David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“Okay,” said young Bartholomew. “Remember, Abby is expecting you.”

“My wife can wait,” Turock grunted as he grasped the door handle. “Have her come to me if she’s impatient.”

The door opened into a large study, the whole outer wall of which was one huge window. The space was filled with gemstones, each type stacked in its own pile. There had to be millions of them. Rachida whistled at the sight, and Turock leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest.

“What is going on here?” she asked him finally. “Where did these come from?”

“Your husband, Peytr, supplied us with half of it. He’s frequented the islands off the coast of Conch for two decades now. My wife loves the ocean, and we visited Conch often, backward little village that it is. He often talked of your splendor, though it was in a bored sort of way, so I figured he was exaggerating.”

Two decades? He’d been hiding his true wealth from her for twenty years! Add that to Peytr’s attempt to have her killed, and it was yet another nail in his casket. “He does that. Exaggerate.”

Turock grinned. “Not in this case.”

She sighed. “So Peytr gave you half. The rest?”

“The rest we mined ourselves from the very mountains surrounding us.”

“And the food? How large your stores must be!”

“Ha! We have no stores. All we have,” he gestured to the piles of gemstones, “are these, in more abundance than you could ever know.”

She looked at him, confused.

“Here, I’ll show you,” Turock said. He bent over and picked up a stone from one of the piles. He held the tiny, glittering green pebble between his thumb and forefinger. “So, Rachida, what is your favorite food?”

She gawked at him and squinted.

“Humor me.”

After thinking for a moment, she said, “Roast quail.”

Turock flipped the gem into his palm, made circles over it with his other hand, and whispered a few incomprehensible words. The miniscule gem glowed brightly, and then its form shifted. Before she could blink, a single steaming leg of quail rested on the spellcaster’s palm. He reached out, offering it to her. She hesitated.

“Go ahead, eat it,” he said. “It won’t kill you.”

She took the small leg from him and bit down. Juices filled her mouth, dripped over her chin. Even though the taste was somewhat dull, she almost moaned.

“I don’t understand,” she said after she’d swallowed.

The man’s smile grew broader. “Magic requires give and take, and different minerals hold different properties. For example, the stone I just held was topaz, which is used in the conjuring of foodstuffs. It was one of the earliest tricks my teacher showed me, and the first that I taught to my own students. We’ve been mining the mountains for nearly as long as your husband has been mining the Isles of Gold, Miss Gemcroft. We have enough topaz within these walls to feed all of us for years.”

“Oh” was all Rachida could muster.

“Now,” Turock said, serious once more, “you obviously didn’t come here to talk about food. What brings you to Drake?”

She swallowed, still tasting the quail on her tongue. “I need you, Turock Escheton. The gods are at war, and my sellswords wish to join it. However, we came here not to fight with Karak, but against him.”

“And why would you do something like that?” asked Turock, looking curious.

“Because Karak does not have our best interests in mind. He has turned his back on his own principles and has lost the love of his children as a result.”

“That’s all well and good, but why seek me out?”

“Because Karak fears you and your students. Why else would he send a quarter of his army up the Gihon to do nothing but keep you busy?”

“That may be true,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “But the same faction you just spoke of still lurks beyond the empty grazing fields, as they have been for months. As I told the Master Warden before he left with half my students, I will not discard all I’ve built. This is my home, my life’s work. I won’t see it destroyed because Ashhur and Karak can’t get along; the rest of Paradise be damned.”

The statement was absurdly selfish, but Rachida did her best not to react. “You won’t have to abandon it, Turock. Those soldiers out there are destitute and miserable. They’ve been abandoned by their god. If you were to open your arms to them, if you were to give them the means to travel back to their homes, this siege would end. You would be left alone.”

“Is that so?” he asked with a chuckle.

“It is. I can broker a meeting between you and their leaders. You say you have enough gems to feed yourselves for years? Prove it. Prove your generosity. There is no love for Karak out there in the cold, Turock. Of that you have my word.”

The spellcaster picked up another gemstone from the heap and bounced it in his palm. He seemed to be thinking long and hard, his lips puckered. Finally, he snatched the hat off his head and twisted it in his hands.

“Absolutely not,” he said.

Rachida stepped back, her neck flushing. “No?”

“No. Why should I? Those people have tormented me and mine for two years . They’re freezing? They’re dying? Good. Let them. I’ll use their corpses for kindling later.”

A knock came at the door, and Rachida jumped. Turock let out a deep breath.

“Come in, Abby,” he said, sounding irritated.

The door opened, and a short woman with curly hair colored a deep crimson breezed into the study. There was something eerily familiar about her. She was an attractive woman, in a cutesy sort of way, with dainty features and eyes the color of seaglass. She had an air of poise about her that made the simple blue dress she wore, rimmed with fur on the hem and neckline, look like a queen’s gown.

“Turock, why must you make me come find you?” the woman asked. “Who are those men in the dining hall? You know I hate surprises, especially on a day when I had a special-”

The woman’s voice stilled as her eyes found Rachida. She tilted her head to the side and frowned. “What is this?” she asked, almost growling. “Who is she ?”

“That’s Rachida Gemcroft, darling,” said Turock.

“The merchant’s wife?” the woman said, eyes wide.

“The same,” answered Turock. “And Rachida, this is my wife, Abigail, daughter of House DuTaureau.” The man smiled, but Rachida could see a hint of contempt behind his eyes. “It seems you two have something in common, being daughters of First Families and all.”

That explained why she looked familiar. Rachida had spent many months with the woman’s brother and sister when Patrick brought Nessa to Haven. For a moment, she pined over the son DuTaureau had given her.

Abigail turned her narrowed eyes to her husband. “What are you doing in your study, all alone?”

At that, Turock laughed. “The lovely lady wishes for me to offer food and supplies to the soldiers who’ve been plaguing us.”

“Is that so?”

Rachida inclined her head. “It is, Lady Escheton,” she said.

“For what purpose?”

“To end the siege.”

“Is that possible?”

“It is.”

Abigail again turned to her husband. “And you said yes, correct?”

“Um. . no,” the odd man replied. “I told her to piss off.”

The crimson-haired sprite shook her head. She then shrugged her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and walked confidently up to Rachida, placing both hands on her shoulders and looking her right in the eye.

“He’ll do as you ask,” Abigail said.

“I will not .” He very nearly whined.

His wife turned to him. “You will, and you’ll do it soon. You’d turn aside an opportunity for a normal life all to hoard a few gems and satisfy petty revenge? How selfish are you?”