James West - Lady Of Regret

“At the time,” Jathen said innocently, “you and Fira seemed capable enough. After all, you had made it from the southlands to Skalos unmolested. Forgive me for believing that overcoming a few wights would not trouble you a whit.”

Nesaea’s teeth ground loudly, and Rathe wondered if he would soon have to join her in cutting the monk’s beating heart from his chest. He was not above that, as Jathen had also sent him to Ravenhold with no true warning of what waited there.

“Besides,” Jathen went on, unmoved by Nesaea’s purpling features, “as I find you are alive and well, my faith in your abilities was well-founded. Did you, perchance, find your father?”

“You must know that I did not.”

“You have my sympathy,” Jathen said, admitting nothing. “I wish you luck in future ventures.” Finished with that, he glanced at Rathe. “You have the last of the trinkets I require? All of them, mind you. It would not do to have such potent relics fall into the wrong hands.”

Face smooth, Rathe hefted the sack bearing the Wight Stone, Keeper’s Box, and the seeing glass. The Heart of Majonis, which Horge had taken from the fire mage’s staff, was already in Jathen’s possession.

“We discussed a price, when last we spoke,” Rathe said. “Something to make me overlook your omissions .”

Jathen snaked a leather purse from his belt. He bounced it on his palm, making the contents clink softly. “Gold enough to keep a man for years, if he spends wisely.” His smirk suggested he did not think Rathe was such a prudent man.

Rathe heeled his mount forward. Lady Mylene had gifted his small company with horses and supplies before they departed Ravenhold. Captain Gyleon of the Wardens of Tanglewood, head swaddled in thick bandages to cover the burns Yiri had given him, had assured Rathe the rawboned destrier would take him wherever he desired. Rathe’s backside, however, longed for the smooth, easy gait of his gray.

He reined in abreast of Jathen, leaned close, a tight smile affixed to his face. “You abused my honor, monk. For that, I ought to stake you out on the ground, hack off your shriveled cock, and leave the rest to delight a particular weasel we are both acquainted with.”

Eyes wide, Jathen leaned away. Rathe grasped the collar of his breastplate, jerked him close. “Should I see you again, anywhere , I will take it as an invitation to mistreat you.”

With that, he shoved the coarse sack into the monk’s hand, and snatched his payment into his own. A quick peek showed him half as much gold as Lady Mylene had given him as a reward for freeing her and her people from the hold of the Wight Stone. Like Nesaea, the only reward Rathe truly wanted was to see Jathen’s face when he discovered what he had paid for.

I can imagine , Rathe thought, smiling to himself, a smile that made Jathen’s brow wrinkle with unease. Rathe took the lead ropes of the gray and the red, and returned to the others.

Jathen opened the sack in his lap, avarice lighting his hard features. He glanced up, fighting to appear self-possessed. “Where do you plan to go from here?”

Rathe turned a flat stare on him. “I find these Iron Marches suit my nature. I see no reason not to explore them.” Of course, he had no intention of holding to that. Inside of two days, he meant to be well down the River Sedge, on the way to the White Sea. He had never been aboard a ship, and the thought made him uneasy, but not so uneasy to avoid taking a voyage.

Jathen gave him a sickly smile. “Ah, yes, well, these lands have a certain allure.” Before the last word passed his lips, he had wheeled his mount. A moment later, he disappeared down the trail.

“Horge,” Rathe called, “you can come out now.”

Horge crept from the brambles. Samba grunted, big sleepy eyes looking to his master. With a miserable expression, Horge patted the beast. “I suppose this is farewell.”

Rathe swallowed, wondering if he had lost his wits. “You could join us,” he suggested.

Horge gave him a look of such gratitude that Rathe felt disgusted by his hesitancy. The feral little man abruptly shook his head. “I thank you, but the Iron Marches are my home. And, besides, there’s … Wina.”

Loro’s eye went wide. “The handmaid that killed your mother?” Fira slapped his arm. Chagrined, he sipped from his flask.

“Aye,” Horge said, sheepish, fretful. “When I was a child, Yiri tried to make me hate her, but I never did, not really. Mama was not so innocent as she made out. Truth told, hundreds in Ravenhold and other places died at her hand.” He went silent for a moment. “Wina doesn’t know it, but I fought Yiri to keep her from butchering Wina that night. I expect she thought it was shadows come alive, or some such, but it was me, doing all I could to save her.”

Rathe had no idea what the man was going on about, but nodded as if he did. When Horge fell silent, Rathe glanced at the sky, noted the westering sun, and thought of Jathen. Every hour counted until they were gone from the Iron Marches. “I wish you luck and peace,” he said to Horge, and the rest echoed him.

Horge fidgeted a bit more, turned slowly, his finger sketching a map before his nose, then he bobbed his head. “Come find me, should you return,” he said, smiling wanly. “Mayhap we’ll hunt dragons.”

“Maybe we will,” Rathe said. “Maybe we will at that.”

Jathen sat calmly, but a storm raged in his breast. The Wight Stone, rather, what had been the Wight Stone, rested just out of reach of his finger. The Keeper’s Box was a charred ruin nearby. He had placed the Stone inside for safe keeping, naturally. When the two artifacts had come into contact, they quite unnaturally began to smoke. Before he could separate them, they exploded in his face.

Fingering a terrible gash on his brow, he studied the twisted amulet, its surface pitted as if by acid, the black gemstone dead and cold, never to give its mysterious light again. He recognized alchemy when he saw it. And a fine display it had been, showing the skill of a true master. Such an affront against his person, and the object he had desired, was worthy of not simple revenge, but of painful retribution, perhaps even prolonged death. The question was, who had destroyed what he so long sought? Nesaea? Rathe? Both of them together? In the end, it did not matter, for both would most certainly pay.

He glanced at the man who had come into his chamber some time before. So quiet and still he was, Jathen had almost forgotten the man was keeping the shadows company in one corner. In truth, he was as much a part of the darkness as it was of him.

Jathen said, “Being a man with your fine talents, I’m sure you will find him. As such, I have a proposition that may interest you.”

“I am already obligated to one course,” the man answered, voice a file rasping over bone.

“What I require makes no change in your plans, save, perhaps, the route by which you return.”

The man considered. “There will be a price.”

“There always is, yes?” Jathen upended a leather sack, spilling out ten fat roundels of gold. “Twice again as much, should you return here with the heads of Rathe and his wench, so that I might piss on them. Afterward, you can take them to this King Nabar.”

The man’s pause was longer this time. “Agreed.”

Jathen pushed the tip of his finger against the ruined Wight Stone. “I’d like to study the magical device of yours, the one that lets you become one with darkness.”

The man did not move. “You would have to kill me, which I would never allow.”

“Oh, well, there is no need of such talk. We are friends, after all, yes?”