For King and Corruption, page 9
“Lord Sunshine is what Quinn likes to call me when she thinks I’m too cheerful or optimistic. Lord Idiot is the less kind name she reverts to when she’s angry, so if she’s still using sunshine, I can’t imagine I’ve crossed her too badly.” A laugh, like the peal of windchimes, drifted through the air for too short a moment. He glanced over again, and this time Risk was grinning, although she tried to hide it.
“Well, she’s used both a decent bit, truth be told,” Risk said. “She’s quite angry about the decision to allow the blood heirs into Leone. Her show in the courtyard was to get the King’s attention.” Her jaw clicked shut, as if she only just realized who she was talking about. That perhaps she said something she thought she shouldn’t have.
“I’m aware,” Draeven said, turning off the path to walk toward some of the only foliage you’d find in all Leone. He pushed the palm frond to the side. “Do you know what it means to be a hammer?” he asked her, careful not to look her way too much or trail behind. Though she eyed him with wariness, she continued walking through the plants as well.
“Everything is a nail?” she replied.
“Precisely,” Draeven replied, pleased that she’d picked it up that quickly, though he couldn’t understand why. “Quinn is a hammer, and to her, every problem is a nail.”
“She doesn’t understand the need to keep the peace because she herself doesn’t understand peace. Only war . . .” Her words trailed off as they entered the gardens. It was the most secluded part of the palace. There they wouldn’t be interrupted by prying eyes or chatty servants. In the center, sitting upon a flat rock, was the man that would be her teacher.
Risk tilted her head in a way that was eerily like the woman they spoke of. With sunlight filtering through the leaves, illuminating the thoughtful—instead of calculating—expression on her face, Risk Darkova was nothing like her sister.
No, in that single moment, Draeven thought that even with the horns and gray-tinted skin, she was quite possibly one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.
She continued walking, and he jerked, blinking twice. The movement snapped him from his reverie, and Draeven followed, careful not to be too close behind her.
“Hello . . .” Risk began, looking back at Draeven and then to the withered old man atop the rock. He sat with his leg crossed, one bare foot poised on his knee. He wore a simple set of brown robes and stared out with unseeing eyes. Beside him, a baboon that had never grown to its full size sat atop a tortoise that rivaled the size of some sea turtles from the western coast of Bangratas.
“Take a seat, child.” Haspati spoke with a deep thrum that resonated in Draeven. The accent of his childhood; of smoked peppers and mulled wine, of late nights in the humid summer pushing his body past its limits. It was the voice of the man that helped bring him out of his first rage. The voice of patience beyond any soul he’d ever known.
Risk settled on the flat rock across from him, her knees locked together and back straight. Draeven walked around the side, standing off to where she could see him easily. She relaxed slightly.
“I was told you’re going to help me master my magic,” she began in a voice that didn’t betray what her face showed she was feeling. It amazed him how different she and Quinn were. While they shared a lineage, dark gifts, and the same facial structure, that was where the similarities stopped.
“In due time,” the ancient beast tamer replied. She blinked, her face falling as she looked from the blind man across from her to Draeven. He shrugged, hoping that his suspicion about her was right.
“Alright,” she drawled. “What do you want me to do first?”
The old man cracked a grin, and her face completely blanched. “Settle in and sit still. Focus on the world around you.” She did as he asked, or at least tried to. Every time her razor-sharp focus started to drift, she snapped back to attention. “Are you doing it?” he asked her in a way that implied he knew she was not.
Risk let out a huff. “I’m working on it.”
“Very well,” Haspati told her. They lapsed into a comfortable silence for the following hour, upon which Risk never asked what to do next. Draeven only knew how much time had passed from the sundial in the garden. That and his own memories of his old friend’s teachings.
When Risk finally managed to relax into the world around her for more than a minute, the old hermit said, “Tell me, what do you feel?”
“I feel . . . ” she paused, grasping for words. “I feel the wind in my hair and the sun on my skin. I feel Neiss lying over my shoulders.” Draeven frowned. He hadn’t known that Quinn named the thing. Neiss, no less. He wondered what the god of fear thought of that, but then shook his head, suspecting that if the gods were indeed real, he’d probably be pleased. Draeven continued listening as Risk’s answers became far more particular. “I feel the distending of claws in my fingers, and the heaviness of wings between my shoulders. My skin prickles like it’s going to grow fur and—” She stopped abruptly. Just as in the courtyard earlier, she blinked and paused as if realizing what she was saying. The old man simply smiled.
“What you are feeling is magic. It’s in the air. In yourself. It’s all around us. Few beings have the ability to harness and control it, but you—you feel it inside.” Risk’s brows drew together as she eyed the man across from her.
“I’m a beast tamer. Of course I feel it inside.”
“When you feel it—do you associate the touch of that magic with any emotion?” Haspati asked her. Risk opened her mouth and started to form a dismissal when her eyes landed on him. Draeven quirked an eyebrow and gave her an encouraging smile.
“Panic,” she murmured so softly he barely heard it.
“Ah,” Haspati said in a tone equal parts understanding as it was frustrating to him when he was in her position. She looked as if she felt the same. “I see.”
“Well, I don’t,” she snapped. “I thought you were going to help me learn how to control my magic, not have me sit here for an hour just to tell me what I already know.” Her eyes narrowed as he started laughing, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth despite his age. Not even fifteen-year-old Axe could boast that. They stood out stark against his brown skin.
“Tell me, when you panic, does the magic within you react?”
“Yes,” she answered, almost begrudgingly.
“And if you don’t panic, can you access it then?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, leaning forward. “Why would I want to do that?”
Draeven wanted to turn and sigh, but he knew this was neither the place nor the time for that. He understood all too well what she was dealing with, and it relieved him that his gut choice on instructor had been right.
“Child, how do you think you’ll ever learn to control magic without practicing? A painter does not wake up one day and become a master. A blacksmith does not work in the forge once a moon and expect to create a masterpiece worthy of kings.” Her eyes glowed blue for a moment as she stared at the old man. There was a fierceness in her features that hadn’t been there before, and he suspected he was seeing the other side to Risk. The darker one, still wavering where it belonged.
“If it was as simple as practicing, why would I need you?” she asked him in a tone reminiscent of a certain fear twister.
Without so much as a twitch, the baboon leapt off the tortoise’s back like it meant to strike her. Risk jumped back, landing squatted but on her toes. Neiss perked up but didn’t strike. Claws, deadly and as sharp as knives, grew from her fingers. The skin of her face changed, taking on the glint of scales.
“Stop the magic,” Haspati said.
She looked at him as if he’d grown a third eye.
“It’s not that simple,” she hissed.
He smiled. “Focus on the world around you. What do you feel?”
She eyed the baboon skeptically, but did as he said. Her eyes fell closed, and within minutes the tension had drained, though interestingly, the magic had not.
“I feel the weight of my claws and the itch of scales across my flesh. I feel the blood pounding in my ears as magic hums through me. I feel . . . alive.” She grimaced with her eyes closed, as if unsettled by the statement. Draeven scrubbed a hand down his jaw, watching her intently.
“Calm the magic as you would an animal.”
Her brows puckered and sweat dotted her forehead as she squeezed her eyes shut. She breathed low even breaths, and after several minutes, the claws slipped back beneath the skin as if they were never there. The scales on her face faded into smooth, unblemished skin. Risk blinked down at her hands, lifting them to examine.
She looked between them and her trainer, a begrudging respect in her gaze.
“How did you know that would work?” she asked him.
“I didn’t,” he shrugged. “Much of teaching young Maji is learning as they do.” Haspati chuckled to himself, and the baboon followed suit, making her roll her eyes.
“But you’re a beast tamer,” she said. “Shouldn’t you know how it works?”
He reached up and scratched his chin. “A beast tamer can be a Maji, but not all Maji are made the same.”
“That makes no sense,” she grumbled, kicking her legs forward to slump onto the rock. She leaned back on her bare palms, her chest rising and falling in exertion.
“Not much does in this world,” he said. “You are a beast tamer, but you are also other. There is much to learn in that. Much to see.” She squinted at him, her lips pressing together like she wasn’t quite sure about that. Draeven didn’t disagree.
“You can’t see,” she pointed out. Many might think it rude to point out the obvious, but her inflection was that of confusion.
“Perhaps not with my eyes,” he nodded. “But I can with theirs.” He motioned to the baboon and the tortoise. She turned, regarding the two creatures with renewed interest. “You will learn when you find your familiar.”
“How do you know that Neiss is not mine?” she asked.
Clever, Draeven thought. She’s clever, but not cruel.
“The basilisk is bonded to another.” Risk glanced back to Draeven, as if questioning how much he told the old man. He shrugged. In truth, he’d told Haspati very little about the girl he’d be training. The man had a way of figuring it out all on his own. “You’ve also not yet reached your ascension. Your familiar will make itself known then.”
Risk blew out a breath and tucked a stray lock of silver hair back in her braid. “What’s an ascension?”
Draeven’s lips parted. She was even more clueless than Quinn had been in that regard, but at least she wasn’t a dark Maji. Not really. Like him, she landed somewhere in the gray.
“It’s different for every Maji,” Haspati said. “Yours will be unlike mine, which was unlike our young lord, which was unlike numerous others. The ascension in itself is the gods testing your strength—to see if you’re ready and able to hold the full might of the power gifted to you. Your time is not yet for a while, though.”
Risk opened her mouth to ask another question, but Draeven chose that moment to step forward and interrupt. “I have business on behalf of our king this afternoon. Why don’t we pick this up again tomorrow, shall we?”
Risk glanced up, her blue eyes as endless as the ocean as she peered up at him. She wasn’t thrilled, he could tell, but she was also letting it go.
“Alright,” she said, getting to her feet. Risk nodded, almost awkwardly. Whereas Quinn knew every proper response and chose to dismiss them as beneath her, the girl before him seemed to be at a loss most of the time. He supposed after the life she’s lived, at least what snippets of it that he’d heard, he probably would be as well were he in her shoes.
“Until next time, old friend,” he called over his shoulder. Haspati merely smiled and started humming to himself.
They turned and went back the same way they’d come, crossing through the courtyard. One of the guards saw her and started forward, despite the shake of Draeven’s head.
“Excuse me, my lady,” the man said. Draeven didn’t know him by name, but he could only guess what this was about based on his tone. Not that Risk noticed. She froze up, taking several steps back.
“W-what?” she asked. Draeven wanted to run a hand over his face and laugh all at the same time, but he did neither.
“We wanted to say thank you for the other day,” he said sincerely. “For stopping her.”
Risk’s lips parted, and she blinked. “Oh, it was nothing—”
“You saved at least one man’s life. That’s not nothing.”
She pressed her lips together, staring at him, but not seeming to have words. Draeven touched the guard on the arm and nodded. The man stepped back, and turned to go back to work. Risk watched him the entire way, and then they continued onward in silence.
It was only when they reached her door that she finally looked at him and said in a whoosh of breath, “If your name is not Lord Sunshine, what is it?”
He smiled. “Draeven. You can call me Draeven.”
She nodded once, and though there was shyness in the movement, things were easier than they’d been before. Slowly, she was getting used to him. Risk reached for the knob and whispered, “See you tomorrow.”
Draeven opened his mouth to reply, but the door was already closing shut.
Ignoring the clench in his chest, he smiled and walked away.
Courting Darkness
“Idiots have a habit of dying from their own foolish actions, but still, far too many inhabit the world of the living.”
— Lazarus Fierté, soul eater, King of Norcasta
* * *
The carriage rattled over the uneven terrain as Lazarus sat straight-backed with his arm folded across his chest and a dark shadow cast over his face. Quinn merely swung her legs with a small smile twisting at the corners of her mouth, unaware—or more likely, uncaring—of his displeasure.
Check, indeed, he thought with restrained ire. He had intended to take Lord Callis up on his invitation to visit him at his estate—alone. Without a certain thorn in his side there to tempt him away from more immediate matters that required his concern. Lazarus grit his teeth as the man’s large countryside mansion came into view just outside the carriage window.
“When we arrive, you would do well to keep your temper in check,” he said, speaking for the first time since he’d arrived to find her already prepared and ready for the half a day’s travel.
She turned to him, lifting one elegant brow. “Am I the one who really needs to keep an eye on my temper?” she inquired.
Narrowing his eyes at her impetuousness, he replied, “Lord Callis is important, Quinn. He is not to be used as a pawn during one of your tantrums. I know you are still upset over the impending arrival of the blood heirs, but you will come to understand my decision. And if you don’t, then that’s unfortunate. I am King, as you so eloquently put it yesterday, and you are my vassal. You serve me. Not the other way around.”
Quinn’s small smile stretched and blossomed into a darker version of itself. She leaned forward, and in the small space provided by the cramped quarters of the carriage, her hands landed on either side of his thighs. She flicked a strand of hair from her chest, her pale breasts pushed up by the tightness of her leather top.
“I live to serve, Your Grace,” she bit out. Perhaps she meant for him to be reminded of the last time she’d been under him so readily, serving him in a manner that made him feel more powerful than a mere king. With her lips wrapped around his shaft, he hadn’t felt like a king. Oh no. He’d felt like a god. But her current condescension was yet another puncture in his otherwise pristine reserve. A lesser man would have none of the fortitude it took to handle Quinn on a daily basis.
Lazarus tilted his head so that he looked down his nose at her, mimicking her haughty tone—if only to irritate her—he replied, “See that you do.”
She sat back up, that smile dimming a small fraction, changing into one of anticipation as she too looked out the window and saw the building they were nearing. The tall arching structures—twin towers on the far east and west wings of the mansion bore the flag of the Callis clan. The crossing of two staffs, one made of ornate gold and the other of a solid wood over a shield bearing the crest of Claudius’ reign. Lazarus narrowed his eyes. Unsuspecting eyes would think nothing of it, but Lazarus knew what that crest meant. Lord Callis—or his family at least—still backed the blood heirs. Hopefully, his continued visits would change that.
Lord Callis himself was not a loyal man. He was conniving, greedy. A glutton for self-satisfaction. Though Lazarus kept his face turned to the window, his eyes slid to the side. Uncertainty assaulted him. Perhaps he had been a fool to have allowed this. From the information Dominicus had gleaned upon his many observations of Lord Callis, the man had . . . particular appetites that would, no doubt, prove disagreeable in Quinn’s eyes. He could only hope that she would heed his warning to keep herself in check while they were here.
His lips twisted as the carriage passed through the mansion gates and rounded to the front entryway where Lord Callis stood with his steward, awaiting their arrival. The carriage came to a grinding halt, and before Lazarus could reach for the door, Quinn beat him to it.
Tossing the door open and stepping down, she looked up at the mansion before fixing her gaze on the man hurrying down the stairs toward them. Lazarus scowled as he followed after Quinn, leaving the carriage door hanging ajar as his long legs ate up the distance.
“Quinn,” Lord Callis took Quinn’s hand and bent over it, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of her knuckles. “It’s lovely to have you here. Welcome.” Lazarus stopped just behind her, and Lord Callis tilted his head back with a small smile. “Your Grace, welcome to my home. I hope you’ll find your overnight accommodations comfortable.” He released Quinn and bowed.
“I want Quinn placed in a room near mine,” he said. Quinn cast him a look that spoke volumes; one intending to provoke him, but he would not rise to her challenge.
