Promise of Blood

“Should I have?”

Bo’s grin disappeared. “He knows about the gaes, then?”

“It’s true?”

“Yes.” Bo grunted. “Part of becoming a member of the royal cabal.” He touched his collar gently. “I’ll have to avenge the king someday. I’ll have to kill Tamas.” He pulled a pendant from beneath his shirt. It was a simple thing, braided silver around a single gemstone. Taniel vaguely remembered seeing similar necklaces upon dead Kez Privileged. Not even the savages had looted those.

“Is… is that it?” Taniel asked.

“A demon’s carbuncle,” Bo said. “Very dark stuff. You don’t want to know. The gaes to protect—or avenge—the king is tied to this. Even now I can feel a pull, tugging me toward Adopest. It’s not very strong. It will grow stronger as time passes. I’m not sure how quickly. If I resist for too long, though, it will kill me.”

“The only way to break it is to avenge the king?”

Bo remained silent.

“So you have to kill my father.”

Bo picked up a rock and threw it off the cliff. He didn’t look happy about it.

“We should start looking for a way to break it,” Taniel said. He hoped he sounded confident. “Privileged wouldn’t attach themselves to something they can’t get out of. It’s just another secret. Maybe one of the Predeii knows.”

Taniel examined his friend, realizing just how much the fight yesterday had taken out of him. His cheeks were gaunt. His skin looked saggy, wrinkled, as if he were forty years older than he was.

“We’ll find out together,” Taniel said. “We’ll break it. I swear.”

Bo gave a tired chuckle. “My eyes are going to itch every day I’m with you, you optimistic bastard. Come on.” He stood up, stretching. “We have to go find out if we killed that bitch.”

Chapter 20

The parlor of Winceslav House was a spacious affair with ornate brick walls and a granite fireplace big enough to drive a pair of oxen through. Adamat had politely refused a seat from the butler and made his way slowly around the room as he waited for the lady of the house. There were a number of paintings of Lady Winceslav and her late husband, Henri Winceslav, as well as a single painting of the two of them with their four children. The painting was perhaps five years old, done just before the old duke passed away and each of the children had since been sent to boarding schools or resided in the country with their governesses, according to Adamat’s research.

Adamat examined the floor, the walls, and the doors. A lot could be discovered about the waxing or waning fortunes of an Adran noble family by observing the state of their manor. When money was tight, upkeep and repairs often fell behind as housing staff were let go and materials became scarce.

Everything was pristine. The wood furniture and brass hangings were polished, the floor recently replaced, and the brickwork dusted. Her mercenaries had done quite well, even without Lord Winceslav to direct them. They fought in Fatrasta against the Kez, against the Gurlish on behalf of the Brudanians, and just about everywhere else colonists from the Nine had the coin to pay them.

Adamat had to remind himself that it wasn’t Lord Winceslav alone who was responsible for the Wings. It was said Lady Winceslav had a mind sharp enough to match most field generals and that Lord Winceslav had relied heavily on her advice in all matters before his death. The lord had been clever; a man skilled with words and people. The lady was astute and practical; a forward-thinking planner.

Adamat faced the door when he heard voices in the hall outside. He smoothed the front of his waistcoat. A small group filed into the parlor: three men and a woman, all of them in white uniforms, military sashes of gold across their chests. Four brigadiers of the Wings of Adom. They were followed by Lady Winceslav. She wore a riding gown of fine purple wool, the collar pulled tight despite unseasonal warmth, and a matching shawl draped around her shoulders. Her heeled boots clicked on the wooden floor.

The commanders regarded Adamat with some wariness. He recognized two of them from paintings in the great hall outside: Brigadier Ryze was an older man, older even than Field Marshal Tamas, his hair as white as his uniform. He bore a number of visible scars on his hands and face and wore a white sash of linen across one eye to conceal a wound received in battle half a decade ago.

Brigadier Abrax was a woman, and her appearance could not have been more opposite Lady Winceslav’s. Short blonde hair was cropped above her ears. Her face was tanned and weather-beaten from too many campaigns in Gurla. Her uniform matched the others’ completely, apart from the slight bulge of small breasts. She regarded Adamat with a coldness he rarely felt from another person.