Obsidian Dawn: From the Cold Light of Day

By Jordan P.T. Mock

Obsidian Dawn: From the Cold Light of Day is a high fantasy about a young woman struggling to take revenge and claim a kingdom. In order for Aria to see her dreams fulfilled, she must shed her old self and claw back inch by bloody inch everything she has lost.
In the last ten years, the Kindred Kingdoms has been licking its wounds since the bloody civil war. The Binding Rebellion was crushed and an uneasy peace settled over the three-island nation under the leadership of Cadarn Dmitry Romanenko, who took his throne through manipulation and brutal betrayal. However, the crown doesn't protect him for long, and Romanenko soon becomes a victim of another’s political machinations through the use of dark magic. With her father dead, Aria Romanenko escapes the palace with a trusted few and flees to Karsh; an island renowned for its mercenaries. In pursuance of revenge against her father’s usurper, she enlists the aid of sell swords and cut-throats, but at what cost?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781326042875

Book preview

Obsidian Dawn: From the Cold Light of Day

Obsidian Dawn:

From the Cold Light of Day

Volume I

Jordan P.T. Mock

Copyright © 2014, Jordan Mock

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-326-04287-5

Prologue

In the darkness, we are all equals. Appearances, garments, past, future are all inconsequential. In the darkness, we are judged not by what we can see, but how we treat the absence of light. In the darkness, we are indistinguishable and indivisible, hidden from the unfair, uncaring eyes of malevolent fates.

Dmitry Romanenko, ruler of the Kindred Kingdoms, had always enjoyed the darkness. The silent black. A time for contemplative quiet.

He tried to remind himself of that as he lay quivering under linen sheets, holding his knees to his chest and burying his face into the thick carpet to muffle his whimpers.  The rug smelt of sweat and piss.

Dmitry couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. He had hacked the bed to kindling so that nothing could hide beneath it.

Had that been before his daughter, Aria, had come to visit him, or after? Dmitry palmed at his wet cheeks, wincing when his long grey nails caught one of the scabs left by his failed attempt to scratch the whispers out of his skull.

They were quiet now, but there were times they were so lurid he couldn’t hear himself screaming over the din. They felt like fire ants squirming beneath the skull. He felt like his eyes would burst and slither away like greasy worms. If the whispers would stop for only a moment, he could ask someone for help. He could explain himself to his beloved daughter.

She would see. She would forgive me.

But she has already seen, came a rasping voice. A sound like rusty iron being dragged across gravel. With that sound, Dmitry tried to force himself deeper beneath the blankets. His bladder had given up, and he felt a warm stream trickle down his leg. It smelled rancid. It had been so long since Dmitry had had any water. His mouth was like cotton.

Dmitry closed his eyes. Soon dawn would come, but that was no comfort. When light leaked into the room, the shadow-man could be seen.

He would stand among the debris in the corner of the devastated chambers. He was so tall that he had to crane his neck beneath the ceiling, but he was as slender as a child. Watching motionlessly. He never spoke, but Dmitry heard every word he said. His skin was black and glistening like the body of a wet slug. His face was like tar smeared over a skull. But the eyes, the eyes were as white as bleached bone.

No one else ever seemed to see him. Not his guards. Not Aria. Whenever Dmitry looked directly at him, he had a sickening sense of double vision. The whispers would rise up like a ghoulish chorus, and Dmitry would be forced to avert his gaze before he gagged with the pain.

Dawn will come soon.

But not for you, hissed the voice.

Dmitry let out a moan when he heard the scuff of feet on the carpeted floor. The shadow-man came closer, and with every step, Dmitry’s skin grew colder.

He felt a pinch in his lower back. Like someone unfastening him, crawling through him, slithering along his spine. His flesh belonged to someone else.

With all his withered will, he tried to fight it, but it was no good. His body convulsed and he was on his back, facing upward. He wanted to close his eyes, but they would not obey him.

The Obsidian Bridge, He wheezed. Grisha. This was Grisha. Aria…

Hush now, answered the darkness, no need to concern yourself with that.

Dmitry’s tongue seemed to inch through his lips by itself.

I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you, Aria. I love you.

He felt his teeth close around the softness of his tongue, a painful pinch, then warm blood filling the back of his throat. He tried to sit up, but his body was not his own. He couldn’t breathe. He could only swallow and shudder.

And darkness claimed him.

I

Whether you believe in the Gods or no, there is most certainly an afterlife, if the ancients are to be believed. The world and everything in it, even man, is made of tiny building blocks. When we perish, those blocks break apart. We join the soil, the air. We become a drop of rain, a thunderstorm, a river, the sea, a rainbow. We feed the world and move around the word over a thousand thousand years, our building blocks living eternally. The only concern is that we aren't conscious of the voyage.

Alberto di Camberland,

LIXV Grand Master of the Broken Blades.

Switht watched her breath mist and slowly lose itself in the swirling smoke. Shivering with the chill, she threw another log on the fire and turned back to poke at the squirming white worm on the surface of the busy bar.

Chus, the owner of The Den, offered a mug of Vile, named for its taste, for every worm found eating the wood of his tavern, but she couldn’t handle another cup of it in her churning, empty stomach.

Chus was standing behind the bar tonight, awkwardly cleaning a cup with his one good arm. He caught her watching him and wandered over.

Anything to eat, Switht? Are you going to sit on your bony arse all night, waiting on Nahir?

Switht was waiting on Nahir because until he and Osian returned, she had no coin. Without it, there was no chance a sour, old bastard like Chus would let her eat. Grumbling curses, he shuffled off and continued to busy himself by cleaning grime from the wooden mugs.

According to Nahir, Chus had been a swordsman once.

How do you know that? Switht remembered asking him sceptically. Chus was one of the most tight-lipped men she’d ever met, and his least favourite topic was himself.

It’s the way he walks, Nahir had replied dismissively. When she had frowned at him in confusion, Nahir groaned loudly, the way he did when he felt he was explaining something obvious. Osian would usually take that as his cue to guffaw at her ignorance and call her a fuckwit, even though it was a well-established fact that Switht was the clever one of the trio. He walks with a swordsman’s grace. Nahir had elaborated, drawing out each word as though addressing a child, No matter how old, or fat, or sour you get, that grace is always there in the way you walk. Your steps are measured, balanced.

Whatever Chus used to be; now he was the surly owner of The Den.

Should be called The Warren instead, Switht thought. The many chambers, tunnels, kitchens, passages, nooks, and crannies in its five wooden stories and basements had taken her some time to memorise. The Den had been built right into the face of the old castle walls. Some said it would collapse any day now; others believed that it would be there longer than the walls themselves. Switht hated quiet nights here. When everything else was silent, she could hear the building groaning under its own weight, and she couldn’t sleep.

Gods take me, I’m bored, she thought, wishing she had her book. Nahir had stolen her annals of Draven the Second and taken it with him. She had been half-way through and had just reached the part where the second Draven had led his armies into battle against the Ice Lords. It was an interesting book. Likely most of it was nonsense as it was written a hundred years after the fact, but it was the only one she hadn’t read half a dozen times.

Straightening her aching back, she rubbed her shoulders against the bitter chill. She wondered where Nahir and Osian were now. When Nahir was sent to bloody someone’s nose, he would usually take her along, but when he was sent to do something more sinister, he and Osian would leave her behind without saying a word. Switht appreciated that. She never wanted any part in the crueller side of this business.

It was an unforgiving day. The snows were forcing the ports to close, which was perhaps why Nahir and Osian hadn’t returned. This was a time where fire wood and fuel became outrageously expensive. Many in the old city would die this winter. A few people who were here tonight, wouldn’t be here tomorrow. The thought was chilling in itself. Switht pulled her leather coat tighter and ran her fingers through her dark brown hair. She had long, graceful features, and, at twenty-two, she was a very pretty woman who had broken a heart or two in her young life.

Hanging from her belt was a long stiletto dagger. She was good with knives, a natural; though Osian had told her she still had a long way to go.

She twisted in her stool, clenching her jaw, and whined quietly under her breath, "I want a book!"

She knew she couldn’t have one, or even get one from her chambers. She hadn’t paid the rent. Stretching again, she surveyed the dark tavern. It was busy, dingy, and thick with sweet smoke. Despite the horrendous weather, The Den was its usual self tonight.

A handful of men from Maroc sat in a corner. Their faces covered in garish veils made of different coloured beads. They sat inches away from each other, talking in their strange, secretive language. Switht couldn’t hear what they were discussing above the roar of the men from Trifrost Hall, who wore hooded cloaks made of otter fur and drank from long horns. They sang a boorish song that Svetty, the plump whore, swayed her hips to, swishing her greying hair, while clapping and dancing faster to each verse. The off-duty city watchmen sat playing cards. Switht was sharp enough to notice that one was cheating, but they were having fun all the same.

The brute, Drak, choked back a pickled egg, spilling most of it on himself. He caught her staring at him. Switht glanced away quickly; focusing instead on the two men who brawled on the floor. A crowd of onlookers shouted curses or encouragement, betting on who would lose the most teeth.

A man with blonde hair and an open smile moved from table to table, chatting affably with each bustling group. He glanced up and nodded at Switht, who returned the gesture. Corbett, the scruffy pug dog with big, googly eyes, licked at himself happily.

All was its usual self in The Den.

All, except for the five newcomers sat in the centre of the small hall. Around them, eyes watched from the shadows of the tavern and hungered for their expensive clothing. Their cloaks were fine quality, stitched with gold thread, and dyed in such rich colours. Three wore a deep red, one blue, and another green. The cloth was too grand for this shit-hole tavern; too grand even for this city.

No one like you ever comes to The Den, Switht thought. To most it was a place of business, frequented by pirates, mercenaries, and whores; each with more unsavoury machinations than the last. It had enough of a reputation that passing travellers would know to give it a wide berth.

Switht peered at the newcomers through the dimness and smoke. In the centre sat a young woman with red hair. At her side sat two men, one old and hard looking, another very young. The other two were difficult to see under their hoods. She could just about make out what they were saying, and it seemed that the old man was arguing intently with the red-headed girl. His gestures and the edge to his voice suggested he was eager to leave, but she was being obstinate. Switht leaned closer to better see their faces, but her vision was obscured when Drak came to stand in front of her.

He looked down on her with beady, petulant eyes from beneath his mop of orange hair. His large, pasty face contorted like old leather as he grinned. Switht wrinkled her nose against the stink of his soiled clothing. He had a large build, which bordered on fat. Drak was the very best example of a northern thug, and he made her nervous.

Saw you looking, he slurred.

For a moment, she pretended not to see him, which only made him chuckle and insert himself more fully within her personal space. His drunkenness caused him to stagger slightly as he leant against the bar. She could feel the puff of his rancid breath against her cheek. Drak was dangerous at the best of times, but never more so than when he had ale in him. He’d been known to kill the whores he hired, until Chus had taken a stand and banned him from being serviced. It had been a bold measure, and Drak had made several vicious threats as a result, before the Grey Lord, to whom Drak was Right Hand, stepped in. Even that guaranteed nothing. Drak was a frihal, a freeman, and no frihal ever had to do what the Grey Lord told them. It just seemed that doing what they were told would make them wealthier. And so, Drak had obeyed on this occasion.

He licked his lips, Getting my heavy drinking out of the way now, as if to prove a point, he downed his mug of Vile and let out a wretched belch, Just so I have time later to pleasure something pretty. Drak leaned close and took some of Switht’s hair in his large meaty hand, sniffing it loudly.

"You’re pretty," he exhaled, and smiled his sneering smile.

Switht cringed from him, mortified.

"There’s no way you could satisfy me!" she replied, and turned her back to him. Drak’s smile curdled.

What? He wheezed after a long pause, I wasn’t fucking asking, slut! He pulled the hair in his hand, earning him a yelp as Switht tried to rise. He dragged her back to the stool, "That’s more like it. I like it when they’re noisy. I could pleasure you, girly, but it’s more my pleasure I’m interested in."

He leaned toward her and pressed his wet slavering lips to her neck. She didn’t know which would leave her mouth first; a scream, or the bile that was rising from his touch. She was horrified as he seemed to envelop her against the bar.

No one in The Den would help her. Not against Drak. An ugly, greasy, ginger whoreson he may be, but he was big, and he was nasty, and had no compunction against murdering anyone who stood in his way; he was the Right Hand of the Grey Lord for good reason. He mumbled something and gripped her tighter when she struggled. His fingers slid under her tunic and gave her breast a painful squeeze. He forced a hand between her crossed legs and tried to part them. Men began to murmur nearby as they took notice, but no one moved to help her. Some even muttered encouragement. The only person that could help her now was herself.

She rolled her hand back across her side and drew her dagger slowly. While Drak contented himself with slobbering over her neck, she moved the dagger around deliberately before suddenly pressing the point into Drak’s groin.

Get the fuck away from me, or I’ll make whatever you’ve got down there even smaller!

To prove she meant it, she shoved the point a little deeper. Drak couldn’t believe what was happening. He stared for a moment, wide eyed, regarding the knife. When his eyes rose to meet hers, they were full of outrage; his puffy, drunken face had gone white with fury. Switht was terrified but had the good sense not to show it. At least she hoped she wasn’t showing it.

Drak put his hand on the huge axe at his belt and started to draw it from the loop. He was shaking with rage.

Do you know what I’m going to do to you, you little cunt? He bellowed, and those who weren’t already watching the scene in the dingy tavern went silent, I’ll rip your heart out and fuck the wound if you don’t move your knife.

Switht had no choice. Nick the femoral artery, Nahir’s voice shot into her mind.

Before he could draw his axe, Switht dragged the razor edge of the blade across the inside of Drak’s fleshy thigh.

He howled, and his heavy axe struck the floor, forgotten. Blood pooled over his breeches. He lashed out, and Switht stumbled backwards with the knife in hand, narrowly avoiding Drak’s blow. The brute clutched at his legs and pulled away a soaked, red palm.

You bitch! You little cunt! Look what you’ve done! he took one pace toward her, and Switht realised with sickening horror that she’d missed the artery. Drak was losing blood, but the stubborn bastard was far from dead. His eyes were very much filled with a living, searing hate.

She swept the knife towards him, but he was fast for his size, catching her arm, raised it high, and smashing it against the wood of the bar. Switht cried out in anguish as the shock ran through her.

Drak took her by the neck, hammering a meaty fist into her jaw with so much force that the whole room went white, and Switht felt as though she’d tumbled into a glacial lake.

She came to a moment later, just in time to receive the second blow as Drak’s boot connected with her forehead. She feared she’d pass out, but she remained painfully conscious, long enough to have Drak’s foot sink into her stomach when she feebly tried to rise.

The air abandoned her lungs. The only sound she could make was a squeaking, Huurh!

The Den was silent but for Drak’s purposeful, stomping strides to the bar, where he recovered his axe. Switht realised with terror that she’d lost her dagger when she had collapsed to the ground and scanned the floorboards of the tavern in desperate search of it.

She would have begged if she could speak. Someone give me a sword!

She could taste her own blood in the back of her throat, and she knew she would give anything to the Stone Gods for a weapon. She gagged, a spluttering cough, and clawed weakly at her matted hair, stuck down across her eyes with sweat.

Drak stood above her, drooling over his wiry beard with fury. He raised his axe, and only then did the patrons of The Den make a noise; a horrified gasp.

I was going to split you in half tonight anyway, Drak wheezed in enormous amusement at his own sick joke, making the wound in his leg squirt a little.

That’s enough! came a guttural voice Gods take me, Drak, put your axe down!

Drak had gone too far, even by their unsavoury standards, but still no one saw fit to aid her by getting in his way.

He was red faced when he rounded on the speaker. It was Chus, the Den’s owner.

Chus pointed with a dirty rag at Switht, You think I want to have to clean up this mess? as though she were a turd someone had left on his floor.

What makes you think I give a fuck about your mess? Drak spat at him, Look what she did to me. She’s ruined these breeches an’ all.

Drak turned back to Switht, who was holding her bleeding nose. His wickedly sharp axe glinted hungrily in the dim light.

Then think of what Nahir and Osian will do if you cut her down, urged the surly barman.

That gave Drak pause. 

He stared at her, eyes wide with disgust and anger, the axe trembled in his hands and twice he flinched as though he meant for it to fall and feast on her.

Do you know what I do to little whores who don’t do what they’re told?! he said aloud. An insane thought crept into Switht’s head; He’s stalling.

Her breathing was crawling in her throat, and the idea came to her in the midst of her panic and wouldn’t let go. She sucked in a gasp of air and played the trump Chus had given her.

Whu? was all she managed at first through bloody bubbling lips. Drak sneered in confusion of the sad noise.

What will you do? Tell me! She croaked loudly, her frustration and fear breaking through the pain. Drak was taken back. Switht tried to keep her voice from shaking. What can you do to me that Nahir and Osian won’t revisit on you tenfold?! What?!

She’d always suspected that Drak, the Right Hand of the Grey Lord, feared Nahir, the Left Hand. Switht didn’t know this for certain, however. There was always the possibility that Nahir and Osian wouldn’t bother to avenge her. Maybe they’d shrug it off as they did with most things in life. She hoped that wasn’t true. She hoped that Nahir’s loathing of Drak would mean he would fight the bastard, using her death as an excuse if nothing else. Most of all, she hoped Drak believed that killing her might mean his own demise.

She waited an age for him to say something. Long minutes passed in pain as she lay sprawled on the hard floor. Everything and everyone in the tavern was still. Even Corbett the mutt had stopped licking himself. Drak growled, working through the options in his tiny mind. Would he risk waking one night to find Osian holding him down while Nahir finished what she’d started? She could see doubt spread across his flat features. If he walked away, he would lose face and it would damage his reputation, and reputation, more often than not, kept a man fed and alive in a city like this. If he acted on his rage, he risked a fight with Nahir and Osian, and probable death.

After a moment, he lowered his axe and let Switht scramble away to the bar. 

Another time, he promised through bared, brown teeth. He spat in her face and stormed from the tavern, shoving through the on looking crowd.

Her legs and arms trembling, Switht reached for her stool. Placing two hands on it, she sat down slowly and let out a shuddered sigh of relief, wiping blood and spittle from her face with her sleeve.

Just another day in Karsh.

II

When dealing with a serpent, speak the language of a serpent.

Sir Léopold Cobalt.

As night wore on, people started to talk and laugh and sing again. Switht no longer complained of boredom. She welcomed it. Drak had given her enough excitement. She ignored her own advice from earlier, trading all the worms she could find for a cup of Vile. She dabbed a grubby rag to her swollen nose.

Probably broken, she thought miserably.

She watched a drop of blood fall from her nostril and turn to a dark red cloud when it collided with her questionable beverage.

Switht had thanked Chus for defending her, but his response had not endeared him to her.

Never again, you understand? He had hissed balefully.

What do you mean? she’d asked confused.

I’ve enough problems in this pit with the rest of these shits trying to smash up my tavern. Next time Drak wants to put his cock up your arse, you Gods damned better let him. Don’t fight him. Not in here. Got that?

If he tries anything like that again, I’ll drive my knife into his heart, she promised herself, I won’t miss the kill next time. She reached around and patted the handle of her knife again to reassure herself that it was tucked safely in her belt, but it seemed worryingly insignificant when she thought of Drak standing over her with his colossal axe.

Switht had been forced to take life since coming to Karsh, but she’d never done it for money, as Nahir and Osian had. She’d done it to save her own skin. It hadn’t been an enjoyable experience to watch life trickle out of a man’s eyes. There were nights when she saw her first kill in her dreams; a young man from a rival gang who’d tried to shiv her in an alley. Switht had managed to stab him in the neck. She’d screamed for help when she realized what she’d done, but no one had come. She watched him die in the moonlight. She had never relished murder, but imagining Drak’s bloody demise pleased her a little now.  Her vision was blurry and her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

So tired, she thought, wanting to put her heavy head down and wait for the rhythm of her pulsing nose to hypnotise her to sleep, but Chus wouldn’t stand for someone sleeping on the bar and taking up the space of a paying customer. He’d throw her out, and who knew if Drak was waiting for her in the frozen night? She couldn’t go up to her chambers either. Neither she, Nahir, nor Osian had paid the rent this month, and Chus, as bitter as the draughts he sold, would bar her way and demand payment.

A name tugged at the periphery of her hearing. She wasn’t sure she’d heard it right the first time. Straightening, she scanned the room for the source of the voice. It was a name she never thought she’d hear in a place like this. It was a name from the long past.

Ælor.

After some time searching, she put it down to the drink, weariness, and getting the shit kicked out of her by Drak and continued to occupy her mind by hunting for worms in the wood of the filthy bar. Then it came again.

Why should we trust Sir Abalon? He’s a washed up old man. As for that matter, why should we trust that ungrateful brat, Ælor?

Switht’s head snapped back. She looked directly at the speaker; one of the five newcomers in the expensive cloth.

Oh, I’d forgotten all about you, she thought.

She stood clumsily and staggered closer to the newcomer’s table.

Ælor always hated my father.

The speaker was the young woman sitting in the centre of the table in the dark red cloak. Switht hadn’t seen her closely. She was a young beauty with hair the colour of blood that fell to her shoulders, matching her cloak. Her skin was pale as winter. She had soft lips and eyes that were a summer ocean blue. Switht had never seen anyone like her. Perhaps not all eyes are on the clothing after all.

Aria! a woman’s voice addressed the red haired beauty. The voice came from the person wearing the bright blue cloak. The speaker was a woman, but that’s all Switht could tell of her. Her face was shadowed by a heavy woollen hood that concealed her in the dingy tavern. Sir Abalon and Lord Ælor helped us escape. The Mother only knows what might have happened if we’d stayed.

Keep it down! Both of you! the old man interrupted. We don’t know who might be listening. He glanced around and caught Switht’s red rimmed eyes. He was nearing his mid-sixties, with a shaved head, and large bushy grey brows, but beneath them his deep set eyes were iron. He wore a cloak of the same colour and cloth worn by Aria, and a curved sword hung from his belt.

His piercing glare remained fixed on Switht when he saw she was watching them. She stared back rubbing at her sore eyes.

The old man sneered, What the fuck are you looking at, girl?

Friendly, Switht thought.

As the old man shifted, his cloak fell away revealing expensive, boiled leather armour, dyed crimson. Switht’s gaze swept over the five and she noted that the boy, with sandy hair and dark skin, wore the same armour as the old man. There was an older woman too, in a brown linen dress with a white wimple that covered her steely hair. She was grey and feverish, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, shivering with the chill.

Ignoring the old man’s question, Switht turned to Aria. You mentioned Lord Ælor. He sent you here?

Y-you know Lord Ælor of Gwirfort? Aria replied incredulously. Her question and the old man’s glare annoyed Switht.

Maybe, she answered scathingly, irritated at herself for being so forward and indiscreet. She blamed the drink and decided to leave when Aria shot to her feet and near shouted, I demand to be taken to Lavolpa, the one known as the Grey Lord! Now! A small, confident smile crept across Aria’s face, and she gave a slight, smug nod as if confirming to herself that she’d done the right thing.

The tavern went silent at the sound of her yelling, and all eyes tuned on Aria. She seemed to like the attention, that is, until the whole hall erupted with laughter. Her pale cheeks began to rosy, and the old man groaned, took her by the forearm, and tugged her down to her seat.

Switht had to smile and sat down heavily in an empty chair nearby, joining the five newcomers. The old man didn’t seem to approve, but Switht chose to ignore him. He’s an aggressive one, but at least he isn’t that ginger bastard, Drak, she decided. Her eyes flicked to Aria who was slumped, trying to conceal her embarrassment at her incongruous outburst.

M’lady, perhaps we should leave, the shivering woman in the wimple suggested.

So, you’re looking for the Grey Lord under the instructions given to you by Lord Ælor Gwir? Switht asked, her tone cutting, Are you his servants?

How in the Mother’s name could someone like you know Ælor Gwir? the old man snarled, his hand inching toward his sword.

I was sent here to meet you, of course, Switht lied.

M’lady… the other woman urged.

Switht laughed even harder and leaned back in her creaky chair. Aria looked up, clearly perplexed by what Switht found so amusing.

Oh, sorry, Switht chortled, "It’s just that if you’re trying to be inconspicuous, the least you could do is not refer to her as ‘M’lady’. I assume you are trying to remain inconspicuous, being as you’re in a place like The Den, all the while wearing clothing that probably cost more than it took to build this heap, which tells me you could easily afford to hire soldiers for whatever nasty task you need doing, but instead you’ve come here where no questions are ever asked. What makes this more intriguing is that you’re looking for the Grey lord. You even called him by name."

Switht put a finger to her lips thoughtfully, You’re not Lord Ælor’s servants. You’re nobility, when she was met with silence, she continued, The Grey Lord won’t speak with people he doesn’t know.

She raised her hand and signalled for a drink. The affable blonde fellow she’d seen earlier poured two cups and handed her one as he passed, strolling over to sit with a new group of people on the next table who were squabbling loudly over a game of dice.

Switht sipped at her drink to give herself an air of dismissive comfort. I’m drunk already, she thought hesitantly and knew she could ill-afford to push herself too far now a chance had come to learn of Lord Ælor.

You know Lavolpa? Aria asked, leaning forward hopefully.

Perhaps, Switht shrugged.

Aria sat back. Her expression changed, "Then perhaps I know Lord Ælor," she offered.

Of course I do. He was the one who sent me to meet you.

Aria shook her head.

She’s a clever one. While there was an unmistakable aura of naivety about the young lady in the grand red cloth, Switht saw that Aria had realized that knowledge of Lord Ælor Gwir had weight. It wasn’t simply a key to access Lavolpa. She was considering if she might have leverage; leverage to make Switht a pawn in whatever game she was playing.

This isn’t good, Switht thought, I’m too drunk to think straight. She couldn’t let anyone, least of all a group of strangers, know that Lord Ælor was important to her.

She studied Aria and wondered how she knew him at all. To know anything about a prisoner in the Royal Palace at such an intimate level that she would call him by his first name and not his title suggested she knew him well. The woman in blue had spoken of escape, but, judging by their garb and weapons, it was safe to assume that this ‘escape’ wasn’t from the palace dungeons, and as a Lord, Ælor must have been accorded apartments befitting his title.

She watched the dim light of the lantern at the centre of the crooked table flicker over Aria’s delicate features.

They must have been prisoners together, Switht concluded. She needed to know more, much more. In a place like The Den, information was a commodity. They both had something to learn from one another, but Switht needed to make Aria doubt the worth of her vital information. Let’s change the subject of Lord Ælor.

The men arguing on the next table had come to some sort of resolution and were now dividing the money. 

Aria tried to speak but Switht cut her off. Fifty deneris will buy you and your party an audience with Lavolpa, she said, staring directly into Aria’s eyes while trying to keep her own from blurring. 

Aria was taken aback. It worked. Aria hadn’t expected an exchange of money. She thought she had something solid with her knowledge regarding Lord Ælor, but now she wasn’t so sure. I can’t push this too far, Switht realized. She didn’t want to make it too obvious that she was changing her ploy, and so she simply sat trying to ignore her throbbing nose.

Before the old man could protest, Aria held up a hand to silence him. She looked back into Switht’s eyes and let an expression of genuine sorrow wash over her startling features. That’s too much, I’m sorry. I just don’t have it, she shook her head. Twenty?

I suppose I could do it for thirty-five, Switht replied. The men who had been arguing about the dice roared with laughter, drowning out everything else in the small dank hall.

Aria glanced over her shoulder at them in annoyance before her soft blue eyes went hard grey and darted back to meet Switht’s.

Twenty, she said sternly, and pursed her lips, I won’t go any higher, and there was no edge of apology to her voice this time. So you have some steel in your spine? Switht mused, but where she had hers on display, Aria hid it behind a rigid veil of innocence. Switht found herself admiring it.

The old man turned to Aria and growled something in Maroc, the language of the East. That’s still too much.

Unlike most people in the Kindreds, Switht was fluent in the unusual, guttural language, but she kept her face blank while they spoke.

"The bitch will bleed us dry, and we’ll never meet this Grey Lord or whatever he calls himself. Mark my words, my lady. I should never