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Answering in an even tone, Varkas slowly drew himself upright.
Eyes clouded as if by fever trailed after him in a daze. He held her gaze for a long moment, and just as he forced himself to pull away, slender fingertips caught at his sleeve and held fast.
“You must come back soon.”
· · ·
“It is terribly inconvenient when you are not here to tend to me.”
He bit hard into the meat of his cheek.
Only after coating his dry throat with copper and spit could he drag out an answer.
“…I will return shortly. Rest while I am gone.”
He smoothed away a stray lock of her hair, then slipped quietly out of the room.
Drawing in the chill pooled through the corridor, the heat raging inside him—fierce as a draught of raw spirits—ebbed only slightly.
He dragged a rough hand through his hair and threw an order to the servant waiting in the hallway.
“Prepare a bath in the washhouse. Lay out fresh clothes as well.”
He started down the corridor, but the unbearable tightness beneath his trousers drew out a sharp, ragged breath.
“Do not light the fire. Have the water drawn ice-cold.”
Lowell Draven wet his lips with the fine wine provided by the servants, gazing through the tall window at the vast expanse of Raedgo Castle.
Just as expected of a seat whose influence swept through the East and reached far into both North and South, not an inch appeared neglected or weak.
Enclosed within massive double curtain walls, stone edifices built for pure function stood in immaculate rows. Between them, canals of clear water branched outward like a spider’s web.
Enormous barracks and training grounds spread across the front of the fortress, easily sufficient to house over a thousand soldiers at a glance. Counting the Kalmor security garrison, nearly five thousand troops were likely stationed on this ground alone.
Factor in the provincial garrisons across the Eastern territory and the border watch, and the total force under the Grand Duchy of Shearkan approached nearly sixty thousand men—a strength rivaling the Imperial Army itself.
Moreover, because most of the Khan were said to learn horsemanship from childhood, a far larger host could be mustered if levies were called.
Lowell ran the calculations silently through his mind, studying the citadel's layout. Then a sudden, freezing draft pricked his neck, and he whipped around.
Standing in the wide entrance of the drawing room was a man clad in a black velvet tunic, a cloak trimmed in grey fur draped over his broad shoulders.
Lowell pressed a hand to his chest at once and bowed deep.
“Pardon the late greeting, Your Grace. I am Lowell Draven, Guild Master of the Northern Merchant Guild. I thank you for receiving me within your walls.”
“Be seated.”
The man gave a curt nod and took the high chair at the end of the long table.
Lowell drew out a lateral chair and sat, his guarded gaze measuring the young master of the East.
The man possessed a carved, classical beauty, like polished marble. Delicate features, bone structure of flawless proportion, eyes of an arresting, uncommon hue… In appearance alone, he could have passed for a wandering troubadour or a court player.
Had Lowell not witnessed the man’s monstrous ferocity with his own eyes, he might have dismissed him as nothing more than another sheltered, handsome noble.
“Finished with your inspection?”
The low, flat timbre of that voice gave Lowell a jolt, and he broke the heavy silence with a nervous laugh.
“I was merely taken aback by Your Grace’s striking presence. Forgive my insolence.”
The corners of the man’s mouth turned upward. It was a smooth smile, yet cold enough to turn the blood to frost.
“You have a deft tongue.”
“Haha, is a trader’s tongue not his only trade? I have had cause to stand before many lords, so my speech has smoothed with time.”
“Indeed. And you seem to have used that deft tongue to sow deceit wherever you tread.”
The man’s voice was placid as he took a goblet from a waiting page.
Lowell held the smile on his face, though it threatened to freeze into stone.
“I am not certain I take your meaning…”
“I already know you have been selling intelligence on our Eastern strongholds to the North. Let us spare ourselves a tiresome debate.”
The man swirled the dark wine, entirely indifferent.
Lowell swallowed dryly. For half a breath he considered playing ignorant, but he knew at once that feigned innocence would only kindle the young lord’s fury.
Choosing candor, he composed his features.
“I am a man of the North, Your Grace. It is my duty to obey the commands of my liege.”
“So you claim you were merely answering to Bjorn Blodar Heimdal?”
Lowell bit his lip.
The ruling Duke Heimdal was named Cailus. Yet the man across the table already knew that real power in the North had passed into the hands of the son.
Cold sweat broke down Lowell’s spine, and his words spilled fast.
“What I relayed was far too petty to be called military intelligence. It is the sort of thing anyone with sharp eyes can piece together. Road conditions, merchant routes through the markets, garrison size…. Is that not the very information a trader must possess? I am well aware Your Grace also gathers news of the North through your own merchants.”
“True enough. Under ordinary circumstances, prying into a neighbor’s yard through merchants is hardly a hanging offense…”
The man let the sentence hang.
Lowell watched the line of his cold mouth, his chest tightening.
After a silence that felt long enough to rot a man’s gut, the spark finally met the powder.
“Treating with a traitor, however, is another matter entirely, is it not?”
Lowell’s shoulders dropped as though struck by lightning.
He leapt from his chair, his face blanched with horror.
“T-Treason! That is slanderous talk! How could you utter such an atrocity…!”
“I hear silver coinage circulating through the North has swelled vastly since last spring. A curious anomaly… considering trade volumes have barely shifted since last year.”
Lowell, mid-protest, froze where he stood.
The Grand Duke of Shearkan took a slow sip of wine, continuing in an unhurried drawl.
“The northern accounts were in such pitiful disarray that I pried a little deeper, and found something rather fascinating. A bold smith had carved an extraordinarily faithful replica of the Roem Imperial minting dies. To whose workshop, I wonder, did that smith belong?”
Lowell’s knees gave out, dropping him heavily back into his seat.
He had anticipated threats and coercion on the road here, but he never dreamed the man had already stripped bare every secret he possessed. He stared at the young Grand Duke, terror wide in his eyes.
The man set his empty goblet down with a sharp ring and sighed, sounding almost mournful.
“Infringing upon the Crown’s right to coin silver is high treason, punishable by the extermination of three generations. And when those coins go to line the purses of rebels… you will hardly be left in one piece to bury. Allow me to offer my condolences in advance.”
Lowell dropped out of the chair onto his knees before the table.
There was no longer room to weigh the cards in his hand. If he had been dragged to Raedgo Castle instead of delivered straight to the Imperial capital, there had to be a reason. Stripping away the last shred of pride, he began to plead.
“I—I had no will to commit treason! I was cornered—my trade, my family’s very lives were on the line if I refused! I had no choice but to facilitate the minting. I beg of you, show mercy!”
“Do you ask that knowing that concealing your crime makes me an accomplice to treason? What gain is there for me in taking such a risk?”
The man tilted his head slightly. That still, flawless face looked like an angel carved for judgment.
Between trembling lips, Lowell forced out the only words left to him.
“If you spare my life this once, I swear that no matter what comes to pass, your name will never cross my lips. I will become your hands, your feet; I will shrink from no filth. From this day forth, I am your dog.”
Lowell understood down to his marrow that this man had summoned him here solely to hear that pledge.
The young lord held his gaze in silence for a time, then let a corner of his mouth curl slightly. It was a smile as sharp as a drawn blade.
“I shall place my trust in that deft tongue of yours, just this once.”
She seemed to have fallen asleep while reading in bed.
Talia, breathing shallowly beneath closed lids, parted her lips instinctively when something cool brushed against them. A moment later, a small, round bead was pressed inside.
At a gentle bite, tart, sweet juice burst over her tongue. Swallowing the crushed fruit, she rubbed her heavy eyelids with the back of her hand, and as the haze lifted, Varkas came into focus.
Her brows knit faintly. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers busy with something.
“What is that?”
“Pomegranate. The guests brought it as a tribute. Open your mouth.”
He plucked a crimson seed from the halved fruit and brought it back to her lips.
Talia stared blankly for a second, then parted her lips again. He placed the pomegranate seed on her tongue and immediately reached down to separate another.
END