I shut my eyes, and a bead of sweat trickles down the side of my neck. It’s cold in the ritual hall tonight, yet anger burns hot as a bonfire in my chest. Thamaos’s last instruction had been to capture Colden Moeshka, the Frost King, and to destroy every Witch Walker living along the edge of Frostwater Wood. I did that. Save for that damned Raina Bloodgood and a handful of others.
And it wasn’t easy.
“I hadn’t the strength to last any longer, my lord. Garujo withered after the attack on Winterhold. My siphoning killed him.”
I press a hand against the dark granite altar and inhale a ragged breath. I’ve turned many people to husks in my long life, but my misery over Garujo’s death is suffocating. Though he offered his life for my survival, the loss weighs too heavy.
“The witch also had help,” I continue. “Un Drallag freed Neri so he could protect the witch from Silver Hollow. Now I have a loose god spirit to locate.”
One who supposedly wants to see me reign as emperor of these lands yet failed to offer his aid on Winter Road.
A flicker of reflected firelight snags my attention, and my gaze falls to the altar, to my grand gift. When I reach for the weapon, the entire piece—even the black-bone blade—is frigid. But at least it’s here. Surely my lord will be proud.
“Two good things did come of this,” I tell him, doing my damnedest to mask any hint of regret about the first matter. “I captured Colden Moeshka, and I learned that Raina Bloodgood had possession of your God Knife, my lord. After centuries of absence, I brought this treasure home.” I extend the blade in supplication as a question rages, one I must ask, no matter how foolish. “Did you know where the God Knife was, my lord? That the king’s collector was its Maker and Raina Bloodgood its Keeper? All this time?”
I’ve pondered this for days, if that was why he sent me to raze the valley. The only way I had known was because Garujo’s soul recognized the Summerlander magick on the blade when the witch and I fought on the village green. Seconds after she ripped the God Knife across my face, Garujo’s whisper of Keeper and all the understanding he could provide echoed through me.
A pregnant pause fills the air. For several terrible seconds, I’m certain I’ve overstepped, but nothing happens, save for an answer.
“Her father was the Keeper. The witch inherited his obligation the moment the blade returned to her family, and she grasped its hilt. When he died and his soul entered the Shadow World, I knew this time would come.”
I cannot help but wonder how, but this time, I decide against inquiring further.
“In regard to all else,” he says, “you will be rewarded for capturing the Frost King and for sacrificing Garujo. As for Neri, for now he is no matter. I will deal with him in time. Your primary concern is to prevent that Keeper from setting foot in the City of Ruin. She and Un Drallag are no doubt on their way there now. If they are allowed to interfere in our plans, my resurrection and your future as the lord of Tiressia are but a dream.”
By all the sainted Ancient Ones. That insignificant witch is forever an obstacle. Though I’m beginning to question if she’s ever been insignificant at all.
“I’ll send word to my men in Malgros, my lord. My general is en route to the coast as well.” I pause, carefully selecting my next words. “There’s an issue though. I can offer no aid in locating the Keeper. Un Drallag bound himself to the witch. Claimed her. Carved his mark upon her skin. He will protect her. Even now he shields her mind from me.”
Though I met him when he and Colden Moeshka visited my palace after King Regner died, I hadn’t known his identity. In truth, I know little about Un Drallag, only what I’ve read in history books. If he’s anything like Quezira’s scribes depict in their tales, however, I’m not confident my assassins can stand against him. Much less him and Raina Bloodgood.
Anger roils beneath my skin. How could such a revered Eastlander share his sacred power?
So foolish. So traitorous.
So fucking problematic.
A resonating breath snakes through the room. “Think, little prince. If Un Drallag is shielding her mind, his power is awakening. Take him as a source to siphon. You will require a fount of power to succeed with conquering the Summerlands. It won’t be long until Un Drallag’s magick grows strong enough to see you through any battle or war that lies ahead.”
I clench my offering hand so hard that blood flows from my sliced palm and drips to the stone floor. Take Un Drallag. The greatest sorcerer Tiressia has ever known. Feed from his power and soul.
If I can manage that, gods and men be damned.
A moment passes, and my lord continues as if he didn’t just present the most impossible yet most desirable solution.
“For your second task,” he says, “you must unearth the Fury at Un Moritra. Soon. Her value is limitless. Use her, to whatever end, so I can return to the land of the living and ensure that Tiressia is yours.”
Doubt and hesitance dominate my thoughts, as they have since this possibility was first mentioned many weeks ago. Though history holds that Fury died three centuries past, according to my lord, she’s still very much alive. Like Un Drallag, she’s a whirlwind legend I’ve only ever read about. A very deadly legend. Chained to the pits of the earth for attempting to overthrow King Gherahn’s throne after Thamaos died.
Still uncertain, I soften my voice. “My lord. I don’t possess the power to enter Un Moritra. I cannot break through your wall of runes. And Fury… After all these years in isolation, she must be mad. I need her whole, and that will be a struggle, as will convincing her to cooperate. I’ve a feeling she’s going to be rather angry.”
A low laugh rumbles from wall to wall and slithers around every massive column. I follow the sound, from the arched observation nooks along the sides of the room to the sloped rafters set into the high, mosaic ceiling. Though impossible, it feels as if Thamaos, long-dead God of the Eastern Territories, is right here.
“Un Moritra will know you,” he says. “And Fury will cooperate. Bind her with a clever deal before you free her. Offer her complete freedom in exchange for her aid. Restore her health. Then, if your men cannot rise to the task of capturing Un Drallag, Fury will. She will have no choice. Fury can see you and the Frost King safely to the Summerlands.”
The Frost King.
“My lord, you’re certain Asha’s curse doesn’t extend to Mount Ulra?” Though I know better than to show doubt, I must know. “The king won’t turn to dust if I take him there?”
