"Nothing?"
She stunned. "What? Seriously?" Her lips made an 'O.' "Are you stupid or something? You would ask nothing from the Ravens? Nothing at all."
Merrin chuckled. "What about you?" Caster mentation took a moment."You know her, don't you?"
"Hmm."
"Chula, yes, that's her name," he said. "You know her. Intimately, I think. At least enough to hear even the subtlest mention of her name in this clamoring crowd. You were paying attention. You were hoping someone, anyone, would know her for what she was, not what she had become..."
She frowned.
Good.
He leaned closer. "You see... Whatever you think you know about me, be it my stupidity or madness, you know nothing." He chewed his lip, heaving. "You saw it, didn't you?"
Silence.
"You saw the moment I pushed the storms, the Fallen, the lightning. The moment I saved your life. Remember that. I-saved-your life. So that means Zahar Alven, doesn't it? And although you may not be a Raven, I ask this of you... Leave me alone."
He turned away, yet there, soft amidst the chattering voices, was a laughter.
"Good, good." He heard the girl say. "I like you... Very good indeed... And although you haven't given me your name, I think it's only fair I give you mine. Given the whole ambushing you thing..." She paused. "Listen, little Ashman or whatever you are. Call me Shae of the Black Eyes."
Black eyes? Merrin pondered the word, the girl's laughter fading into the collective tones of the discordant crowd. Gone.
What have I gotten myself into?
______
The room was cold and reeked with the stench of rotting flesh.
Stomach-wrenching.
Ivory stared down at the stack of papers, white, arranged in that squarish, deliberate manner ever so used in Eastos. She liked it—which was good; very few things brought any innate appeal whatsoever. Not to her, not since that day.
She paused, lifting her gaze to the dark pane of glass. A window to the coliseum below. There, she could hear the sounds of men heaving, blade crashing. Some of which came from the hands of darkCrowns. Oddly, but as she had come to realize, many were competitors for the coming Vaelthur, Trial of Worth.
She tilted her head at a line written across the document. She frowned. "Nail."
The Lady Captain responded. "Yes."
"How was this not detected?"
"I do not handle the finances of the Clan."
Ivory fumed. "Then who does?"
"That would be the Master of Coin, Renly Valor."
"And where is this man?" She tapped the top of the file, agitated. Everything fitted with that annoying quality. The wrenching air, the sounds of men below…All of it.
She heaved a breath, paused, and caressed the side of her cheeks. It felt alien. Irresponsive. Slimy, cold. She gritted. Mist you, Heid! Mist you all!
"I recommend you don't touch the skin patch before it dries..." Said the cleanseWith. A short, timid woman, dark-haired, pale, dressed in that white dress with a cap over her hair. Haggon was the name... And she was Blind. Strange for a profession that ever so was dependent on sight, but alas, the woman was claimed as the best around. At least for the ones in Cintry. Outside the clan…well.
Ivory was unsure if it remained true for the Territories of the Vassal Clans.
Nonetheless.
She tossed the stack of papers to the table before her—eyes locked on the transparent wall, at the glossy pane of murky black. Nothing in particular was interesting about it. She did, however, remember.
What a day that was!
She recalled the flashing lights, the discordant voices that screamed words in frenzied panic. Phrases along the lines of burned, injured, and nearly dead. And that, as expected, was enough for the formation of an ideation.
Thus was the curse of the Caster.
She knew that, there, pinned on that operating desk, her skin had been seared off her body. Scorched by the 'final present' of Heid Fray. Ingenious, really. But noticeable by the weakest mind.
With her in such a desperate state, and as the direct heir to the SealSeat, her safety outweighed the search for the intruders. Hence, they had escaped. A weak plan for such a mighty effect.
They had done the harm they so desired... and had fled with victory in their tongues.
She clenched.
How could I have been such a fool?
Everything was chaotic now—none of the Vassal Lords had proclaimed any measure of fealty towards the newly coronated highHeir to Valor. None had spoken words of advantageous meanings. Instead... The voice of the Aspirant to the side flowed back into her awareness.
They sent letters!
"This one." The Aspirant said, his body wrapped in a filmy white garment. He leaned back on the stony walls, on her right, his eyes rimmed by a side-monocle. Purely aesthetics, she imagined. He continued. "This letter is from Howard Blackwoods of the Blackwoods Clan..."
A man who is known to be the greatest of friends to the late Lord Wane... She pondered. His stance is undoubtedly against me.
The Aspirant read. "He regrets but has chosen to remain in the Tail, and would remain ever so vigilant with his Blackwoods watch."
Stupid old men! She gritted. Why do none of them see what Wane has done? This is like a tide of the Everstorm, slow and steady; it would accumulate, pace up until it drowned all of us in that madness. And Lords knew the animals that would feed on our corpses.
The Church would love this. The other Great Clans will tremble at how easily Valor was destroyed. Then what happens? She closed her eyes. It becomes an infection. It would spread on, flowing from Clan to Clan, even the Houses of the Free Cities. All of it would be consumed in ruin.
She felt like a source—a source of madness that lingered just there at the edge of potentialities. And why? Why did such a thing even happen?
She scoffed. Because I loved a boy.
Ah, the madness! Ivory chuckled. Mother would be livid about this... She would.
Ivory paused.
And then there was the greatest loss of all—Argon, the Storm of Valor, had been poisoned. Of course, this information is left scarce from the ears of anyone outside the High Family. Realistically, none could be allowed to eat at this weakness.
What would they think?
Argon, Highness to Valor, is dying, diseased by the Crimson Rot. A curse that slowly, undoubtedly devoured at his flesh. A thing with no cure despite the might of Casters.
Unimaginable.
Even now, many theorize on studying the only other living member of Valor with the illness—Illenna. But what point would that yield?
Supposedly, the blight within Argon was stronger than any of the documented instances of the Rot.
A month, max, was the time given by the CleanseWitches and their crafts as such. Nothing could be done. Nothing whatsoever.
But the irony was not lost on her. Not at all. Days back, weeks, she would have dreamt of the day her rear would sit on the SealSeat. Would have fantasized about the instant she would claim control over that mighty power. But never once in those visualizations did she imagine this moment as the process of it.
Argon, dead. Never remembered as the great Storm of Valor. No, likely, he would be written as the diseased king who brought Ruin to a Great Clan. All of which was the act of one singular person. An idiot no better than the beasts called men. They would mock him, her, for the actions that are to come.
Damnation!
Haggon leaned close, spraying a chilling liquid across her cheeks. Itchy. Fortunately, most of her body had been regrown using skin patches—the charred skin rebuilt in the same manner. Good. One did not like the reality of a burned queen on the throne. Nonetheless, what was left was the face... The final patch of rotting flesh that was to be removed.
"It stinks," Ivory muttered.
Haggon smiled. "It is your old flesh, the burned one... Give it a few more minutes, and you will be rid of it."
"As you say." Ivory mouthed, head tilting, watching the wrestling men below, skin perspiring as they hurled themselves at each other, grunting, yelping. "Is there any worthy prospect from them?"
Nail responded calmly, bored even. "A few, but the SeatGuards can not be so easily replaced. They were the best of the best."
"Best at dying," Ivory said, listening passively to another letter read out by the Aspirant.
Nail, on the other hand, had stepped forward, siding the High Heir of Valor, her eyes looking out through the dark transparent pane. She said, "I understand the pain you must endure. The loss and responsibilities. All of it. However, you must, as future Highness, exist with a level of honor."
Honor does nothing.
"They had done their duty."
"And they failed," Ivory said, regarding Nail. The tall woman, dark hair with a strand of white on the sides. She stood, chest wrapped in a metal bodice, her arms and legs fitted with silverish vembraces. Plain, yet as always, she exuded that air of simple power. Bored power, maybe.
Ivory added. "They are not the best Valor has to offer. Somewhere, out there, there exist warriors that would do a far better job."
"Do you then intend on hosting the Trial of Worth privately?"
Ivory frowned. "Why in the world would I do that?"
Nail cocked her head. "The SeatGuards are not the most publicly known of the members of Valor. They are kept secret for a reason."
"A bootless reason." Ivory scoffed. "Now is not the time to stick to the old traditions formed by stupid old men." Haggon trembled by her side. So too did the Aspirant. "Valor needs to stand strong. To show that we are strong... That the steel remains unbent."
The Aspirant lowered his gaze, deliberate.
Ivory glanced at the man.
Nail should kill him discreetly. I can't have the Church learning of the things I say or do!