David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Laurel grunted in disgust. She had been told stories of the Sisters of the Cloth since she was a little girl. It was a warning to all of the fairer sex that a horrible life awaited them should they break Karak’s laws. For men, it was either imprisonment or death. Laurel thought it unfair, though, of course, many men sentenced to death would probably argue otherwise.

The landscape began to change, growing rocky and unsuitable for growth. There were cliffs ahead, craggy outcroppings that fronted the lesser mountains bordering the western bank of the Queln. The road they traveled veered inland, following the base of a foothill. There were more Sisters here than anywhere-dozens of them sparred in the open area to Laurel’s right, steel clanging as their daggers met again and again. A massive ring of stacked stone, taller than her horse, emerged ahead, built into the base of the foothills. Its thick door was guarded by a pair of Sisters.

“Welcome to the Connington Holdfast,” the Crimson Sword declared.

He motioned for her to stop and dismount, which she did. The ground felt hard and unforgiving beneath her feet, very different from the yielding, almost spongy earth they’d camped on the evening before, outside of Thettletown. She stretched her legs for a moment, then approached the door. The two Sisters guarding it barred the path, crossing their daggers. She stepped back, staring into their dead eyes.

Quester walked past her, undoing the tie in his red-streaked golden hair and letting it fall to his shoulders. He leaned over and whispered into the two Sisters’ covered ears, and they fell back to their original positions on either side of the door. He turned to Laurel and smiled.

“One cannot be too careful,” he said with a chuckle. “There are enemies everywhere, perhaps even ones as lovely as you. Precautions must be made.”

The handsome young sellsword knocked three times on the giant oak door, then backed away, tapping his foot on the packed ground. More than five minutes passed before the door finally swung outward, revealing a set of stairs that led down into a torch-lit stone hallway. A woman stepped out, her silvery gray hair falling past her waist. That hair, combined with the folds in her neck and her crooked fingers, suggested she was quite old, yet her face was strangely bereft of wrinkles. She wore a flowing gown of crimson and turquoise, studded with onyx beading. Her eyes were icy blue, as was common in those from the north.

“Councilwoman Laurel Lawrence,” the woman said with a slight bow. “Please, follow me.”

She glanced up at Quester, who nodded and then threw an arm each around Mite and Giant, who had positioned themselves at his sides.

“Are you coming?” she asked him.

“No,” he said. “This meeting is for you and my masters alone. I am useless in these matters.” He tapped the hilt of his shortsword. “Besides, I have other duties to attend. Don’t worry, my masters mean you no harm. They simply wish to talk. I will be here when you are finished to escort you back home.”

With that he turned away, gently nudging Mite and Giant as he approached his horse. In a single swift movement he was back in his saddle, and before she had time to absorb what was happening, he was riding away, his pets trotting behind. Laurel loitered there for a moment, watching him grow smaller and smaller, until the old woman tapped her on the shoulder.

“Please, Laurel, your audience awaits.”

She took a deep breath, steeling herself against her nervousness, before following the strange old woman through the door and down the stairs. The Sisters closed the door behind her, the sound echoing throughout the hallway as loud as a thunderclap. She started, peering at the void of darkness behind her.

The old woman spun around to face her, the folds of her gown twirling.

“There is no reason to be nervous,” she said coldly, looking her up and down. A brief flash of disappointment shone in her blue eyes. “As Quester said, my sons have no desire to harm you. It is an insult to assume otherwise, especially in their place of business.”

My sons?

“I…my apologies, Lady Connington,” Laurel said. Though she spoke softly, her voice still reverberated throughout the passage, making her shudder. Stay strong, she told herself. You know what they want, what they expect. Your father is a powerful merchant, just like them. Gathering her confidence, she threw back her shoulders and said, “You must understand, I have had some rather unpleasant experiences with many high merchants over the last few weeks. It is a rare merchant who has prospered because of his honesty. To walk into this meeting blind and trusting would make me a fool, and the daughter of Cornwall Lawrence is no fool.”

Lady Connington smiled at that, her features softening noticeably. With her face more relaxed, the hints of crow’s feet were readily noticeable around her eyes, and creases of age appeared at the corners of her mouth.

“Very well, Councilwoman,” she said. “But you must understand how special it is for you to be here. Other than myself, women are not allowed inside the holdfast. Even my sons’ wives are kept at the homestead in the heart of town. That you are here at all is a testament to how serious my sons are taking these unfolding events.”

“I understand. It’s an honor.”

“It is indeed. Now follow me.”

The hallway led to a central hub cut with six colored passages. Laurel was amazed by how much larger the holdfast was than it had appeared from the outside. The compound appeared to be relatively new, with smooth stucco- and plaster-lined walls. Much of the structure existed underground, and she shuddered to think of how many hours of labor-paid or forced-it had taken to construct it. The windowless walls closed in on her, seeming to constrict with each step she took.

She was led down a passage painted from floor to ceiling in crimson. The light of the torches gave it an ominous feel, as if it were some hellish compartment of the underworld. There was but a single door at the very end of the corridor, stark white and staring out like a giant eye. Lady Connington stopped before the door and turned to her.

“Act like the daughter of Cornwall Lawrence,” she said, “and all will be fine.”

She opened the door, and Laurel stepped into a massive circular room, painted red. There were no decorations save the Conningtons’ golden hawk’s head banner, which hung on the far wall, as large as life. In the center of the room sat a single table, stained a deep burgundy, on which there was a giant carafe of red wine. Three chairs circled the table, and Romeo and Cleo Connington, two plump men wearing draping frocks the same color as the room, sat in two of them. Numerous rings adorned their fingers, and their heads were shaved and powdered. Laurel smelled the distinct and bitter odors of lemon and menthol combined with rosewater. She remembered that scent from the many times they’d come to the Council begging for some favor, and it was overwhelming in such a confined space.

“Miss Lawrence,” the brothers said in turn, taking her in with icy blue eyes that were near mimics of their mother’s.

“Romeo, Cleo,” she replied. “Or should I refer to you as the Masters Connington?”

Both giggled at that, an unseemly and disturbing sound.

“Our first names are fine, Miss Lawrence,” said Cleo.

“Call me Laurel.”

“Fine,” Romeo said. “Take a seat, Laurel . Have some wine. Perhaps unlace your bodice. You appear to be…somewhat hindered.”

She frowned and glanced down at herself. She was wearing the same revealing ensemble she had worn the night she’d met Quester, the one that had been meant to seduce Trenton Blackbard into listening to the king’s pleas. She suddenly felt dirty, though she had done her best to bathe in a stream the previous day. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, covering her breasts.