9
Wellion seethed as he watched Riann stomp away, his retreating back and shoulders stiff with anger. On the outside, he wore the same mask of ice he had taught himself to use from a young age, but on the inside, he wanted to yank Riann back and shake some sense intohim.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had turned their back on him. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’dletsomeone turn their back on him andlive.
Shaking his head, Wellion turned on his heel and headed to his own quarters. Riann wouldn’t survive long here, not with that heart of gold. His attitude would get him killed quickly enough, either by his father or one of the other bandits. He couldn’t believe he let the opinions of a do-gooder get him so riled up. When had he ever cared what others thought of him? The only way he had managed to keep his sanity was preciselybecausehe did not let the opinions and feelings of others influence hisdecisions.
And yet, as he opened the door to his chambers, he couldn’t help but wonder what his life would have been like if he had grown up in a normal society, one where parents raised their children to be upstanding citizens rather than degenerates like him. What sort of profession would he have taken? As a child, he’d spent much time watching their resident blacksmith craft armor and weapons when he could sneak away long enough to doit.
But the blacksmith had died, and his father had decided that blackmailing the local blacksmiths was better than replacing him, so that dream had died along with the only good thing in his life—his mother. Wellion pushed the pain of those memories deep down inside him, like he always did, and thought of the future. He had been born and bred to be the next bandit leader. Once his father rejoined society, which had always been his plan, he would need someone else to fulfill that role. Wellion was the only real choice. While Sallara held quite a bit of influence over the men, she was not a true leader. She was far too manipulative and petty to make balanced decisions for thegroup.
A knock on the door interrupted him just as he was about to sit in his chair and continue reading one of the tomes on warfare he had picked up during a raid last year. “What is it?” hecalled.
The door opened, and Zaric poked his head in. “Your father summonsyou.”
Wellion set the book down, then wordlessly made his way to his father’s study, where he held all private meetings. The study was one of the nicest rooms in this crumbling castle; the dark mahogany furniture gleamed in the light filtering in through the multi-paned window, the shelves were filled top to bottom with rare manuscripts—despite his criminal proclivities, his father was an avid reader—and the rug beneath his boots was soft and clean. Wellion knew his father had enough money to restore the entire keep should he wish it, which only confirmed his suspicions that once his title was restored, he fully intended to leave this placebehind.
“Lord M.” Wellion inclined his head to the noble sitting in one of the visitor chairs. He was not surprised to see him, since two of his guards had been posted outside the door. Known only by his middle initial, Lord M was a young man who held a relatively high position in Carlissian court, with a thick head of silver-blond hair and a lean body cloaked in fine but relatively simple clothing for a noble. The biggest item of extravagance he wore was the giant ruby on his pinky finger, which Wellion had to admire about the man. He did not rely on his wealth to speak for him, not that he needed to. The air of power that clung to him did the job wellenough.
“Ah, the prodigal son.” Lord M’s lips quirked briefly as he motioned for Wellion to sit down, as if they were inhisstudy rather than Lord Traize’s. “Just in time. Your father and I were just discussing this troublingdevelopment.”
“And what development would that be?” Wellion asked, keeping his expression blank as he joined them. His father poured him a glass of brandy from a crystal decanter, and though Wellion didn’t normally drink during the day, he took a swig. His stomach curled with dread, and he had a feeling that the trouble Lord M was about to tell them had something to do with Lord Raffis’s continuously delayedransom.
“It would seem that this kidnapping is not as straightforward as I had thought,” Lord M went on, settling back in his seat. “Lord Raffis’s family has refused to send the ransom, and instead has used their considerable influence to convince the king to send a regiment to smoke youout.”
“A regiment?” Wellion sat up straighter. “When wasthis?”
“A few days ago. They should be arriving any daynow.”
“We have dealt with the king’s men before,” Wellion’s father said, sounding unconcerned. He took a sip from his glass, then swirled the amber liquid. “I will give orders to have the valley locked down, and I will have my daughter strengthen our magical defenses. That has always been enough in thepast.”
“Be sure that it is,” Lord M said, a warning note in his voice. Wellion bristled inwardly at his father’s cavalier attitude, which he considered foolhardy. But he could hardly contradict him in front of Lord M. “If they discover this valley, it will mean the end of your operation, and you will have no chance of rejoining society and coming tocourt.”
“Speaking of court,” Lord Traize said, setting his glass down, “it really is time to discuss my promised reward. I have done your bidding without question these past fifteen years. It is time you arranged that marriage forme.”
“Marriage?” Wellion’s stomach dropped. “Whatmarriage?”
Lord M chuckled. “Surely you would have told your son about this by now?” He turned in his seat to face Wellion, who was having trouble hiding his dismay. “In return for your father’s steadfast loyalty, I have promised to arrange a marriage between him and Lady Sothington. She is a wealthy heiress, and with the amount of gold your father has amassed over the years, he is more than worthy of her hand. His marriage to her will be his entrance back into politesociety.”
“And found a new dynasty,” his father added. His dark eyes gleamed with hunger as he smirked at Wellion. “The Traize name will be restored to its former glory, no longer struck from the annals of Carlissianhistory.”
Wellion was stunned into silence. Part of him hoped that the two of them were jesting, but he had inherited the ability to detect lies from his mother, and none of what either man said had rung false. Bitterness coated his tongue as he realized that he would never be part of the legacy his father created, but he did his best to bury his emotions, as he alwayshad.
“It sounds like you are about to get everything you want, Father,” he said blandly. “Providing that we can successfully repel the soldiers marching onus.”
Lord Traize’s face tightened in annoyance. “I already told you, they won’t be a problem,” he snapped. “Even before your sister, and your mother before her, were here to fortify our defenses with magic, this valley has held. No man has ever been able to breachit.”
“Yes, your family has defended it most impressively,” Lord M agreed, but there was a bite of impatience to his tone as he rose from his chair. “I must be on my way now—I cannot be seen near these lands when the soldiers arrive. Send word as soon as you have dealt with the problem, and I will arrange that marriage, aspromised.”
“As you wish. Wellion, could you escort Lord Mout?”
“Certainly,” Wellion said. He walked Lord M to the door, then handed him off to the guards waiting outside. “Safetravels.”
He waited until the footsteps outside had retreated, then rounded on his father. “When were you going to tell us about this arranged marriage?” he spat, his cheeks heating with anger. “Any time soon? Or on the day of the wedding? No, of course not the wedding,” Wellion added as his father opened his mouth to answer. “Sallara and I are not important enough to merit an invitation, arewe?”
“Sit down, boy,” his father barked. Wellion clenched his jaw, but he remained where he was, clasping his forearms behind his back. “Of course I was going to tell you and your sister, when the time was right. And you are correct—I cannot give either of you invitations. What kind of husband would I be, inviting known criminals to ournuptials?”
“I am yourson,” Wellion bit out. “Sallara is your daughter. Does that meannothing?”
