James West - Lady Of Regret

Accepting the gamble with as much confidence as he could spare, Rathe set off. His companions fell in behind.

The Wardens of Tanglewood came last, silent and grim as executioners.

Ravenhold’s gatehouse, large as any keep Rathe had ever seen, was no stark utilitarian structure. Vines and flowers in full bloom hung from gilded trellises. On the walls, bright murals of unparalleled artistry and finely woven tapestries mingled with friezes carved by master stonemasons. In numerous arched niches stood lifelike sculptures of past heroes, each wearing garments bearing the Shield and Raven device. Those stone legends silently observed the passing of four strangers and their shaggy beast of burden. So, too, watched motionless guardsmen, eyes hidden amid the darkness behind their visors.

Keeping his face smooth, Rathe said, “Ravenhold seems very rich.”

“Aye,” Loro said. “And finer than the king’s palace in Onareth.”

Unbending and sour as ever, Yiri said, “The stones of these walls have more life than those who live behind them. Bear that in mind, when you meet the Lady of Regret.”

Rathe detected the underlying suggestion that he should not hesitate to attack their host, should the opportunity present itself. And if he failed to act, Yiri would not.

Beyond the gatehouse, the Wardens of Tanglewood dismounted and gave their reins to other guardsmen, then formed a hollow square round Rathe and his companions. Without a word, they set out, forcing the foursome to walk, or get trampled underfoot.

The fortress opened around them. There were many folk within, all who kept their distance. Maidservants clad in snow-and-crimson livery bustled between buildings and various keeps, carrying everything from brooms to baskets. Masons crawled like ants over scaffolding of surpassing height. By Rathe’s estimation, they were constructing a bridge to join the inner curtain wall to the outer. At the stables, resembling a palace in both size and splendor, grooms curried horses. Stable boys pushed barrows. Neither the grounds, nor the buildings, nor the cobbles over which Rathe and his companions strode, looked to have ever weathered a single winter.

“Look,” Loro said, indicating the workers and servants with a sweep of his hand, “how they hide their faces from us.”

Rathe could have named it coincidence, but each time he felt eyes upon him, he turned to find a face twisting away, or someone ducking behind a pillar or wall, or quickly vanishing through an archway.

“And why do they light no candles or lamps?” Horge asked, searching dark windows and arrow loops.

“The dead need no light,” Yiri whispered harshly.

After the silent Wardens marched them through a broad gate in the inner wall, they halted on the far side. Soft pattering splashes rose from delicate fountains. Columned gazebos, with domed roofs overrun with greenery, sheltered within gardens painted in a riot of blossoming color. It was a place made for celebration and life, yet not a single soul strode the many paths, or appreciated the calming sounds and honeyed scents.

The officer pointed down the cobbled path to a soaring keep of ivory stone. The last light of the fading sun kissed its hammered copper dome. Beneath a portico roofed with a wide balcony, two guards stood on either side of an immense pair of bloodwood doors.

Rathe stepped forward, wondering why the Wardens had not taken their weapons. He might have been glad for the oversight, except that he did not believe it was an oversight. More likely, the Wardens had no fear of armed men.

A sharp curse turned Rathe. Horge was trying to yank Samba’s lead rope out of the officer’s hand, and the yak was grunting in agitation.

“Let him take the beast,” Rathe admonished.

Horge reluctantly dropped his hands. Showing a rare bit of courage, he growled, “If any harm comes to Samba, I’ll have off your stones.”

The officer’s shoulders shook again with laughter, but no sound came from behind his black-slitted visor.

Rathe left him to his silent mirth, led his company up the wide steps to the entrance. One guard swung a door inward. Light from a hundred lampstands burst through the arched doorway, so bright Rathe raised a hand against it.

“You have come.” The woman he had seen outside Wyvernmoor, and again in the forest, floated out of all that radiance and halted before him. Her white dress absorbed the light, giving the silk a radiant glow. The same radiance saturated her golden tresses and pale skin, granting her an otherworldly beauty.

“ You ,” Yiri hissed.

Horge babbled, “What deceit is this?”

“Gods and demons,” Loro cursed, looking uncertainly between the pair, “what’s the matter with you two?”

“’Tis the murdering wench who killed Mama!” Horge squawked. A belt knife flashed into his hand, and he rushed her.

Rathe reacted without thought. In one deft motion, he knocked Horge’s knife flying across the portico. Another flash of Rathe’s hands sent the ragged fellow crashing to his back. He lay there, the hurt of betrayal brimming in his eyes, and mouth working to recover the breath knocked from his chest. Neither the guards nor the woman had moved.

“Help up our friend, but keep him in hand,” Rathe told Loro. He glanced back to the woman. “Do they speak true, did you murder their mother?”

Her remorseless blue gaze fell on Rathe. “I am Wina, Lady Mylene’s handmaid. And, yes, I put an end to Mother Safi’s cruelty, though I did not know she had children. Had I known, perhaps things would have turned out differently. Perhaps not, as Mother Safi cursed Ravenhold with a plague only she could cure, and then refused to help without exacting a steep price. Part of which was to try and kill me.”

“Lies,” Yiri hissed.

Composed, Wina cocked an eyebrow at Rathe. “Long has it been since anyone has guarded my person, save my Wardens. You have my gratitude.”

“I came neither to earn your favor, nor to protect you.”

A faint smile touched Wina’s lips. “Why have you come, warrior?”

“I seek to pay a debt to those who follow the Way of Knowing. They gave back my life, and for that I must give them the Wight Stone. I’m told it is here.”

“To seek the Wight Stone is to tread the path of doom.”

Rathe’s laughter masked his unease. “I have faced a thousand deaths, yet here I stand. Fate, it would seem, favors me. Please, lead me to my next assured end, so that I can face it, collect what I have come for, and be on my way.”

Wina looked to the captain. “Gyleon, please return to your duties.”

The Warden hesitated the barest moment, then gestured for his fellows to join him. Wina waited until the Wardens closed the doors, before leading Rathe and the others into the keep.

The place was dead still and empty, yet silver lampstands lit vaulted corridors more richly appointed than any king’s palace. Loro’s eyes bulged at the sight of golden breastplates, swords with mirrored blades and jeweled crossguards. Rathe kept his gaze on Wina’s slim form striding over tiles of blue-veined marble. So, too, did Yiri and Horge keep an eye on her. Despite his earlier attack, Horge now wore an expression of shame, as if he regreted his behavior.

Wina halted before a tall pair of oaken doors lacking all the finery of the rest of the keep. “Lady Mylene waits within. Do you still trust to fate, warrior, or would you take this, your last chance, to flee? Mind you, rare is the occasion I grant such an offer.”

“I will go after I hold the Wight Stone,” Rathe said.

“I expected no less.” Wina threw open the doors.

Yiri, Horge, and Loro hung back, but Rathe advanced. After what he had seen of Ravenhold, he was puzzled by the simplicity of the great hall. Here, cedar beams and arches, decorated with modest carvings, took the place of marble and gilt. Candles gave hazy light, instead of clean-burning lamps. Tapestries and carpets, while colorful, showed the wear of long years.