“My ambition, sire?” My usually dead, calm heart thumps alive.
“The mark of a true vampire. Surely you aim to seeyourselfin your master’s former position, now that he’s dead?”
My head shakes on its own volition. It’s almost as if he can read right through me, the way he’s talking, and doesn’t believe a thing I’ve said. “I wish for no such thing, my lord,” I say morosely, adding another bow for good measure. “I only seek to serve the Five Ministries.”
His curled lip turns into a full smirk, crinkling the jagged scar across his cheek. He doesn’t even try to hide it, his disdain, the silver-tinged understanding in his eyes. “How nobleblooded of you. To out your master like this, I suppose your . . .loyalty . . .is appreciated even more than the goodness of your blackened heart, fullblood.”
“As you say, sire.”
“It is the way of the world we live in for thralls to kill their masters. I see nothing wrong with this outcome.”
With Aramastun’s judgment rendered, and the other two Ministers staring at me gravely from their seats, the Night Judge says, “You are free to go, Vallan Stellos. I must consult the remaining two Ministers in private, following this unfortunate evening.”
With that, I leave. My blood hums, feeling like the Night Judge is still crawling inside it.
Because I know, with certainty, that Aramastun Wyvox sees my scheme to end Barnabac for what it is.
And I can only fear what the Night Judge will do next.
Chapter 48
Sephania
After three long, agonizing evenings pass, I’m starting to pull my hair out staying put at Manor Marquin. I’ve promised Skartovius I would give things time to play out, though he’s said little about what that means.
I simply have to trust Lord Ashfen. And I do. I know he has my best interests at heart. He also knows I would never forgive him if the worst happened to my mother and there was a way we could have stopped it.
The fact is, I feel helpless. Alacine Mortis may have lost the battle at the Firehold, but she is winning the war. While we were so focused on defending the Grimsons, she managed to swoop in and steal my mother from me, as well as any knowledge she might have about the silverblood concoction Jinneth and Old Endolf were working on. Slaying the old alchemist was catastrophic because it will set us back from our mission.
The trust I’m affording Skar cannot be extended to Vallan, unfortunately. Not after what Garroway told us about following Vall into the Military Ward with one of his charmed animals.
Vall being a possible turncoat is the other half of my anxiety, even though it shouldn’t be. I keep coming back to his foreboding words early on:“You can’t trust a monster born in the dark.”
He was telling me, directly, what he was. That he couldn’t be trusted.So why have all his actions following that statement been antithetical to that warning?I wonder. When I’ve neededa protector, he has been there—usuallyfirstbefore anyone because of his innate bloodsight that notifies him when I’m in danger.
He’s fought for me on numerous occasions, saved me from assassins, always with a stark grunt to follow. Vallan has never wished for accolades, never taken pride in what he does. Yet he has pushed Skar’s mission as much as anyone, doing the nobleblood’s tasks without question, killing when needed.
Vallan even went to the sinister Faith Ward without telling anyone other than Garroway, and killed countless people of his own kind because he thought it would make me happy and was the right thing to do for Sister Cyprilis.
His actions to not belie the mark of a traitor.
And yet, I can’t look past it. The fact remains Garroway followed him into the Military Ward, home of our enemy, Barnabac Craxon.
I ask Skar and Garro to expand on that on the second night alone with them in Manor Marquin. We’re walking through the halls, headed for the lower level jail cells, doing the usual inspection we’ve started doing ever since Lukain came here and attacked Skar.
“Are we sure Vallan would betray us to this Barnabac character?” I ask. “He’s hardly ever spoken of him to me.”
“By design, little temptress,” Skar tells me. His face has been lined with grave concern and anger ever since Garroway dropped the news three nights ago. “Barnabac Craxon is Vallan’s master. The man responsible for turning him. Bloodthralls are in the unique position of being at the mercy of their masters.”
“I can attest to that,” Garroway mutters from my other side, giving Skar a sidelong scowl.
“When Barnabac calls, if the pressure is great enough, Vallan isforcedto follow. The fact our big brute disappeared so soonafter our joint defenses of the Firehold and Manor Marquin tells me he received a coercive call from his master.”
“Well, if it’s coercive . . . then he can’t be blamed for it, no?” There’s hope in my voice.
Lord Ashfen frowns. “He can’t be blamed for arriving at Castle Galfeld, no. Hecanbe blamed for what he says at Castle Galfeld, and what actions he takes on Overlord Barnabac’s behalf. If we didn’t place blame where it is deserved, love, we would never get anything done around here. Nothing would ever be settled, because a vampire could always fall back on the bloodbond to his or her master.”
Skartovius is nothing if not a knowledgeable teacher on the subjects of vampirism—the only bloodsucker I’ve ever seen with stacks of books in his study. I have to take him at his word. What he’s saying makes sense, anyway: We can’t minimize Vallan’s fall into betrayal simply because his master tells him to do something against us. Whatever Vall does is still Vall’s fault.
