Fire Wolf Page 4

  The queen flicked her wrist, and the emerald weaver stone around her neck pulsed with light, just before a rope tightened around a teenage boy’s neck. The rope hovered in the air, suspended by magic instead of human hands, while the child knelt, gagging, on the gray marble floor. His body bowed forward, between where Garrett and Malcolm stood.

  Elysia’s advisors hovered to the right of the queen, who lounged on the cushioned throne at the end of the spacious room. They avoided any movements or sound that would draw their sovereign’s attention. But she was not paying attention to the cowards, these lords who had once served King Tristan and the royal house before tucking tail and submitting to Ost’s rule like whipped dogs. Their only loyalty was to their sorry necks, and the boons they earned from the house of Ashen.

  No, her eyes affixed on the child, a boy no more than sixteen, whose next breaths of life would be determined by her whims.

  “Tell me again how you came across your information.” The smooth purr of her voice elicited chills down Garrett’s back. Her wrist moved with a quick flick, and the rope loosened just enough for the boy to speak.

  “My friends … and I … have been watching the villages, as … Malcolm … requested. I … saw … the weapons … myself,” he gasped out. His pale cheeks were scarlet; sweat beaded along his forehead, dampening the thick black curls that stuck out in every direction. His winter-chapped hands cradled his throat, scratching at the binding, but he did not dare remove the length of fibers encircling his neck—not without her consent. She controlled everything, which was why Garrett could only watch the madness playing out before him.

  He was a child for lords’ sake—only a few years younger than Garrett.

  “And you immediately reported this?” she asked. The saccharine of her words made him ill, because something bitter, awful, and tasteless often followed the sweet. Elysia had no respect for life.

  “Yes,” the boy managed, his words a trembling breath. “Please—”

  The queen waved her hand, tightening the rope again. Elysia’s dark eyes lifted to find her guardsmen. Her black hair framed her thin, pale face, and pulled back into an intricate series of braids that gathered at the base of her skull. Her face, like most days, bore a look of disgust, as if to tell the world everyone displeased her.

  “Malcolm, did you tell anyone where you were going, other than Garrett and myself?”

  “No, your majesty.”

  “Garrett?” His name rolled off her tongue like a whimsical song.

  “No one was told,” he answered, his voice steady. His fingers, clasped together behind his back, flexed. He itched for one of his knives, sheathed across the leather straps crisscrossing his chest. A defense mechanism ingrained since childhood, when he began his weapons training with Oren. However, he had also learned control in the face of the worst degradation humans could manage, and he called upon it now.

  “And yet, every time we get a lead on these rebels, nothing is found when you arrive. Is that correct?”

  Garrett dropped his chin in affirmation, but he did not speak. All the words he wanted to shout at her clawed at his throat. His silence had become a tomb over the last eight years, encasing him so thoroughly that every part of him that screamed to stop her horrors had been trapped, never to emerge. It could not. Not even through the cracks he had felt forming in his mental armor.

  “So, you see, boy, I have a hard time believing you didn’t run your mouth.” Her sweet voice turned hard.

  “No.” The hoarse whisper was a gasp of breath as the rope slackened. “I swear it, my queen.”

  “And yet, I trust the master of my guard and his commander implicitly. Do you expect me to believe that the treachery lies with them?” The queen’s weaver stone, dangling between her breasts, flashed green, and the effects of her magic glittered like silver stars in her deep brown eyes.

  “I don’t … know who told … it wasn’t me,” he breathed.

  “Liar,” Elysia said with derision. The rope tightened until the boy’s gasps stopped, and his body slumped to the side. After a moment, the magic holding the rope abated, causing it to fall in a coil on top of the teen.

  “I thought for certain when we started executing people that the dissidents would stop; yet more and more of our stores are robbed. Our soldiers ambushed, our munitions destroyed.” Elysia rose from her throne; she was petite and delicate-looking, like a figurine made of glass. But like glass, she could cut anyone without a second thought, so sharp were her edges. “Furthermore, a year of meticulous planning destroyed, because the weapons from the snow kingdom were left at an undermanned fort in the borderlands.” Her voice had risen to a shrill screech, sending her advisors scampering toward the side door. They didn’t even warrant her attention. Garrett tried not to smile at their cowardice, and any inclination died when Elysia turned her full attention on him.

  She crossed the room in smooth, almost seductive strides as her hips traveled from side to side. She fixed her eyes on Garrett, stepped over the body of the dead boy as if it were litter in the road, and stopped before him. Her hand delicately toyed with the leather strap that held his knives across his chest. Her chin turned upward, exposing her face and the demure smile that had won her many arguments with her spouse before he had been executed by the former king for treason.

  “Where were the soldiers meant to be guarding that outpost?” she asked.

  “The second shipment was attacked a day’s ride from the pass,” Garrett answered. “The men stationed there were called away to assist. They left a single man behind.”

  Elysia huffed. “And those men? Where are they now?”

  “They are dead, your majesty,” Malcolm interjected. “They were all killed during the raid.”

  Their deaths in the mountains had no doubt saved them Elysia’s ire.

  “This ends now,” she commanded. “Deal with these rebels, Garrett.” Her fingers plucked at the handle of one of his throwing knives, clicking her nails on the raised swirls of silver encircling its grip. “No more excuses. Or I might start to think the leak is one of you fools.”

  “Your majesty—” Malcolm piped up, but Elysia threw up a hand to silence him.

  Malcolm constantly tried to wiggle his way out of situations, and Garrett knew he would shoulder the blame if he did not watch out. Malcolm would see to it. The man had been a thorn in his side since the queen had appointed him to the Elite Guard, and Garrett wanted nothing more than to gut him. But he could not do so as long as Malcolm still held favor with the queen. Unless he formally challenged Garrett for leadership.

  And Garrett did not want to deal with those consequences either.

  “Garrett,” Elysia continued. “I grow tired of these peasants’ antics. What do you suggest we do to lure out these thieves?”

  This time, Garrett’s lips turned up in a smile. He knew the perfect solution to end the war—kill Elysia—but that was not why he had remained in her service. Instead, he offered, “Obvious, my queen. We set a trap. With bait they cannot ignore.”

  ~*~

  A half hour later, Garrett shut the door to the throne room behind him. Before it could latch, Malcolm spun around and threw Garrett back against the ornate carvings that decorated it. Malcolm’s arm barred his chest, and a knife hovered in Garrett’s face.

  A typical show of brute force, Garrett thought. His second in command was becoming quite predictable.

  “I know it was you,” Malcolm hissed. “I’ve known Gabriel since he was an infant. There is no way he betrayed me. None.” Spit sputtered from his mouth as he practically spat the last word.

  Garrett leveled a punch to Malcolm’s stomach, just below the rib cage, sending the older man backward a step. Malcolm coughed but did not double over, the knife still hovering between them. Garrett stepped away from the door. He wiped the spittle from his face before he straightened his green tunic with a tug and fixed the fabric of his black cloak around his shoulders. Garrett met his second’s eyes.

 
“And yet,” Garrett drawled out, “my informants often spotted him in the taverns, running his mouth about anything that came to mind. Face it, Malcolm, the boy sold you information and then turned around and sold it to the enemy.” Garrett leaned forward, his posture squared and ready for a challenge. “But that’s what you get for putting your faith in a street rat.”

  “Lies,” Malcolm shot back. The knife in Malcolm’s hand shifted slightly as he fisted it tighter. “I know it was you who arranged this—to discredit me, to weaken the queen’s trust in me.” Malcolm’s weathered face turned purplish as he sputtered his protests.

  Garrett flicked his wrist and came forward again, leaving almost no space between him and the other man. Malcolm’s knife nestled right up to his throat again. He could feel the cold steel scratching at the stubble that had accrued after too many days of travel. He pitched his voice low. “I don’t need an elaborate scheme to get rid of you. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” He pressed a blade, the one he typically kept hidden in the leather gauntlets on his wrists, to the soldier’s abdomen. Malcolm flinched, as if only just then aware that Garrett had armed himself. “The next time you pull a knife of me, I will consider it a formal challenge,” he continued, “and I will not hesitate to kill you where you stand.” He moved his wrist to the right, nicking the fabric of his shirt and the soft flesh of Malcolm’s belly underneath.

  Malcolm flinched and tore backward to put distance between them. His face was red, the veins in his forehead popping. His lip twitched as if he were determined to say more, but instead of continuing his posturing, Malcolm turned away with a sweep of his black cloak and headed down the hall, his boots clomping against the marble floors.

  Garrett searched the area to make sure no one had witnessed that ugly spectacle before taking a deep breath. He returned his knife to his wrist holster, covered by the leather gauntlets that protected his forearms and wrists. Every comment, every action, even something as innocent as a smile, could be fashioned as a weapon in this court. He was most certainly living in a nest of vipers, and Malcolm Roth was one of the worst.

  ~*~

  The key palmed easily into Garrett’s scarred hand as it slipped from the hidden pocket in his cloak. He pushed the brass into the hole and turned. The soft click echoed in the hallway a moment later, not even drawing the attention of the guards stationed outside his personal chambers. They kept their gazes straight ahead, as if they were statues serving as sentries instead of living, breathing men, serving the house of Ashen and the kingdom of Ost. What type of men served Elysia willingly? he wondered, but then, he already knew the answer. Men in search of power. Men too afraid to speak out. Men choosing to live instead of dying at the hands of Garrett’s guardsmen.

  With a turn of the knob, he shoved the ornate panel of a door open and slipped inside. The curtains were closed and the sconces were dark. As ordered, no one had entered this room in his absence. Not even the servants to clean. He knew every inch of the space, so it did not take much to cross the dark room to throw open the heavy red curtains that blotted out the low winter sun. As the drapes slid back, the cold yellow light revealed the dust floating in the air and the tiny balls of fluff on the wooden floor. He would have to send for someone to clean. A hot bath also had merit, but that too would need to wait.

  Garrett let out a deep sigh and went to his writing desk. He shuffled through and pulled out the stack of paper nestled beneath its wooden top. He flipped through the pages until he came to a single sheet in the center of the pile. Its color and texture were the same as the rest. The difference was in the way it reflected the light. It was glossy instead of dull. To the untrained eye, it was merely parchment, but the sheet contained magic that tied it to another page just like it.

  He pulled it from the rest and set it on the wooden tabletop. The ink and a quill came next, and he dunked the tipped feather into the reserve of black liquid. He leaned his body over the desk, hunching his shoulders and putting some of his weight on the table as his head bowed.

  She is out of control, he scratched into the parchment, pressing the quill down enough to bend the tip. When he finished, he waited a moment. One by one, the letters peeled up from the page, floating into the air like smoke. They swirled around him before disappearing like a breath of air.

  He fisted his scarred hand and hammered it against the desktop and then wearily threw his weight into the small chair. He was about to give up on a response when words appeared on the page.

  Stay the course, it read.

  Garrett growled and grabbed the quill. The moment he started writing, “stay the course” disappeared from its page. The words never lingered. I did not agree to this, Oren, he cut into the paper, trying to push out all his anger and frustration, to somehow make him see what this was costing Garrett. Did the magic allow his friend, his former master, to feel everything bottled up inside of him as well? He had never thought of it before, but he wished he could make Oren understand the enormity of what he asked of Garrett. So much blood now stained his soul.

  The little girl with blue eyes and flaxen hair flashed in his mind as he watched his words drift away again. She had not deserved to die, to be wiped away like the dust upon his room. He dragged his fingers through the dust lining the desk and stared at the gray smudging the red, mottled flesh of his left hand. He could paint away the ugly, hide it, but it did not mean that it did not exist. He needed something to shore up the cracks of horror forming in his emotional armor.

  The words came again. One by one, pouring across the page. They were not the words he wanted, not the words to help, but they spoke the truth:

  Only you can do this.

  Lords, he swore, why did it have to be him?

  ~FIVE~

  Skye was an arrogant lout.

  The errant thought shouted through her mind, causing her to lose concentration. The threads of her magic dissipated, popping like a bubble, as if frightened by her mental outburst.

  Myah opened her eyes with a heave of her chest. The room was quiet save the ticking noise from Master Griffith’s cog-work clock above his stone fireplace, and the wisp of fabric as it shifted at the far end of the room where her magic master worked on a salve. It smelled strongly of mint and reminded her of the candies her mother gave her when she was small.

  She unfolded her legs, stretching them out straight in the middle of the floor where she sat. She flexed her muscles, rolled her ankles, and flexed her feet. It would not resolve her frustration, but it felt better than sitting in the middle of Master Griffith’s rug doing nothing.

  “Practice, Myah,” Master Griffith’s baritone called. She eyed him, but his back was to her and he had not taken his eyes off the mortar and pestle in his hand. It made a clicking noise, marble against marble, as he pressed the pestle to the bowl.

  “I am,” she protested.

  “You are procrastinating, not practicing. Same letter of the alphabet, but two different things.” He peered at her over his shoulder, a smile twisting his lips.

  She frowned. “You think you’re funny?”

  He turned to face her, setting his equipment down on the table. “I know I’m funny.” He winked, and Myah tried not to snort with laughter as she shook her head.

  “This isn’t easy for me.”

  “You still need to practice if you ever hope to master your magic.”

  Myah stood, brushing off her blue gown as she rose. “Enhancing my vision was easy, although duration is still hard. The same with my hearing and other senses. But I have not even managed to create a glimmer of magic outside my body. This would be easier if I had a weaver stone.”

  “Easier, yes, but not impossible without.”

  He was one to talk. Both Master Griffith and her uncle, Edgar, had weaver stones. The royal house gifted each new generation of spellweavers with the amulets when they came of age, but no royal house meant no new stones, and Nordlin was not exactly overflowing with magic users eager to give up their amulets so that she could
learn how to use her gift better.

  She leaned over the table beside him, peering down at the mixture and the herbs he had spread out across the table. She picked up a dry mint leaf and spun it between her fingers. “I know it’s not impossible, but it is much harder. When I was a child, I used to imagine Uncle Tristan and Aunt Aenor presenting me with my stone when I was old enough. The grand hall in the City of Kings would be decorated with white and blue flowers, the hall filled with the royal court and lord houses …”

  “And you in the most elegant dress,” Griffith finished for her.

  “Um, no. I was thinking more like wearing my best riding pants.”

  Griffith plucked the leaf from her fingers with a chuckle. Mirth danced in his blue eyes, making them sparkle. His magic created that effect, but it warmed the old man’s appearance. “King Tristan always took such pride in those ceremonies. He would have been proud to count his niece among the spellweavers, I have no doubt.” He pressed the pestle back into the mortar and ground the fresh leaves he had added to the paste. “But I think you are using your lack of weaver stone to deflect your frustrations.”

  “I’m not frustrated,” she rushed to say, and then cringed, knowing she had given herself away. She turned, putting some of her weight on the table.

  “You are. Do you wish to talk about it?”

  “No!” she said quickly, but then, “Yes ... I don’t know. Maybe.” She growled in frustration, an action that would have gotten her scolded to no end if her mother had heard her.

  A wave of anger flowed over her just thinking about the council meeting yesterday. They had planned for some resistance, but she and Edgar had come up with a solid plan—right down to which regiments would join him at the border, which would stay behind; how much food they would need to trade for from the Stone Isles; and where they could set up temporary shelters. She assumed apprehension from the council, not flat-out revolt, and especially not from Skye’s family. She thought Lord Lamar was going to physically assault the lords supporting her uncle.