“Do you think I am dumb, Lord Adelmar?”
Draeven paused. Never, not once in all their time together, had Lazarus called him by his surname. “No,” Draeven said slowly, trying to predict where the situation was going.
“Then why are you giving me advice? I am king. I did not ask you.” Lazarus still hadn’t turned around, but the tone in his voice left no room for discussion.
Draeven’s hand clenched the back of the chair, his nails digging into the plush cushion and wooden frame. For so long he’d followed this man because he knew he would be king. He knew he would change the world . . . and that by following him, Draeven could change it too. For the better.
That was before Quinn. Before Lazarus’ infatuation that turned to obsession and then became something more. Before Quinn had changed the course of their plans, both making those plans a reality and simultaneously setting them up for destruction altogether. They won allies because of her. They survived battles that Draeven doubted anyone but Lazarus would have walked away from.
Draeven owed her his life as much as he did Lazarus, to an extent . . .
But it was because of her that the king changed.
No, Draeven shook his head. Not her.
Nero and Amelia. It was because of them that she had died, and it was her death that changed his friend. The man that wouldn’t even look at him had irrevocably changed in the two months of self-imposed exile.
“You are a king that’s been gone, consumed by your grief,” Draeven said, trying to reason with him. “I know that Quinn was—”
“Do not speak her name in these halls again if you wish to live,” Lazarus said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It is only because of what we were that the souls have not killed you where you stand, but do not mistake that mercy for friendship. I listened to you once, and I lost a woman worth more than this entire country and all the gold in it. I will not listen to you again as I avenge her death.”
Draeven’s lips parted before closing firmly. His jaw tensed as he weighed his response.
While it was Nero and Amelia that killed her, both he and Lazarus—and even Quinn herself—all aided in sending her to the dark realm. Not for the first time, he wondered where Risk had gone that night. She’d disappeared, and not even his spies could find her. It was like she all but vanished. Then again, without Quinn, there was nothing to hold her here. He had played a role in that too.
In the end, it was his own guilt that led him to say, “What do you wish for me to do, Your Majesty?”
“Have the carriage readied and word sent ahead to my residence in Dumas for it to be prepared. I’ll be holding a summit there one month from today. Ravens will be sent tonight to bring word to my allies, as well as Bangratas and Jibreal. My right-hand had secured an envoy from them, and unless it arrived without my knowing, I should follow up.”
“No envoy from either country came,” Draeven said stiffly.
Lazarus didn’t respond, and when the silence ticked by long enough it was clear he wasn’t going to, Draeven asked, “Is that all, Your Grace?”
“That is all,” the man he’d once considered his closest friend said.
Draeven turned on his heel to leave and then paused.
He knew he should keep his mouth shut. That he should not push, certainly when he’d lost all favor that he ever had with Lazarus. Yet . . . this was at least partially on him. He had to try. Just one more time.
“I followed you when we were sellswords, and I follow you now. When you’re ready to talk—if you’re ever ready to talk—I’ll be here.”
And then he let himself out.
The silence that answered was all Draeven needed to hear to know that whatever friendship they’d had also died that night.
It was yet another thing he had to blame himself for because he had no way to fix it.
Unless he could summon the dead, the redemption that he’d been chasing for a decade as he followed Lazarus was not just gone, but dead as well.
Chapter 7
Letters from the Dead
“True loyalty cannot die.”
— Quinn Darkova, fear twister, walker of realms
Taverns hadn’t existed in N’skara. Until now.
After searching the temple for hours, she’d turned to searching the homes of the councillors. Only to turn up empty. Just like the meeting chambers, a layer of dust and grime had collected. Unlike the temple, it was clear that homes had been ransacked.
The peculiar part was that she searched other homes in the highborn section, and they were empty as well—but not ransacked.
It didn’t make sense. Somehow, Triene had gained a foothold, and she needed to find out how.
Which is why after a night of searching, she turned to the fragmented memories from the soldier’s mind she’d broken. While she couldn’t understand most of the words in them, she could see places. Quinn may have been gone a long time, but the buildings hadn’t changed, and neither had their placement.
She followed them to the square in the lowborn section. This had been someone’s home before. Now it was where soldiers went to drink and pick up N’skari women who were willing to whore themselves for the right price.
Clothed only in her makeshift dress from Mazzulah and an illusion of a cloak, Quinn approached the door. The walls were made of plaster and stone. Hairline cracks ran through them. The single door was made of gray ashwood, the same wood used for everything else to those without fortune in N’skara. There were no windows, and the lone chimney puffed black smoke beneath the snowing sky.
Quinn pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was early afternoon, and before most of the festivities.
With only a few soldiers, several lowborn serving ale behind a makeshift bar, and herself—Quinn took a seat at a table in the back corner of the room. If the people noticed her otherness, they didn’t show it. In true N’skaran fashion, they barely looked her way before returning to work. Using her bare toe, she nudged the wooden chair backwards. It groaned in protest against the slightly rough texture of the crushed seashell flooring.
Quinn took a seat and leaned forward into the rickety table. She braced her arms and clasped her hands together, keeping an eye on the door, the bar, and the soldiers all in one.
“Can I get anything for you?” an older man with white hair, a balding head, and tired blue eyes said softly. He walked even softer. His actions were those of someone timid, but not weak.
“Water,” Quinn said. “If you have it.”
He nodded once and backed away.
Across the room, Trienian soldiers dressed in purple and gold spoke in hushed tones. Quinn angled her head, listening in with hearing they didn’t know she possessed.
The only problem was they spoke their language.
Not any one of the six she knew.
Still, she caught a few words.
Captain. Maji. South.
There was one word that perked her ears more than anything.
A name. One she’d only heard Lazarus speak in his sleep, and only once.
Nero.
Quinn frowned, sensing the shift in nervousness as the N’skaran man scuttled back to her table with a cup of water.
“Will that be all?” he asked. His voice was steady, but his emotions were not. In the time she’d been here, he’d grown subtly unsettled. Suspicious.