Bloodleaf (Bloodleaf 1)

“Oh, that.” He knelt next to the fire and pointed above his head. “That’s just ol’ Gilroy.”

I cast my eyes upward to see an iron cage creaking high above our heads, chained to a hook on the wall’s battlements. A gibbet. And inside, a jumble of bones and moldering flesh that had once been a man. My stomach heaved painfully, too empty to yield any relief by retching.

“Gilroy was a friend of mine,” Ray said, giving the remains a deferential tip of his cap. A ghostly face peered out from between the bars, returning a salute that Ray would never see. “Got on the wrong side of His Majesty. Beat him fair and square in a card game. Next thing any of us knows . . .” He drew his thumb across his neck. “Gilroy kind of deserved it, though. He should never have gone to the Stein and Flagon. It’s Domhnall’s favorite whorehouse; everyone knows that. And he definitely shouldn’t have sat down to a card game with the brute, no matter how slobbering drunk he was. But nobody ever accused Gilroy of being a genius.”

Gilroy’s ghost made a crude hand gesture at him from the confines of his cage above.

“Oh, well,” Ray said. “At least with Gilroy around, nobody tries to encroach on my territory. And he serves as a good reminder.”

I still had my hand over my nose. “Of what?”

“Of the fragility of existence, of course. And that King Domhnall is a bastard who reacts to losing a game of cards by executing the winner and then immediately issuing a decree banning cards altogether.” He stood and shoved a bowl of something into my hands. “There. Eat up.”

The soup was little more than tepid water and a few bobbing chunks of what might have been vegetables once. “Thank you,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster, and led Falada to the rickety stall.

At least the straw was relatively clean, as Raymond promised. I took a few sips from the bowl and let Falada have the rest as I ran my hands over her white flanks. “That’s a good girl,” I murmured. “You have served me so well. Kellan would be proud of you.”

The sound of his name aloud struck like a dagger in my heart, and I finally succumbed to the grim cocktail of exhaustion, rage, and bitter grief. With my back to Achlev’s Wall, I sank into the straw, buried my face in my knees, and closed my eyes.

Part Two

Achleva

11

It was still dark when I woke to the sound of voices outside the stall. The first belonged to Raymond Thackery, but the second was younger, clearer.

“She’s real pretty, I tell you what,” Ray was saying. “A little bit bedraggled and dirty, but real pretty. Long hair, nice legs. A little skinny for my tastes, but probably a decent ride, I’d say.”

“I want to see her before I pay you a thing, Thackery.”

“I know your tastes, Zan. She’s exactly what you’re looking for, I swear.”

I cast around in the dark for something—?anything—?I might possibly use to defend myself, eventually prying one of the knobby sticks from the wall with a prayer that its removal wouldn’t bring

the whole structure down on top of us. When the door of the stable opened, I was blinded by the glare of a lantern.

“Not an inch closer!” I raised my stick, squinting into the light. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

“You? You think he’s here for you?” Ray burst into hooting laughter. The other person, the man he’d called Zan, lowered the lamp until his face was bathed in the yellow light, and I was startled at the sight of him. Simon? I thought. How could—?

But it wasn’t Simon, of course. This man was taller, younger . . . probably only a few years older than I was, twenty-one or twenty-two at the most. His eyes were not brown but green, and his face was leaner. He was less well kept, too; his dark hair was ruffled and windswept, long enough to brush the collar of his leather jacket and the loose linen shirt underneath. But despite that, his clothes were well made, like Simon’s—?the work of a skilled tailor. And perhaps most telling of all, he wore a ring in the shape of a raven, wings outstretched. The Silvis signet, I was sure of it.

He cocked his head, eyebrow raised. “You can put your . . . uh, weapon . . . down,” he said. “It’s not you I’m here for.” He looked meaningfully at Falada.

“I already told him, she’s not for sale.”

He turned to Ray. “Can you give us a minute?”

Ray nodded and walked away, still snickering to himself.

“All right, let’s skip all the simpering and sighing. I am purchasing your Empyrean, and I will pay whatever you ask. I’m not in the mind to negotiate; simply tell me your price and we can get on with it.” The young man took out a pouch, heavy with coins, and waited for my response.

“There is no price,” I said through gritted teeth. “She is not for sale.”

“Really?” He put his coins away. “How long has it been since you had something to eat?”

I lowered my stick just a little.