“This a vile thing born of the Crimson Usurper and his death mages,” Ciste said. “It is made with blood and suffering, and it’s been outlawed for three hundred years.”
Three hundred forty years ago, a usurper mage claimed the throne of the Crimson Empire and unleashed a cult of his death mages on the continent. He reigned for almost three decades, bringing war, slavery, and mass sacrifices everywhere he went until he invaded Rellas, and his legions fell before the meat grinder of Rellasian knights. In the final battle, Romel Savaric sang his way through the Usurper’s sorcery and personally cut off the dictator’s head. The Crimson Empire recoiled, Rellas gained a new ruling dynasty, and owning human beings was outlawed in both countries, which made it illegal on the majority of the continent.
The mage stared at us, his dark eyes unreadable. “Should you be found with it, you will be stripped of your name, your lands will be forfeit, and you will be exiled.”
The fractured pieces of an idea that had been floating in my head snapped together.
“What if someone has more than one?” I asked.
“Death.”
Perfect.
This could work. It was a reckless plan that hinged on me being able to read Sareso correctly, and that was a massive, hugeif. If I failed . . . It didn’t matter. I had to succeed because we were out of options.
“Last question,” I said. “Why does it push me away when I try to touch it?”
“You have too much magic. It seeks to protect you from harm, so it warns you not to hurt yourself.”
“Thank you,” I said.
The mage rose and walked away without another word.
Everard and Solentine got up at the same time.
“We’re leaving,” Everard said under his breath.
“The sooner, the better,” Solentine muttered.
Three minutes later we were in the carriage, rolling away from the Garden plaza.
Solentine pulled the coif off his face. “Is there no low Hreban won’t sink to?”
“Apparently not,” Everard said.
“I have to go to the harbor,” I said.
The two of them turned to me.
“Hreban’s grandfather was an evil, hard son of a bitch, and he had high hopes for his grandson. Ulmar grew up by his desk, and from the time he was a toddler, Ulmar saw people fawn, bow, and scrape before his grandfather, while their hearts brimmed with contempt and hate. Ulmar doesn’t trust people. He trusts signatures. He is compulsive about putting things in writing, because his grandfather taught him that people lie, but once you have their signature, you have them in your grasp.”
I pointed at the contract. “This is irresistible to him. A foolproof way to ensure that he isn’t betrayed. These contracts can’t be easy to get, and they don’t come cheap. The mercenaries on Otrade’s crew wouldn’t have lived long anyway and if they were caught, even if they implicated Hreban, their word doesn’t matter without proof.”
“And yet he wasted a contract on Tillmar,” Everard said.
“He can’t help himself,” I said. “Knowing that he holds the power over their lives in his hand and he can snuff them out at will keeps him warm at night. This is what he lives for. Silveren would never sign one of these, but . . .”
“The Butcher might have,” Solentine said. “His magical talent was minor. Even if he felt the pressure of the spell, he wouldn’t know what he was signing.”
“So there’s a contract out there that has Hreban’s name, the Butcher’s, and the Sun Margrave’s,” I said.
“If this is exposed, nothing will save Hreban,” Everard said. “Sauven is desperate to reinforce the support for his bloodline. His dynasty was founded on killing an enslaver. Sauven will not miss the opportunity to do the same.”
“And he will make it as public as possible,” Solentine agreed. “Especially since Colart Jenicor is the target. It will be the loudest trial since they convicted Ralinbor’s wife.”
I faced Everard. “This is it. This is how we stop him. We expose this, and the whole of Rellas will rise to bring him down.”
“But to do that, we need the contracts,” Everard said.
