Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Page 37

  Kalashadria sighed deeply, letting her arms fall to her sides as she looked up at Tol. ‘You found me,’ she said, her voice a distant echo of all he remembered, colder still than when they had first met outside Karnvost.

  ‘Always,’ Tol replied, trying not to wince as he remembered Vixen saying the same to him. He let Galandor’s sword fall to the ground, shuffling to Kalashadria’s right side and slumping against the wall, legs slowly folding as he sank to the floor beside the angel.

  ‘Where’s the other one?’ he asked after a time. ‘We found two sets of tracks in the clearing.’

  ‘Gone. It had business elsewhere and won’t be returning.’

  ‘Oh.’ One demon had nearly killed Tol, and Kalashadria didn’t look any better. If another one showed up, he didn’t see them leaving the cellar alive.

  ‘You look terrible,’ she said after long seconds, her eyes fixed on the far wall of the cellar.

  ‘You don’t look so great yourself,’ Tol said bluntly, earning an amused snort but nothing more. His eyes kept being drawn to the dark form of Vixen near the opposite wall and Tol turned his head left, Kalashadria’s profile looming large in his vision and a pile of bones in the background. The more he looked at it, the harder it was to believe those had really once been people. The pile was almost to shoulder height and Tol couldn’t help but wonder how many people had gone into making the gruesome cairn – ten? Twenty? More? ‘Are those really…?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kalashadria was silent a moment, resolve failing with a heavy sigh. ‘Had you not arrived, I would soon have joined them once Vankharash had his sport.’

  ‘Then he didn’t…?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘But he promised…’ The angel shivered. ‘It is well you arrived when you did.’

  Tol chewed his lip. A few minutes more… It didn’t bear thinking about. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. ‘Can you walk?’

  He heard the flutter of the angel’s hair as she shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

  This is going to hurt. Tol rolled from his rump onto all fours, slowly stretching his aching legs and using the wall to support himself as he struggled to his feet. A step took him to her side. ‘Wrap your arms round my neck,’ he said, sliding one arm behind Kalashadria’s back and scooping up her legs with his right hand. Here goes.

  Tol grunted in surprise as he lifted the angel easily, her weight barely a burden at all. ‘I forgot you’re so light.’

  ‘Have to be to fly,’ Kalashadria mumbled, ‘wings can only bear so much weight.’ Her eyes were glazed, unfocused, and Tol realised that the fiery pain he now felt was mostly the angel’s. ‘I’m sorry,’ Tol muttered as he staggered away from the wall, dragging his legs towards the cellar steps. He lumbered across the floor, stopping at the base of the steps and looking one last time at Vixen’s body.

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Vixen. My father sent her to find me.’ I won’t leave you here, Tol promised his friend. Not down here.

  ‘Your childhood friend? From before the church took you in?’

  ‘Yes.’ He had forgotten, but in sharing his blood to heal the angel she had absorbed many of his most private memories, and Vixen had featured in most of the ones he prized.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kalashadria said.

  He turned away from Vixen’s body and teetered up the steps, feeling the drumbeat of Kalashadria’s pain with every heavy step he took. ‘How badly are you hurt?’ Tol asked as he stepped out into the balmy night air. He passed the lone guard’s corpse, and made his way to the trees. At the base of a large oak he carefully laid Kalashadria down, wincing at the jolt of shared pain and collapsing beside her with his back against the gnarled trunk. An old tree, this, he thought absently. I wonder if it is as old as her?

  ‘I’ve been better.’

  Tol could sense her hesitation, a question that Kalashadria couldn’t quite bring herself to ask. Judging by the ghostly pain he felt somewhere to the right of his shoulder, Tol had a fair idea of what it was. ‘Your wing’s broken, isn’t it? Can you make the journey back to Alimarcus?’

  ‘It’s just tendon,’ she replied after a moment. ‘Ordinarily it would heal quickly, a few hours of your time.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I sustained many injuries at Vankharash’s hands – enough to exhaust by ability to heal.’ She hesitated a beat. ‘Enough to accelerate my weakness to the poisons in your world’s air.’

  Tol digested this, his mind slow and foggy. ‘Then there is a solution? The cure will give you enough time to recover and return home?’

  Kalashadria turned her head, looking deep into Tol’s eyes. ‘I can sense your injuries, Tol. You have no blood left to spare.’

  Tol smiled. ‘Seems it’s all leaking out anyway. Might as well be put to good use.’

  The angel looked away. ‘I do not want this.’

  Tol reached up, a hand cupping Kalashadria’s chin and gently pulling it back round to face him. ‘Don’t let her die for nothing. Neither Vixen nor I expected to survive tonight, but it’s worth it if you do.’

  Kalashadria’s fingers enveloped his bloody right hand, tongue sliding over the sticky red paste. She shuddered lightly. ‘She cared very much for you.’

  Tol nodded, unable to speak. He ripped the sleeve of his tunic wide, exposing the still-bleeding wound from Prince Julien. A quick glance, then Tol shuffled round, getting himself in front of Kalashadria. Tol looked into her eyes. ‘Do it,’ he said, leaning forward and offering the angel his bloody arm. ‘Take as much as you need.’

  ‘Look away. Please.’

  Tol turned his head, but he could still hear the slurping, and could still feel the coldness. Slowly, inexorably, it began to spread, up through his arm and creeping across his chest.

  It was worth it.

  *

  Tol awoke to darkness, a coppery, sweet taste in his throat. He was lying down, head cradled in Kalashadria’s lap, her long hair falling down around him like curtains. He blinked, and noticed a fresh wound on her forearm. It meant something, but he couldn’t think what.

  ‘Drink.’ A cooking pot crept into Tol’s field of vision, the lip tilting towards him. ‘You’ve lost too much blood,’ Kalashadria said. ‘You need to drink.’ The water was cold and refreshing, a slow trickle as Kalashadria tilted the pot further.

  ‘It’s not from the cellar,’ she said as Tol’s eyes fixed on the blackened iron hovering in his periphery. ‘I found it in the cabin above.’

  Tol drank, letting the cool water wash down his throat until Kalashadria tossed the empty pot aside. He lay there a moment, looking up into Kalashadria’s downturned face. Slowly, he began to feel more like himself.

  ‘Why do I taste blood?’ he asked.

  ‘You would have died,’ Kalashadria said quietly. ‘It was the only way.’

  Again, Tol realised. Kalashadria had shared her blood with him again, just as she had done after his battle with Klanvahdor in Norve. He craned his head and looked down his body. The blood seemed to have stopped trying to leave his body. A glance at his ripped tunic sleeve showed a moist scab forming over the angry gash from Prince Julien’ sword. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your work here is not yet finished,’ Kalashadria told him, though her tone was more gentle than he remembered. ‘If your friends have failed, you must deal with the last traitor.’

  Tol frowned, his thoughts still sluggish after losing so much blood.

  The blood, he remembered after a moment. She has seen my memories again. He felt his cheeks colour – though he didn’t think he had enough blood left for it – and frantically tried to think if anything had happened which might anger or disappoint the angel. No brothels, and no falling off mountains this time.

  ‘You have been busy since we parted.’

  ‘I couldn’t see another way,’ Tol said. ‘Killing them seemed like the fastest solution.’

  ‘You were right,’ Kalashadria agreed to his surprise. ‘But you must finish what you began or they
will succeed.’

  ‘I know.’ Tol raised his head, a wave of dizziness sweeping over him as he slowly sat up, muscles screaming in protest. I hope Kartane and Stetch succeeded. If any guards remained, Tol figured he wouldn’t see the dawn.

  Kalashadria rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Rest a while, there is time yet.’

  Tol hesitated. He didn’t want to leave her, but he knew how important it was to foil the Meracian plotters. If he couldn’t get Drayken to talk, then he’d need to find evidence of the plot and get it to the Council of Lords before their vote in the morning. And that’s a lot of miles with a lot of potential obstacles.

  ‘I cannot fly just yet,’ Kalashadria said awkwardly, seeing Tol’s indecision. ‘Stay with me a while. Please?’ She looked away, her eyes drifting back to the cellar. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

  ‘I don’t feel up to walking just yet,’ Tol said. ‘I guess I’m still a little dizzy.’ He shuffled round till he was next to her, leaning back against the tree with a sidelong glance at Kalashadria, the folded edge of her wings tickling his right shoulder. Her face was pale as chalk and lined with grief. She was trembling, he noticed, and dark emotions poured through their bond. ‘We survived,’ Tol said quietly, hardly believing it himself.

  Kalashadria turned her head, her eyes large and moist, but the angel stubbornly held back the tears. ‘Hold me,’ she whispered, the last of her strength fading as a single tear coursed down her cheek.

  Tol wrapped his arm awkwardly around her shoulders, feathers tickling his forearm through a rent in his tunic. She leaned against him, nestling her head against the base of his neck.

  ‘Don’t talk,’ she said as Tol opened his mouth.

  He held the angel in silence as Kalashadria’s body trembled, tears pooling on his tunic.

  53.

  Tol held her against him until Kalashadria finally stopped shaking. He held her in his arms, his gaze drawn back to the cottage and the dark maw of the cellar. We nearly died, he thought.

  Kalashadria raised her head, ivory face beautiful in the moonlight lancing through the oak’s branches like dappled sunlight. Tol felt his breath catch in his throat, aware of their closeness, the warmth of her body against his. Too late, he remembered their bond, hastily looking away as he blushed.

  She cupped his chin and turned his head back round, her face filling his vision. ‘I know your thoughts,’ she whispered.

  ‘I—’

  Kalashadria silenced him, placing a finger over his lips. ‘I need to feel alive,’ she said. The angel leaned towards him, her lips brushing Tol’s own. He felt a jolt as they touched, a torrent of emotion flooding through their bond. She kissed him again, and he felt her desire through the bond, a desire that mirrored his own.

  Kalashadria kissed him again, and he felt her body move, the angel straddling him and settling on his thighs. She kissed his again, more urgently, Tol’s head pressed against the oak’s trunk.

  She pulled away for a moment and looked into his eyes. He could see the pain there, could feel it through their bond. It felt like his own.

  ‘I need to feel alive,’ Kalashadria whispered. ‘Just for a little while.’

  He saw it, the open entrance to the cellar looming over her left shoulder; a reminder of what he had lost, a reminder of how close he had been to joining Vixen.

  Tol nodded, but she could already sense his decision through their bond, and Kalashadria leaned forward, her lips seeking out his own. The angel unfurled her wings as they kissed, a feathered wall stretching out and shielding the cellar from his sight as her wings enfolded him.

  *

  ‘Shouldn’t we look for evidence?’

  Stetch shrugged. ‘Found the brandy,’ he grunted, his eyes telling Kartane that he had already done the lion’s share of the work. The Sudalrese warrior’s search of Drayken’s study had been brief, ending in less than ten seconds – as soon as Stetch had pried open the mahogany bureau and liberated the decanter, ignoring the sheaf of papers and instead filling three glasses with the amber liquid. The man seemed to have an instinct for finding liquor wherever he went, a skill Kartane felt grudgingly obliged to respect. All in all, he was a useful man to have around.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Kartane drained the rest of his glass and spared a glance at the val Sharvina girl huddled in the lord’s excessively cushioned chair. Her face was a livid mask of bruises, and although neither Victoria nor Stetch had said what had happened, Kartane figured it was a safe bet there was more bruising underneath the ill-fitting clothes the Black Duke’s daughter now wore. Maybe the kind of injuries that don’t show, too, he thought. The men who had taken her were, Kartane reckoned, pretty lucky to be dead. The Sworn were reputed to have a single-minded dedication when it came to matters of revenge, and Kartane figured that the abduction of the Black Duke’s daughter would probably have the Sworn falling over each other to find new ways of tormenting the perpetrators. Kartane had met Valtas val Sharvina years earlier and had thought the man unyielding even back then. By all accounts, the Black Duke had not mellowed with age. Lucky, all in all.

  Kartane started with the mahogany bureau, sifting through letters addressed to Drayken. Most, he noticed, were only a day or two old, missives from the Royal Spymaster. Kartane licked his lips, tossing the letters to the floor after skimming through them. The spymaster, it seemed, answered to Drayken, his letters brief and most only one or two lines in length.

  Kartane sighed, discarding another letter and picking up the next on the pile. Kraven should be back by now, he thought. He grunted in surprise, spying a letter that mentioned Tol by name. He read it twice, nodding in satisfaction as he reached the end. The assassins who had nearly killed the boy hadn’t followed him after all; Drayken had told them where to look. Not much consolation, but if the boy had survived his encounter with the demons – and Kartane wasn’t given to foolish optimism – at least he’d be relieved to know he hadn’t brought the enemy to the inn. Something, I guess. Kartane pocketed the note, and continued working his way through the pile. He found one or two that suggested Drayken was up to something, but no firm proof – nothing that said “let’s sell our homeland to the Gurdal”. Would have been nice to be wrong for once. Still, they had Drayken. That was something, too, he guessed.

  ‘Should be here by now,’ Kartane muttered as he leafed through the letters. He’d grown attached to the boy, he supposed. Kraven was a pain in the arse most of the time, stubborn as his father and with a temper to match, but he did have his moments. And he helped me save Sarah. That really was something.

  ‘Dead,’ Stetch grunted.

  Kartane frowned. He hadn’t realised he’d spoken aloud. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Who’s dead?’

  It took Kartane a moment to realise Victoria had spoken. She had been silent since Stetch had lowered her onto the soft, quilted chair. Judging by her expression, Kartane thought her mind was still up there in that room.

  ‘Kraven,’ Stetch grunted. ‘Dead.’

  ‘Tol Kraven? The Knight of Angels?’

  Stetch snorted a laugh, but Kartane nodded. ‘Aye, that’s what folks are calling him. I just call him “idiot”.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Victoria asked.

  ‘Somewhere east of us,’ Kartane said as he pocketed another letter, this one only slightly less vague than the others. ‘He took a friend to kill a couple of demons.’ Another letter found its way into his pocket as Kartane reached the bottom of the stack and slammed the bureau shut with a satisfying thump. ‘Probably dying right about now.’

  ‘They’re real?’ Victoria asked in a small voice.

  Stetch was leaning on Drayken’s desk, perched protectively over the seated girl. He nodded. ‘Ugly,’ he said. He thought for a moment and grinned. ‘Both of them.’

  Her lips twitched briefly in a smile, replaced by a curious frown. ‘You know him?’

  ‘He’s a friend of your sister,’ Kartane said as Stetch cursed under his breath. ‘Kind of,’ he added after a mo
ment’s thought.

  They were saved from further questions by the return of the nuns, who had not only failed to find the prince but had also not bothered bringing anything to drink.

  ‘The demons must have decided he was too valuable to leave with Drayken,’ Kartane said.

  Stetch shrugged indifferently, sliding off the edge of the desk and offering his hand to Victoria. ‘We’re going.’

  Kartane cleared his throat. ‘To get the prince?’

  He got the answer he was expecting; he hadn’t imagined Stetch would consider letting the Black Duke’s daughter – either of them – within a mile of a demon. ‘There might be another way,’ he suggested. He glanced at Victoria then turned his attention to Stetch. ‘A safer way.’

  The Sworn man grunted, and Kartane took it as an invitation. ‘Nobody has to get naked this time,’ Kartane said as the nuns eyed him suspiciously. He quickly outlined his plan before Stetch lost interest.

  *

  They left minutes later, taking a small diversion through the kitchens and a drawing room where they found a drinks cabinet which was most definitely not Stetch-proof. Thus encumbered with bread, cheese, and several bottles of liquor, the group hurried from Drayken’s estate, and turned east into the woodland. Some of the nuns had worked it out too, Kartane saw as they sighed with relief once safely under the trees. If Kraven was dead then there was a fair chance the demons would be visiting Drayken’s home to check on their puppet, and that made it somewhere none of them wanted to be.