I take the cylinder. It’s carved from light wood and finished in a thin layer of grained blue leather. At each end is a severed leather tie. It would have been attached to a messenger hawk at some point.
I glance at Kyron. “You think they could have shot down the messenger bird? By chance, or intention?”
“The dead men bear no insignia, but they look like seasoned operators. I wouldn’t be surprised if they came into Tyron under the orders of someone influential.”
“Then the Ruen lads did very well to take them out.”
“Desperation is a powerful thing, Your Highness.”
“Indeed.” A shard of cold anger enters my heart. There were intruders on my land. If her brothers had been just a moment too late, those brigands could have intercepted Finley.
Someone orchestrated her journey here.
Someone else wanted to intercept it.
This could have all turned out a lot worse.
“Thank you for your endeavors, Kyron. Let’s hope this is the last of the unexpected disturbances for today. Try and enjoy the rest of your Seinmas.”
The captain downs the remainder of his drink in a single gulp, before rising to his feet. He bows. “Appreciate it, Your Highness. I’ll take my leave, then.”
“There’s a banquet in the mess hall. Small thanks for those who went out today.”
A quick smile appears, giving me a glimpse of the old Kyron. “You always fucking spoil us, Your Highness.”
“Not nearly enough.”
Suddenly, I’m alone again, the echoes of Kyron’s footsteps ringing in my ears along with a thousand other sounds.
It’s taken me a long time to learn to shut out all the noise.
I open the cylinder. There’s a rolled-up parchment inside, bound by a simple wax seal. My name is written on the outside.
Corvan.
Only a handful of souls in the empire can address me by my first name.
I slip my fingernail under the seal, breaking it. The wax falls away easily thanks to the sharp edge of my nail, which has become hard and crystalline.
I unroll the parchment to reveal my father’s elegant script. But my father’s writing is perhaps a little smaller; a little less assured than I remember.
This is a personal letter, devoid of any official imperial insignia.
Father and I haven’t spoken in two years.
Something must be happening, because the emperor doesn’t do anything without reason.
My dearest Corvan.
Not a day goes past when I am not filled with regret. Rahava is at peace and the empire is prosperous once again. And yet, you, my eldest son, are not by my side.
This rift is of my own making, so let me be the one to extend the first overture. I trust you are well, my son. I continue to receive heartening news about the fortunes of Tyron. The fact that you have managed to turn a once-barren province into one of the most prosperous regions of the empire is nothing short of remarkable, but then again, you are my son, so it doesn’t surprise me at all.
Now more than ever, I am convinced that your condition, whilst perturbing, does not justify such reticence.
So allow me to come straight to the point.
In the coming days, you will receive a guest. Her name is Finley Araluen Solisar. She is the daughter of Baron Lucar Solisar.
I have accepted her father’s proposal for a betrothal.
She, Finley Araluen Solisar, and you, Corvan Ithar Taelinor Duthriss, will be married.
I know that you will find this arrangement to be an imposition and an inconvenience. Knowing you, you will more than likely try to resist. This long-suffering fool has tolerated you rejecting suitor after suitor, even before you became one of Hecoa’s Chosen.
Therefore, it is important for you to know that this union is now enshrined in Imperial Law, by my decree. It has been recorded in the Imperial Chronicles as an Official Engagement.
Any attempt by you to annul this union will result in the invalidation of all of your Lands and Titles.
Yours with the utmost love,
Father
P.S. You may be interested to read this passage I came across in my readings. It is from Arcanea Magikora; Chapter Seven, Page 305:
For a newly fledged Vampyr, there is nothing more invigorating than the blood of a young man or woman in their prime, for the essence of a Son or Daughter of Eresus is the embodiment of the antithesis.
Thus, he or she becomes the symbiosis.
In particular, blood from a woman in her oestrus will be most potent when consumed by a male Vampyr, for she carries Eresus’s grace. Thus the cycle of death and rebirth continues. Hecoa’s Chosen will become immeasurably stronger.
A puff of disbelief escapes my lips as I set the cursed parchment down on the table. I’m half-tempted to tear the damn thing to shreds and throw it in the bin.
That’s my old man through and through. He sends a letter professing regret and conveniently binds me up in an arrangement not of my own choosing, then offers vague hints of some esoteric nonsense, leaving me to figure out the rest for myself.
The threat is clear.
Marry this woman, or lose all of my lands and titles.
I would gladly choose the latter, but there are too many here that depend on me. My soldiers. My loyal servants. The people of Tyron, who were living in abject poverty until I corrected the previous duke’s mismanagement.
This duchy was in shambles when I arrived. Nobody else can manage it. If father ever tried to come for my lands; for my people… I’d fight him.
Tyron is mine now, and I will defend it at all costs.
So I’ll go ahead with this marriage, because I’m sick and tired of bloodshed, and I have no appetite for civil war.
I curse my father for his cunning. He knows me all too well. And maybe that was part of his stratagem. He sent her here without warning because he knows something I don’t. He knew that when I first encountered her, I would…
I sigh, closing my eyes and cursing the infernal magic that’s left me like this.
Lying in the snow, pain racking my body, I stare up at the perfect winter sky. The sky is achingly blue. The sun’s so bright it burns my eyes, almost blinding me. How it burns.
An eagle circles above, drifting on the currents.
I fought. My sword-hilt is still clenched tightly in one hand, sticky with drying blood—the blood of a dragon.
Why am I like this, all of a sudden?
Why am I like this, and not dead?
And if I saw her again… could I even control myself?
13
FINLEY
I wake in a four-poster bed, wrapped in a cocoon of soft, clean blankets and sumptuous furs. The fire in the hearth has burned down to glowing embers.
The sun isn’t yet up, but I know it’s morning, because I can hear the birds.
This castle… somehow, it’s peaceful.
Maybe it’s the walls. The sheer amount of stone that must have been used to construct this place just boggles my mind. The walls are at least an entire arm-span thick, and they feel like they’ve been here for an eternity.
I feel like I’m ensconced in the depths of the Earth itself.
Roughly hewn blue-grey stone surrounds me from ceiling to floor. It doesn’t quite feel homely—the walls could easily be softened with a few tapestries or a painting here or there—but the room is certainly comfortable.
The bed is the best I’ve ever slept in. The blankets and furs are of the highest quality. Throughout the night, I was perfectly warm.