. “My thanks… Lord Opsillian.” His smile made Lavery shiver. “Actually, perhaps you’re right. You’ve studied enough. I expect to see you back here soon, though.” He turned toward the door, then paused and fixed a glare at the young king. “Do not let me catch you talking to your invisible friends. Understand?”

  Lavery balled his hands into fists beneath the table. He didn’t say a word.

  “I said, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Maren smiled. “Good.”

  Flat land is not abundant in Eastern Avestas, so if you fancy putting down a kingdom, you’ve got to make do with what you have. Lavery’s ancestors had built Valios upon humps of rock and dirt and hills that would rise steeply and then plunge sixty feet into a narrow valley. This explains why the death count reached five digits before it was all over. But as the first Valiosian king would tell you, those were slaves, so they didn’t count.

  A cobble bridge spanned the keep and city proper. A gulf lay between the two points.

  Lavery hurried across the bridge, ignoring all the attention paid to him. The people treated him differently now. They used to ignore him, or even smile as he chased geese and played fetch with dogs. Now, they kept their distance, watched him with wary eyes.

  He wondered if they respected him. Probably not. Sure, they’d gathered for his crowning and they’d clapped and hollered their support, but they were expected to do that. That didn’t mean they respected him. What had he done to earn their respect?

  The mausoleum lay at the far end of the city, nestled against a wall. Despite Maren’s constant warnings, Lavery had gone there every day since he’d been elected king. He usually went a roundabout way, meandering through this district and that, cutting through alleys, just in case Maren had spies out, watching his every move.

  Lavery was thankful Maren hadn’t assigned Silver Swords to his every move. Officially, the Silver Swords were Valios’s city guard. Unofficially, they protected the crown and its interests more than the people.

  Even without personal guards trailing his every move, Lavery had noticed two or three strange people near the mausoleum for the past few days. They were dressed in rags, had oily hair. Their faces were unshaven and dirty.

  He didn’t recognize them, but they seemed to observe him with subtle vigilance—he sensed them tracking him with the corners of their eyes, but whenever he looked in their direction, they seemed to be yawning or fussing with their clothes.
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br />   He walked briskly past them and looked over his shoulder. This time they weren’t yawning. This time they weren’t fussing with their clothes. They were staring at him with the unrelenting gaze of the sun above, as if they were a pack of hungry feral dogs.

  Fear wrapped Lavery up in a tight, unwelcoming embrace. He tried swallowing that fear into the pit of his stomach, but his throat was dry and gummed up.

  I should go back, he thought. He didn’t know why he thought that. After all, if these were Maren’s lackeys, so what? Maren, frightful as he might be, answered to Lavery, in the end. What was the worst he could do?

  It wasn’t logical to be afraid of Maren O’Keefe, but oftentimes emotions don’t care about logic.

  He climbed the steps of the mausoleum and looked back again. They were gone.

  What if they weren’t working for Maren? What if they were working for someone else?

  Lavery shook his head, tried to forget about it all. The mausoleum was his place of refuge. He’d be safe here, no matter what.

  He had hoped Baern would be there, but the foyer was empty.

  Maybe he’s down below. Lavery squeezed himself through the hole in the floor, blindly found the ladder with his feet, and descended into the cool, musty tomb.

  “Hallo?” he called out. No one answered. Sometimes they didn’t answer right away, so that wasn’t unusual. He pressed onward, navigating the overwhelming blackness like a mole in its complex network of tunnels.

  The tap-tap-tap of little paws and tiny claws scampering and scurrying across the stone made Lavery’s heart leap into his throat. He’d grown accustomed to rats and mice in the tomb, but today was different. Today, every palpitation he felt in the soles of his feet, every rap he heard coming from this corner and that nook—it made him jump.