inspire-indiana A Pact in a Poison Garden III
A Pact in a Poison Garden III
A Pact in a Poison Garden III
Kyembes mind raced.
At any other time, he would have outright refused such an offer. Open favours made for bad oaths: she could demand he do anything from stealing a gods crown to murdering an entire villages children for a blood rite.
Or she might ask him to pour her a cup of chilled wine on a hot day.
There was his right of refusal to consider, but deals with wizards and demons always bore hidden daggers. The final option was that he could break his oathbut the very idea made his teeth itch. Kyembe the Spirit Killers word was bond. It would be as long as he drew breath.
He sighed.
The longer he tarried, trying to negotiate or hope for some other clue to appear, the more likely Wurhi would suffer any number of grim fates. Steeling himself, he lifted his hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. I, Kyembe of Sengezi, will come to Ku-Hassandras aid in return for her knowledge. While I may deny any request, I will fulfil a favour to her that I approve of.
His fist came forth and pressed to Ku-Hassandras knuckles.
The oath is sealed. She pronounced, handing him the scroll case. I hope it is some use to you. Oh, and there is also this.
She reached again into her robe and drew a wooden card. Another tablet lay with the others: too worn to translate. However, it did bear this symbol.
His gaze drew to the card.
He froze.
Upon it was etched a grim hieroglyph: a wolf consuming its own tail.
Crimson eyes grew wide. Crimson eyes that saw with the clarity of a hawk and the night-sight of an owl. Crimson eyes that had spied a symbol on a bronze bracer coiled about the arm of a certain blonde youth who plotted horrors with his companion.
A companion named Haldrych Ameldan.
A vicious smile took Kyembes lips. Oh, it already has.
Already? Her brows rose.
He clasped her hand. Please pass my greetings to Thesiliea and Ippolyte.
Without another word, he turned. The illusion began to fade before him, revealing a straight path through the snow and to the wall whence they entered. Come Cristabel, we have a path!
The Traemean followed eagerly, with a final glare toward Ku-Hassandra. Truly? Where?!
To the Ameldan Estate. I have a feeling you might be using your gods tears on a certain young patriarch, after all.
He quickened his steps.
Fate only knew what horrors were being inflicted on his friend even now.
The scent of roasting meat filled Wurhis nostrils, its delicious aroma wetting her tongue.
Good. Very good. I will have you moved there at once, Crixus. It is not freedombut it is a step to better things.
The Garumnans brow furrowed. II see
Milos cocked his head. Do you have a concern? Speak your mind.
A silence hung between them.
II appreciate what youre doing, I do. I could have been sold into worse circumstances but those that I lead. I do not wish to abandon them. Crixus grimaced.
They have not done as you have, Crixus. Their victories are fewer and less glorious. That is why you eat at my table this evening and they do not. The cult leader glanced to the fireplace, his eyes lingering on the silent wolf heads. But your actions have pleased Lycundar and fed him much. Fine, then. Let it not be said that the pack is not generous: your companions will be moved with you.
Crixus face softened and his head bowed. Thank you, my Lord!
Milos waved a hand. Raise your head high: one who Lycundar is pleased with should not grovel like a lamb. His cold eyes fell upon the thieves. Wurhi shuddered beneath that gaze. Did I not say to sit? I did not mean only Crixus.
Merrick and Wurhi exchanged an uneasy look, but neither could raise objection. They quickly chose seats that placed the big Garumnan between them and the cult leader.
An acolyte came forward and poured from a clay pitcher into polished bronze goblets. Merrick eyed his cup as though it were a spitting cobra.
Sniff.
Wurhis nostrils flared. No strange scents emanated from the contents.
It is but water. Milos raised his goblet and drained it in a single motion. See? I do not foam at the mouth and collapse.
He looked at them expectantly as the acolyte came to refill his chalice.
Grimacing, Wurhi raised the goblet to her lips.
Only the cool freshness of mountain water met her tongue. Its taste brought forth a yearning she had all but forgotten: she had not had a sip of liquid since she had been captured. Her thirst burned terribly.
The acolyte refilled her chalice thrice before she finally stopped quaffing.
Milos cocked a brow. It is good: from a mountain spring as fresh as the morning dew on a dryads tree. I am sure you are accustomed to stronger things, but I do not serve liquor at my table.
Its good, Lord Milos, Crixus gave assurance.
Merricks large eyes remained cautiously on the cult leader, but Wurhi could not bear to look upon him. His mere sight had driven her instincts to panic, and combined with his scent - now close enough for her sharp nose to detect
She doubted any of the other humans could smell it.
If they had, they would already have leapt screaming through the mountain window. What emanated from Milos was the paragon of a predators musk; it burnt away the air to leave a concentration of fear and savagery.
A promise of death made manifest in a single odour.
She glanced to Crixus; if he only knew the nature of the thing they supped with.