The Queen of Lies (42 page)

Heath rolled his eyes. “Maddox does have good pipes. You don’t want to encourage him, or he’ll be serenading on top of the bar.”

“Explains why he got along so well with Mother,” Jessa quipped.

“It was an interesting relationship,” Sword admitted.

“So what happened between the two of you?” Jessa asked Heath. “You obviously have a history. I don’t mean to pry too deeply if the subject is sensitive, but Mother did make known Maddox’s proclivities.”

“We had a thing. Maddox was a clingy alcoholic with a short temper,” Heath admitted. “There was a lot of passion, but it…affected my judgment. Made me unfocused. With the life Sword and I lead, that can get you killed.”

“The father of my unborn child revealed himself to be a spy for the Coral Throne,” Jessa said. “I understand the need to be vigilant in matters of the heart.”

They approached Heath’s house.

“You live here?” Jessa asked, looking at the three-story property on the intersection of two canals. It had a small lawn with well-tended rosebushes and a skinny apple tree.

“It’s modest compared to what you’re used to, I’m sure,” Heath said.

They stepped into the foyer, and Sword remembered it through Maddox’s blurry, drunken memories. It was like reading the runny ink from a book that had been soaked in bourbon. Plus every person saw things differently. Maddox needed glasses, probably as a result of his reading practice with inscription.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Heath.” Jessa marveled at the tile mosaic in the entryway. “I know assemblymen who can’t claim such well-appointed accommodations.”

The walls were adorned with artifacts and souvenirs from Heath’s adventures. There were tons of weapons (falchions, flails, and more exotic implements of death) and paintings of far-off places. Sword remembered most of them fondly.

“That’s high praise from royalty.” Heath bowed. “I’ll just be a minute upstairs. Sword, get her anything she needs.”

He retreated up the stairs.

“So do I call you Sword or Maddox? Maybe Sworddox?” Jessa asked.

“We’re not doing that. Sword’s good. It’s kind of stupid, but you know, it keeps things straight in my head.”

“Sword”—Jessa turned to him—“I never got to properly thank you for the sacrifice you made to protect my life.”

“It’s nothing,” Sword said, making his way to the dining room. “For me it’s like ripping a favorite pair of trousers. A little upsetting but easily replaced.”

“I almost took you myself,” Jessa declared suddenly. “Would you consider me the equivalent of trousers? And forgive my naïveté in these mundane matters, but can’t trousers be mended?”

“Sorry. That sounded anthrophobic. Some deaths
have
upset me; others were a huge relief. The big guy was somewhere in between. Do you prefer red or white?”

Sword waved his hand in front of the wine cabinet and withdrew a bottle from it. The cork separated itself from the neck of the bottle as it reached his hand. He drank, savoring the flavor and aroma of the newly opened bottle. Maddox’s olfactory senses were phenomenal. Sword could equate every note of fragrance to a property of the soil or a step in the aging process.

Jessa folded her arms. “How can you drink at a time like this?”

Sword peered at her. “How can you
not
? You just found out Satryn raised you to be a pawn in her scheme to topple the Protectorate. I think that qualifies.”

“Esme defeated you handily last time.” Jessa was starting to sound a little whiny, “If you impair your reflexes, you’ll stand even less of a chance.”

Sword chuckled deviously to himself. “Yeah. This is going to be a fun fight.”

Jessa shook her head. “I wish I shared your confidence. Perhaps if we show our strength, Esme will simply hand over the Thunderstone without bloodshed.”

“Sure,” he said without any hint of seriousness. He called up the stairs, “Hey, Heath! I just remembered something. I know who Evan Landry is. We don’t need the blood.”

There was no response.

“Did you hear me, Heath?” Sword’s face darkened with concern. “Hey, buddy, you okay up there?”

They waited for a moment then went up the staircase with Sword in the lead and Jessa following. He charged to the armory and saw Heath collapsed on the floor, with the vial of blood in hand. He had hit his head on the sharpening wheel in the center of the room. Sword leaned in and grabbed his face. Heath’s eyes were closed and fluttering back and forth. He smelled the faint whiff of char and sulfur. Wisps of it were coming off his eyelids.

“Harrowers,” Sword said. “It’s a psychic attack.”

“What can we do?”

“Get me a stylus. It looks like a pencil with a gem on the end of it. There’s one in the display case at the end of the hall. There’s a poisoned needle in the handle, so just smash the glass. Hurry.”

To her credit Jessa already was making her way down the hall as he was speaking. The sound of thunder and exploding glass echoed down the hall, and Jessa ran back with the stylus in hand. She tossed it to him, and he caught it midair.

The facts and theories of Maddox’s mind clicked together with memories of old magic. What he was attempting was the height of foolishness. A seal mage required familiarity with his instrument. This stylus was completely foreign to his hand; it required practice. Performing glyphomancy on the fly without the protection of a binding circle—well, that was just idiotic.

Sword started to inscribe the seal on the floor. Between Maddox’s muscle memory and the superior coordination that came from Sword’s intelligence, it was simple to create the initial circle. His arm moved with mechanical precision.

He knew the seal he wanted—Amnayleth, the Seal of Mystery. It was impossible to know what it did unless you had obtained one (or shared a body with someone who had it), and the seal’s magic preserved its mystery in a variety of unexpected ways. Fortunately it couldn’t erase the pyromaniac witch-hunter’s memory of having it. It gave you amazing, vivid dreams.

The dreams were of a secret realm filled with wonder and awe, a bountiful treasure of sensory delights to reward the endlessly curious. You could be inspired by your explorations, but you never could directly talk about them with anyone.

In ancient times seal magic was considered a basic art. There were seals for every possible purpose: to season food with thoughts, to lose weight, to restore lost hair, or even to have a larger penis. Good mysterious dreams were pretty low on the list of sought-after theurgy…until Achelon had released the Nightmares. The Seal of Mystery was the only known protection from the harrowings.

Motes of aethersprites gathered in the workshop. A few small ones. Sword whispered the words of the incantation: “
Anulia zanile sintur abradaste, Amnayleth
.”

With hot white light, the sparks of light flew to his design and the dark lines of the inscription. He slammed his hand on the inscription and placed it on his stomach, transferring the bound magic to his body. Then he placed his hands on either side of Heath’s head and shut his eyes.

Without the binding ritual and with the feeble amount of power he’d gathered, he already felt the magic of the seal start to decay.

Heath opened his eyes and let out a bloodcurdling howl. Sword fell backward in surprise. It was the kind of scream you heard in the shadowed oubliettes of the Inquisition’s prison. His eyes were hollow and charred.

Heath slapped one hand to his head and covered his ruined eye sockets. Light blasted from his hands, warm and steady. “The fuck happened?”

Sword stood. “You’re one of the only men in Creation to survive an attack from a Harrower.”

Heath pulled his hands away. His eyes were back, but they looked cloudy and half formed. He was a decent lay healer, but restoring lost body parts took a lot more Light than he could channel. He looked at Sword. “How?”

Sword grinned. “I used the seal of mystery to give you good dreams and drive off the Harrower. You’re going to forget I ever told you that in a few seconds. The seal keeps its secrets.” Some magicians went mad trying to find ways to talk about it.

Heath stood. “Fair enough. How could a Harrower have attacked me? I was awake.”

“There’s no reason it can’t happen,” Sword said. “The Harrowers are a dark aspect of the Guides, the beings that made magic possible for the First Mages. They can do whatever the fuck they want. They just normally don’t give a shit about anything unless they’re possessing or interacting with somebody.”

“I’m confused. Does this have anything to do with my mother?” Jessa inquired gently.

“It has to do with Esme, the current Razor of Setahari,” Sword said. “After we fought at Silverbrook Manor, she must have given Heath’s name to Evan Landry.”

“Who’s Evan Landry?” Jessa asked.

He looked at Heath and smiled. It felt strange to do that. Maddox didn’t smile, like ever. “You’re going to fucking love this because it’s so completely absurd. Hold on to your chamber pots because you’re going to lose your shit when I tell you.”

“Might we hurry this along?” Jessa insisted. “The thunderheads are gathering about the city.”

“The only way into or out of that cell is an elevator, which I may have irreversibly damaged. We can spare five minutes.” Sword held a finger toward her then turned back to Heath. “Remember that sketchy dude from the Mage’s Flask who was always hanging around me? He was my old friend from school. He goes by Riley, but his birth name is Evan Landry because, get this, he’s Lord Landry’s illegitimate bastard.”

Heath picked up on it right away. “And he goes by Riley because he hates his birth parents enough to have them harrowed and trash their library without checking the safe.”

“Since the harrowings started, he’s using his power to clean out rich people’s houses because he’s stupid…but, like, a genius of stupidity. Stupid people have bad ideas, but his bad ideas are so terrible they’re like an art form. He’s a maestro of incompetence.”

“My mother would say that makes him a valuable tool,” Jessa offered.

“Yes!” Sword clapped his hands. “But not for your mom, and Guides forbid those two ever meet. The Razor of Setahari is manipulating him. It loves chaos and destruction in the same way a teenage girl loves unicorns.”

“You shouldn’t joke. Unicorns are hateful menaces of Maenmarth.” Jessa shuddered.

“Find the girl, find the Thunderstone, and stop Evan Landry,” Heath said. “Not a bad day’s work. Jessa, are you up for this? We could really use your help.”

“I am.”

“I keep a wide assortment of reinforced chain mail and leather armor in that trunk over there. I never know what Sword’s going to need on short notice. Take whatever you want from the armory, and we’ll head out.”

“I’m ready now,” Jessa stated. “Stormlords don’t play with steel.”

“Me too,” Sword said. “Wizards don’t need to fuck with armor. Besides I’m immortal.”

The sound of thunder shook the house. A few throwing knives clattered off the wall. The three of them shared an uneasy glance and hurried down the steps.

T
HE PATH AHEAD
of us seems uncertain because we are always looking backward as we stumble toward destiny. The road ahead is no less certain than the one behind us.

—
The Harbinger, Traveler Proverbs

H
IS NEW EYES
stung as the rain lashed. His vision was passable, but he’d have to cut them out and heal them again properly. The memory of the nightmare faded from his thoughts, like a dream he couldn’t recall. He remembered an unending hungry abyss of fear, and even the attempt at recollection made him shudder.

Jessa walked in front; she wasn’t bothered by the rain at all. Sword levitated a stone bench from Heath’s garden in front of them to block the worst of the rain, but the wind made the rain’s direction unpredictable. The torrential downpour soaked them either way. At least it was during Whitemoon, when the rains were cool but not frigid.

He had to stay shoulder to shoulder with Sword as they walked. It brought up a host of confusing memories and feelings. He had liked Maddox’s wiry body and eager disposition, but he had found himself more attached than he’d intended, and it had been difficult to see the guy destroy himself. There wasn’t room for love in Heath’s life.

“You want a drink?” Sword asked cheerily. It was unsettling to see him carefree and smiling, holding a half-empty bottle of wine in the middle of a crisis of apocalyptic proportions. The Harbinger had said the towers would fall. Heath wouldn’t let that happen if he could, but Rivern was more than its two towers.

“You don’t have to adopt all of Maddox’s traits.”

Sword took a swig. “I used to hate the guy. But we have a lot in common. We don’t mince words, and we’re hedonists, albeit for different motivations. Plus since he had his personality sucked out by Luther, I kind of feel morally obligated to keep the party going. I like to be a good guest and accommodate my hosts.”

“Luther…How was he…?” Heath had convinced Luther he would be a valuable asset to the Inquisition on one of his first jobs. Daphne had imprisoned the man in a lightless dungeon and threatened his family to ensure his cooperation. She had used Heath to lie to a man who could read thoughts.