Royce hesitated. “Would you prefer me if I were a fisherman, or perhaps a winemaker?”
“No,” she said. “I prefer you as you are.”
Royce took her hand. “Wouldn’t you be better off with a nice farmer or rich merchant? Someone you can raise children with, someone you can grow old with, someone who will stay at home and not leave you alone and wondering.”
She kissed him.
“What was that for?”
“I’m a prostitute, Royce. There aren’t many men who consider themselves unworthy of me. I love you as you are and always will no matter what path you choose. If I did have the power to change anything, it would be to convince you of that.”
He put his arms around her, and she pulled him close. “I missed you,” she whispered.
Archibald Ballentyne woke with a start.
He had fallen asleep in the Gray Tower of Ballentyne Castle. The fire had burned out, and the room was growing cold. It was also dark, but the dim glow of the faint orange embers in the hearth gave a little light. There was an odd and unpleasant odor in the air, and he felt the weight of something large and round on his lap. He could not make it out in the darkness. It seemed like a melon wrapped in linen. He stood up and set the object in his chair. He moved aside the brass screen and, taking two logs from the stack nearby, placed them on top of the hot coals. He prodded the embers with a poker, blew on them, and coaxed the fire back to life. As he did, the room filled with light once more.
He set the poker back to its stand, replaced the screen, and dusted his hands off. As he turned around, he looked at the chair he had been sleeping in and immediately pinwheeled backward in horror.
There on his seat was the head of the former archduke of Melengar. The cloth, which was covering it, had partially fallen away, revealing a large portion of what had once been Braga’s face. The eyes were rolled back, leaving white and milky orbs in their sockets. The yellowed skin, stretched and leathery, was shriveled. A host of some kind of worms moved in the gaping mouth, slithering in a heaving mass, which made it almost appear as if Braga’s tongue was trying to speak.
Archibald’s stomach twisted in knots. Too frightened to scream, he looked around the room for intruders. As he did, he saw writing on the wall. Painted in what appeared to be blood, in letters a foot tall, were the words:
NEVER INTERFERE WITH MELENGAR AGAIN
BY ORDER OF THE KING
… AND US
BOOK II
AVEMPARTHA
CHAPTER 1
COLNORA
As the man stepped out of the shadows, Wyatt Deminthal knew this would be the worst, and possibly the last, day of his life. Dressed in raw wool and rough leather, the man was vaguely familiar, a face seen briefly by candlelight over two years earlier, a face Wyatt had hoped he would never see again. The man carried three swords, each one battered and dull, the grips sweat-stained and frayed. Taller than Wyatt by nearly a foot, with broader shoulders and powerful hands, he stood with his weight distributed across the balls of his feet. He locked his eyes on Wyatt the way cats stare at mice.
“Baron Delano DeWitt of Dagastan?” It was not a question but an accusation.
Wyatt felt his heart shudder. Even after he recognized the face, a part of him—the optimist that had somehow managed to survive after all these dreadful years—still hoped the man was only after his money. But with the sound of those words, that hope died.
“Sorry, you must be mistaken,” he replied to the man blocking his path, trying his best to sound friendly, carefree—guiltless. He even tried to mask his Calian accent to further the charade.
“No, I’m not,” the man insisted as he crossed the width of the alley, moving closer, eating up the comforting space between them. His hands remained in full view, which was more worrisome than if they had rested on the pommels of his swords. Even though Wyatt wore a fine cutlass, the man had no fear of him.
“Well, as it happens, my name is Wyatt Deminthal. I think, therefore, that you must be mistaken.”
Wyatt was pleased he had managed to say all this without stammering. With great effort, he concentrated on relaxing his body, letting his shoulders droop, resting his weight on one heel. He even forced a pleasant smile and glanced around casually as an innocent man might.