James West - Lady Of Regret

“Herein resides the memory of Ravenhold,” Wina said in a hush, “as it was before the plague … as it will remain, forever.”

Rathe barely heard her. At the end of an azure runner edged in gold embroidery, a woman in dark velvet sat rigid on a great chair of bone-white wood, its soaring back arced and carved all over with ravens in flight. The ravens have followed me, Rathe thought, with a tickle of unease. The auburn-haired woman’s gaze stole away the consideration. Lady Mylene’s eyes, black and glossy as polished obsidian, consumed the light.

“Gods and demons,” Loro gasped from between Yiri and Horge, all three still beyond the doorway. “What’s wrong with her?”

Rathe thought of all the hastily turned faces, the slitted visors worn by the guards and the Wardens of Tanglewood. Had they revealed such cavernous stares, he would have fought with his last breath to escape. He glanced at Wina, whose eyes were clear and bright.

“Lady Mylene carries in her the blessing of the Wight Stone,” Wina said, “as do all in Ravenhold. As will you.”

“Where is the Stone?” Rathe demanded, only half-hearing her. “Quickly girl!”

Without answering, Wina slammed the doors, and quickly turned the lock with a key taken from a fold in her dress. Loro cursed without, and began beating at the door.

Fury rose up in Rathe, and his sword came into hand. “Give me the Stone!”

“Ravenhold has need of warriors,” Wina said in answer. “Put away your sword, and accept the peace of the Wight Stone. In so doing, you will fill your life with purpose.”

“Is that what you name the life of a living corpse?” Rathe growled, glancing to Lady Mylene.

Wina’s eyes shone. “Those who are blessed by the Wight Stone live with the promise of eternal purpose. So, too, does Ravenhold benefit. Three hundred years it has withstood sieges and terrible long winters. Once it bore the countless scars of that abuse. Now, under the power of the Wight Stone, my people have remade it. Never needing to rest, they toil with thanks and love in their hearts.”

Rathe shook his head. “ You are the Lady of Regret?”

“Named so by blind fools,” Wina scoffed, stepping before him. “Some also call me the Hunting Bitch. In truth, warrior, I am the restorer of hope to these cold and forsaken lands.”

She abruptly clutched his hand to the softness of her breasts. “And now I give to you a choice that I have never given anyone. Join my side, as my lover and husband, and we shall remake the Iron Marches.”

“Are you mad?” He tried to jerk away, but at her touch a terrible weakness had stolen over him. Rathe’s head spun. “I want neither lands nor wife.”

“You cannot say that. You must not!” She pushed him away, reached into her bodice.

Rathe backed away.

“Hold, warrior!” Wina boomed, the authority of her voice freezing him. She reached out, hand wrapped tight with the loops of a tarnished sliver necklace. Darkness pulsed between her clenched fingers. Rathe’s sword flashed, and Wina scampered back. Her eyes went ugly.

“The time of choices has ended,” Wina snarled, and thrust her fist toward him. Black radiance pulsed outward, devouring his will. Distantly, he heard his sword clatter against the floor. He followed it, sinking to his knees. Wina coiled her fingers through his hair and yanked his head back.

“Do not do this,” he grated, hating the fear in his voice.

“You will thank me.” Her fingers formed a cage around the impossible darkness in her hand. Coils of blemished silver chain brushed his face, and with them swaying, thread-fine wisps of the purest black. Prickling heat raced over his skin.

Wina bowed near. “You will become one with the Wight Stone and me, as have all the rest. Resisting makes it worse. Surrender, warrior, for the sake of your sanity. Surrender .” Her breath was sweet death.

Unbidden tears sprang from his eyes, furious, pained. “I … will … not!”

Wina’s face shifted in front of his, her stare clear and vast as a dawn sky. “It has already begun.”

“I’ve got it,” Nesaea whispered, as the last elusive tumbler clicked. What at first seemed a simple lock, had proven far more difficult than any she had ever faced. Holding the fear of that golden wench’s promised return in the back of her mind had not helped steady her fingers.

“About time,” Fira grumbled. One whole side of her face had gone puffy and purple-black where the guard had struck her.

Now that the door was unlocked, the pressing need to find weapons and escape fell on Nesaea. She tucked away her lock picks, and settled a hand on the latch. “Ready?”

Fira joined her side, and Nesaea peeked out through the barred window. She frowned. The guard who had stood his post since their arrival was gone. She shifted position, looked the other way, saw only walls and a glowing lamp.

“What are you waiting for?” Fira asked.

“The guard left.”

“A good time to make our escape.”

Nesaea eased the door open a crack, looked through. At the far end of the corridor, she glimpsed the guard sprinting along on quiet feet, and then disappearing round a corner. Far-off, she heard the muffled sound of someone cursing and hammering on something.

Drawing a deep breath, she flung the door wide and raced into the corridor. Her eyes stabbed the few shadows, searching for nonexistent guards.

“There,” Fira said, lunging past her to reach a table stacked with their swords and daggers. The rest of their personal effects hung from hooks on the wall.

Nesaea did not delay in belting on her sword, dagger, and various pouches. While she worked, she cast about for an escape. Only one presented itself. The way the guard had gone.

“It’s the only way,” Fira said, when Nesaea pointed out their predicament. “Let’s be about it.” She drew her sword.

Nesaea mirrored Fira, the feel of a hilt against her palm comforting. She set off at a quick clip, ready to attack or block, as needed. As with their cell, the corridor and the rest of the open cells they passed were surpassingly clean. Strange for a dungeon to be well-lit as a library, and not carrying the reek of sweat, blood, and brimming chamber pots. Nor did she see any rats, moldy straw, or anything else that usually adorned such dismal places.

Stone stairs leading up met them at the corner where the guard had vanished. Decorative brass sconces marched up and up, until they seemed to join high above. Again, there was no other way to go, so they took the stairs. Two at a time, at first, then three and more.

Gulping breath, they came to a wide landing and another corridor, this one appointed with stunning tapestries, armor, and heroic busts tucked into niches, the floor tiled in blue-veined white marble. Lampstands provided an abundance of illumination, and the sound of hammering had grown louder. With it, rousing curses rang out, in a voice Nesaea was sure she knew.

“Is that…?” Fira began.

“I believe so,” Nesaea answered, believing it only because she had never heard such profanity before, save from one man. And if he were here, then his companion might be, as well. The chance of that, incredible though it was, quickened her heart.

Nesaea and Fira sprinted down the length of a wide passage, footsteps ringing. They slid around the corner to see Loro strike his sword against a pair of doors. He bellowed a bull’s rage, struck again, and again. Woodchips flew, driving back his two raggedy companions. “Damn you, open up, or by all the gods, I’ll break this accursed door and bury your corpse in the rubble.” What came after, spat through frothed lips, shocked even Nesaea.

“Stand aside!” Fira snapped.