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Chapter Seven

Haron

I, as a devout scholar, dedicated to documenting everything I can, mourn the loss of all the potential knowledge still

trapped in the Clifftombs. A discovery team was sent last moon phase to assess the state of the kingdom, only to

find strong wards placed on the castle that prevented entry. Among the team were several staff of the royal family,

and even they could not pass. What secrets are the Clifftombs hiding? And when will they be divulged?

"The Tragic History of Julra," by High Scholar Yuret Wend, Year 37 of Ber's First Reign

I was wholly expecting a squadron to be banging on my door this morning, sure that Nebold had scurried off to report me to the guards for the scene I caused yesterday on the guild’s front steps.

The unassuming scroll that was delivered by Lota, one of my personal favorite barmaids at The Hanging Cat, was a pleasant surprise.

She bounced back rather quickly from Pid's knight roughing her up.

He had just missed her bursting through the kitchen door with a massive cleaver when he left the tavern, and everyone in the room witnessed her violent threats if he ever came back.

“A messenger from the palace sent this over just before breakfast,” she said with a friendly smile. “You’ve been getting popular, Haron. What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into?”

I replied with a toothy grin of my own. “Only the best kind, m’lady. Be a dear and bring some breakfast up, would you?”

“Of course.”

I leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and watched her descend the stairs with a sway of her curvy hips, a wholly different hunger rearing to life in my core.

My teeth caught my lower lip to keep the groan from slipping out, and I tapped the scroll in my palm twice before finally retreating into my room.

If I stayed out in the hall waiting for her to bring my food back, I’d be just as likely to pull her back in with me.

Jessella would probably be very cross with me for having some sexy, slippery fun without her.

Looking more closely at the scroll, I realized the seal that held it shut didn’t give an indication of who exactly it was from.

Not that I received missives from the palace often, but the sender was usually considerate enough to include their imprint in the wax instead of a blank circle like this.

Even the magic warding those not intended to open it was not familiar to me, though I couldn’t discern more beyond it than the earthy brown tinge of terramancy woven through the spell’s aura.

What terramancer would be looking for me from the palace?

I reached blindly for the letter opener on my desk and nudged the chair out with a hip to sit.

The spell dispersed as the unassuming wax seal broke and the scroll unfurled from its tight roll.

Hesitantly, still undecided if I want to get tangled in whatever an unmarked scroll would hold for me, I pulled the scroll open to read it.

Lady Val Toric,

From my conversation with Guildmaster Briton, I was unsure my request to employ you would be passed along, much less well received. If you can meet to discuss terms, please respond with a place and time of your choosing.

Regards,

I.G.

My eyes rolled at the embellished signature scrawled across the bottom of the short letter.

All this cloak-and-dagger nonsense was not my typical method of dealing with clients.

There was only one person I could think of with these initials in the palace who would send secret letters, and I doubted I’d be able to brush aside his request now that he’d sought me out directly.

I was more curious why he would want to employ a necromancer of all people.

“Let’s play, little princeling.”

Plain stationery was neatly stacked in the top right drawer of the desk, and I pulled a sheet of paper and pen from it along with my own sealing wax and stamp. My message was concise and polite, despite the smirk that grew on my face as I wrote it.

I.G.,

Consider me intrigued. You know where to find me, obviously. Feel free to join me for an ale any night this week.

Best,

H

Part of me wondered if Prince Irin would come down from his ivory tower again.

Until the death of King Henton, he didn’t venture out in Gilamorst often unless it was at his father’s side.

I doubted he even knew where The Hanging Cat was, beyond it being in the lower streets of the city where the poor lived.

Something like mischievous glee had me snickering to myself just imagining him coming through the tavern door.

Instead of rolling the letter up into a scroll, I dribbled a puddle of wax in the bottom right corner and used the nearby letter opener to prick my pointer finger to add a drop of blood to the black liquid.

Before the wax cooled too much, I pressed the weighted seal to it, letting it set before carefully pulling the seal away to reveal my own unique insignia.

The crisp image of a bird in flight holding a wiranblood flower was revealed—similar to the Necromancy Guild's but not quite the same—along with a thin line of script in the Old Language that circled it. My blood activated the script, which pulsed with a deep violet aura before flaring to life. The paper fluttered slightly, the edged lifting on an unnatural wind, before it sprang to life and began folding in on itself with the spell’s guidance.

In a matter of seconds, a paper replica of the bird was standing on the desk, its head tilting as if it were alive.

The wax seal now sat on its small breast like a badge.

I moved to open my window, allowing the bird-shaped letter to take flight with a flutter of its wings and dart from the room. Then, I changed into more comfortable sleeping clothes and took a well-deserved nap. And I waited.

The intimate brush of someone’s coat against my arm was the first indication my invitation had been accepted.

I sat at Gaion’s bar with Jessella, who was talking about her last escort job with a Highlan’s son.

Our backs were to the door and heads bent close together to block out the raucous noise of the tavern.

“The poor man was so awkward; it seemed like he didn’t like the family gathering we had to attend. His aunts were awful! Criticizing his clothes, picking at his hair. I almost smacked one of their hands away on reflex!”

I snickered, envisioning Jessella being escorted from the party after hitting a relative. “I’m sure you would have squawked every step of the way as they booted you from the event.”

“You bet your ass I would have—”

“Lady Val Toric?”

The voice was low, but its owner was leaning close enough to catch my ear from my side opposite Jessella.

My head turned slightly to take in the guest with a critical eye, noting his very unassuming and plain brown coat with the collar popped to hide his neck and some of the jaw.

A wide-brimmed hat sat low across his brow—also not uncommon for travelers passing through—and hid the rest of his hair.

All in all, he cut a mysterious figure as he sat casually on a stool, leaning on the bar with his elbows and slowly nursing a pint of ale.

But an earth-tinted aura just barely emanated from the man, the typical appearance of a terramancer at rest.

A wide grin broke across my lips. “Yes, that’s me. You must be I.G.?”

With the lengths he was going to hide his notable appearance, I assumed Prince Irin didn’t want me blasting his name over the din of the boisterous tavern guests.

He reached his right hand covered in a supple leather glove to shake my own, which I took politely.

“I’m grateful for the opportunity to meet under… less hostile circumstances.”

That was a nice way of mentioning my little scuffle at the guild a few days ago. He was being so cute. “Trust me when I say that was not even close to hostile. All the bodies present that day remained alive.”

A disturbed laugh burst from his lips, like he surprised even himself with the sound. “Gods help anyone who makes you more angry than that, then.”

Jessella pushed into our quiet conversation from the other side. “Oh, who’s this Haron? A suitor?” she asked in a teasing sing-song voice. “Does this mean I get a break tonight?”

“Not likely, wench.” I leaned in close enough to playfully nip at her full, painted lips. “Will you come find me later tonight? Maybe bring Lota along?”

A visible shudder rocked through her delicate shoulders, even as a coy smile graced her face. She reached a manicured hand to my face—her nails were filed sharper than normal and painted a bloody red—and pinched my cheek lightly. “We’ll be in my room. Don’t make us wait too long.”

With that, Jessella slipped off her stool and turned to weave her way through the crowded tavern.

My cheek pressed firmly against my shoulder as I watched her mingle with some of the regulars, laying her dainty hands on their shoulders and leaning close to their ears when she spoke.

It was hard to take my eyes from her, admiring the deep blue dress she wore cinched in at the waist to reveal every curve it tried to cover with her dark brown curls hiding just enough of her shoulders to tease.

“Is she…a lover?”

Irin’s question pulled me from my salacious daydreaming of all the things I wanted to do to her later.

I turned my attention back to him, my lip firmly pinned between my teeth around a hungry smile.

Only his eyes and a sliver of his face were visible, but there was definitely a spark of interest in his hazel gaze.

“When she allows it,” I finally answered. “But we’re not here to talk about my sex life, are we? I was under the impression you were looking to hire me for my skills in necromancy.”

From what I could see of the tops of his cheeks, Irin blushed a pretty pink beneath that honeyed tan skin. “Of course, yes, I meant that—”