Kings of the Wyld (The Band #1)

Moog looked from Lastleaf, to Gabriel, to Dinantra. “I don’t understand. Is he a prisoner still?”

Dinantra’s hair hissed at the wizard. “Not a prisoner,” she clarified. “A possession. By releasing him I risk making an enemy of the Sultana—something I was prepared to do even before … recent developments made doing so inevitable. Nevertheless, I am altering the terms of our agreement, as per My Lord’s request.”

Gabe looked suspiciously at Lastleaf, but it was Clay who asked what they’d both been wondering. “You knew we were coming?”

The druin wore a wry smile, but said nothing.

“He mentioned having seen you at Lindmoor,” Dinantra answered, “and expressed interest in meeting you again, face-to-face. Since I assumed you were coming here for Ganelon, I invited him to extend his stay in Fivecourt awhile longer.”

“Well, that was thoughtful,” said Matrick flatly.

Lastleaf sighed airily. “Wasn’t it? She will make a wonderful Exarch, I am sure.”

Gabriel’s jaw worked furiously. His hopes of rescuing Rose depended on securing Ganelon’s freedom, because without the warrior’s help they stood little chance of surviving the Heartwyld. Having the rest of Saga by his side meant (hopefully) that Ganelon was less likely to kill him when Gabriel proposed that he come to Castia.

Whatever “alteration” the druin and Dinantra had cooked up, Clay and his bandmates had little choice but to swallow it.

“So what is this request?” Gabriel managed through gritted teeth.

The druin seem to relish the taste of his next words before giving them voice. “I would have you know how it feels to risk death for the amusement of a mob, to hear a crowd of thousands howling for your blood. It would also, I confess, please me to watch you die. Dinantra, fortunately, is well positioned to arrange both.”

“Holy Tetrea,” whispered Matrick, who’d gone pale despite the flush of having consumed two bowls of wine in a very short span of time. “You want us to fight in the Maxithon?”

Lastleaf’s grin spread like a plague across his face. “I do,” he replied to Matrick, though his mismatched eyes were nailed to Gabriel. “After all, you’ve gone to such extraordinary lengths to reunite your little band. You must be planning something—a farewell tour of Grandual’s grand arenas, perhaps?” His ears skewed forward, curious. “You wouldn’t dare enter the forest, of course. Not at your age.”

“So what is it you want us to fight?” Moog asked, changing the subject before the druin could make another guess at their objective. He pointed at Lastleaf. “Not you? You? Don’t say you.”

Dinantra’s laugh was soft and sibilant. She shared a conspiratorial sneer with the druin before answering. “We have something special in mind. A thing this city has never seen before. If you win, Ganelon goes free.”

She left the alternative unspoken, Clay noted.

“What if we say no?” asked Matrick. “If we refuse to fight, what happens to Ganelon?”

A ripple of irritation passed over Dinantra’s ruthlessly beautiful features. The snakes in her hair hissed reprovingly. “Do you imagine it is easy for me to live in Fivecourt? There are laws that grant me the right to do so, and my wealth, of course, makes things a great deal easier. And yet the people of this city barely tolerate my presence here. There are lewd murals of my likeness to be found throughout every ward. I must send servants to the market for fear of being attacked, or refused service. I am told there is even a whore in Coinbarrow who shares my name. She wears a wig of painted ropes and pretends—or allows men to pretend—that it is me to whom they are making love, as if a mortal man could survive such exquisite pleasure.”

Clay saw the pillow between Matrick’s legs twitch slightly.

“I have lived among these people for years,” said the gorgon, “and yet I must work tirelessly to maintain their goodwill. To my shame, that often means staging fights in the arena—something Lastleaf has assured me will be barred once our New Dominion takes root in Castia. Nevertheless, I have promised this city a spectacle, and I shall grant them one, with or without your assistance. Should you refuse to fight, Ganelon will face his death alone. And he will die, I promise you that. The Maxithon will have its blood, one way or another. Now choose.”

Gabriel opened his mouth to protest.

“We’ll do it,” said Clay.

The others all looked to him. Moog smiled tightly. Matrick shrugged. Gabriel nodded, regret and relief plain in his eyes.

“Excellent,” hissed Dinantra. “You will fight tomorrow. I have another band headlining, but I’m sure the arena master will make an exception for Saga—the Kings of the Wyld, reunited at last.”

“Tomorrow’s fine,” Clay said, before anyone could object.

Moog knocked his bony shoulder into the king beside him. “The sooner we finish this, the sooner we head west, right?”

Clay saw Lastleaf’s ears cant, but the druin gave no other indication he’d caught the obvious implication in the wizard’s words.

Gabriel spoke up before the silence provoked further inquiry. “Can we see Ganelon now?” he asked.

The gorgon’s tail shivered, its rattle summoning the servants from the edge of the room. She handed off her bowl, slithered from her seat, and fixed Gabriel with her ruby glare. “Leave the gold,” she ordered. “Come with me.”

Gabriel raised no objection. He stood and made to follow, leaving the sack where it lay.

Lastleaf returned his attention to the painting behind him. “I’d wish you good luck tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder, “except, well, you know.”

Dinantra led them past the curtained portico into the private yard beyond. They followed her down a pathway lit by small clusters of squat candles and set with coloured stones, pink and green and white. There was a manicured garden on their right. A servant wearing nothing but his standard-issue coin-sewn loincloth was trimming a hedge by torchlight into the shape of two men wrestling. At least Clay thought they were wrestling—it was hard to make out in the gloom. The man knelt as Dinantra went by, pressing his forehead to the grass. On their left was a pond similar to the one they’d seen in Kallorek’s home. Clay wondered briefly if gorgons could swim. He thought they probably could.

“Why purchase him from the Quarry in the first place?” asked Matrick.

“Because he is dangerous”—Dinantra’s voice drifted back to them—“and I collect dangerous things.”

There was a small stone building at the rear of the garden. Dinantra moved to one side of the entrance and piled her green-gold coils beneath her. “Ganelon is yours for the evening. I will arrange rooms for you in the city. Something suitable, I assure you. I will also provide guards to make certain you honour our agreement. Now go on,” she said. “He is inside.”

Gabriel went first, pushing open the heavy door and stepping into the shadowed interior. Moog and Matrick disappeared after him. Clay stood outside for a few heartbeats more. There was a cold spear of dread in his gut. He imagined Ganelon’s resentment at having been abandoned by his so-called friends when he’d needed them most, the bitterness he no doubt felt at being released from the Quarry only to become the slave of a mercantile gorgon. As much as anything, he feared to find the warrior a shadow of his former self, broken by prison, cowed by a decade of indentured servitude. Would they find him on his knees, with nothing but a cloth of tarnished coins to hide his shame? Or had Dinantra kept him in chains, caged like a beast in this shadowed place?

The gorgon was watching him, the hint of a simper on her lips.

He stepped through the door. The room beyond was dark. Bands of pale starlight streamed through the close-set bars of a west-facing window. The air inside was stale. The dust kicked up by their arrival took to the air, swirling like snowflakes around the room’s petrified occupant.

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