Roth Vi-Garran looked out across the sprawling citadel from the same window through which Juda had been climbing since his twelfth moon.
A dull pain had been bothering his eye sockets, pulsing over the bridge of his nose and between his brows since he'd awoken this morntide and no amount of pepper root could shift it. He was considering a flask of wine to help lessen the pain, but he'd been drinking more often of late, and the thread veins on his cheeks were thickening, as his father's had before the grog soured his organs and took his body to the grave.
The weather had taken a decidedly hostile turn. The Setalah was churning in the bay, high waves threatening to engulf the shoreline, their poison hungry for anyone who strayed too close. By eventide, the rain would sweep across the sea and batter Druvaria, as if it sought to carve the names of all who had perished here into the black rock.
As he stared at the distant waters, Roth wondered what her name would look like, etched into the cliffside, each letter like a scar upon his blackened heart. He remembered how soft it had sounded on his tongue when he'd whispered it. How it rasped like blades in his throat when he screamed it from his nightmares.
It was no good. He needed a drink, the stronger the better. Maybe some of the Dreynian imported stock would do. It had a harsher, puckery taste and left his mouth dry and wanting, but it would put him to sleep at least, deep enough to chase away the dark dreams that tortured him so and deaden the pain in his head.
He was about to make the journey to the wine cellar, deep inside the Library, when the door creaked behind him, a shriek of oil-hungry hinge and old wood.
Roth was well known for his sharp hearing, his senses fine-tuned from his many moons in the Order. It was rare for anyone to approach his study without the slightest sounds of their step reaching his ears, which is how he knew instinctively that the person now at his door was Lord Dageor.
The High Priest of Druvari possessed a step so light, that it was whispered among those who feared him – which by all accounts was most people - that he was more wraith than man. Roth had no doubt that if Dageor was to be met along one of the gloom-drenched narrow halls of the Citadel Vaults, he would be mistaken for one of the many ghosts rumoured to linger here and freeze the heart greater than all of the ghouls banded together.
He did not freeze Roth's heart – only his nightmares did that – but that did not mean he welcomed his presence, any more than he did the ghosts.
He turned to face him; his expression impassive.
'By Ban-Keren, Special Commander Vi-Garran,' Lord Dageor said from the doorway.
His long black cloak was fastened from collar to hem, reaching almost to his ankles and, as always, the distinctive gold medallion of the Druvari sect hung from his neck, a weighty reminder of his dark vows and his authority. His shaven skull was adorned with more ink than when Roth had last seen him, the bruised purple script now reaching his temples in swirls that looked as if they would come alive and writhe like tiny serpents across his flesh.
'By Ban-Keren, my Lord Dageor,' Roth replied stiffly, with a slight incline of his head. 'Although I must respectfully remind you, I am no longer a Commander of the sacred Order. I am now but the King's Master Librarian and I leave my former rank to one far more worthy than I.'
Dageor's mouth curled into a beatific smile. 'Indeed. Old habits, you understand?'
Old habits, my arse. Roth knew full well that Dageor sought only to remind him that his time as Special Commander of the King's Elite Guard was long dead and that he had no right to accept the rank addressed in the priest's greeting. It was typical of the sly bastard. He could crush a man with his words, harder than any Highguard could crush bones under his boot, but Roth was used to this. It was an endless game the dark priest liked to play, and Roth was gladdened to be somewhat free of it these tides – until now, it seemed.
'It is a rare tide to see you grace the Citadel Vaults, my Lord,' Roth said. 'Is there something I can assist you with? Something that you seek?'
Dageor clasped his pale, bony hands together. 'I am here on King's business.'
Roth raised a brow, his insides knotting. 'King's business? May I then ask why not summon me to the palace?'
Dageor took a step forward into the room. 'My noble Vi-Garran, I am certain you would not wish me to summon you, for that would then be within an official capacity.'
'The King's business is always official, my Lord.'
'Quite.' Dageor's tone sharpened. 'But not all of the King's business needs to be recorded by the scribes, just to end up on scrolls that will gather dust in the Citdael Vaults, which, I believe, was something you yourself protested about to His Most Exalted on your last audience with him.' He smiled again. 'The King is most generous to the needs of his noble Master Librarian, and former Special Commander, hence why I am here and you are not at the palace.'
Roth bowed his head. 'Then your inconvenience is truly my honour, my Lord.'
'I am sure.' Dageor hovered closer to the edge of Roth's desk, casting his hooded gaze over the chaos of tomes and scrolls that remained stacked there. 'I wish to converse with you on your ward, my noble Vi-Garran. The novice who goes by the name of Juda Vikaris.'
Roth's black heart jolted into life. 'What of him?'
Dageor pulled a book towards him, casually drawing back the cover, his long fingernails raking at the pages. 'As you know, it is my obligation and duty as High Priest of Druvari and the King's most trusted aide, to keep an ever-watchful eye on the development of all the novices within the Order. Commander Grim does the most excellent job in priming our Druvarian sons to honour His Most Exalted with their service, but it has to be said, The Grim lacks a certain bias, shall we say, for the noble heirs.'
'What do you expect, Lord Dageor?' Roth shrugged. 'The Grim was dragged up on the condemned streets of Grimefell. He cut his teeth on the black rock itself and was hardened not in the training yard, but by the heat and hammer of his father's forge, before he ever stepped foot inside the bloody square itself. He has no love for the nobles, for it was the nobles who would have thrust his face into the fire to ensure he never became a novice. That said, you will find none better than The Grim to fashion steel out of silk.'
'Yes, yes, I am aware,' Dageor said. 'However, there are some who say that his humble beginnings favour those rare creatures who find themselves honoured, not with a pitiful existence in the slums, but with a life of duty to the King himself.' He paused, his steady gaze resting on Roth. 'I am sure you must have heard of the unfortunate end of Shipmaster Bo-Dreven's son in the training yard?'
Roth said nothing. No one knew of Juda's visits to Roth's tower here in the Citadel Vaults. Novices were to have no contact with their family or guardians once they had taken their vows to serve only the King. A necessity, they said. Ban-Keren was to be their only father. Their only thought. The one true beat of whatever was left of their hearts.
'A most masterful spectacle, my Lord Vi-Garran,' Dageor said, the cold vigour glinting in his dead eyes for the first time since entering Roth's study. 'Glad timing it was that I should be there to witness his demise at the hands of your ward.' His thin brow dropped, fake compassion tugging on his forehead. 'Of course, it has encouraged outrage from Shipmaster Bo-Dreven and a fire he now stokes within the bellies of the other noble families. That a slum rat could best the Bo-Dreven boy!'
Roth swallowed, a faint rhythm of panic swirling in his chest. 'They wish to see the lad expelled from the Order?'
'They wish to see him at the bottom of the Setalah and make no mistake.' Dageor sniffed and closed the cover of the book, scratching his fingernail over the etched words. 'However, I confess, I am impressed, my noble Vi-Garran, and it is a rarity for me to say such a thing as it is for me to endure the dust and mites of the Library hallways. I will be open with you, my old friend.'
It took everything Roth had not to wince. They were not friends and never had been. Roth would have thrown himself from this very tower if ever it had been true. Dageor possessed neither the ability nor the inclination to form a friendship even with the darkest of souls. He was the black flamed candle that illuminated the King's palace and all that wandered helplessly into his sickly light were utterly consumed by it.
'Say what you will, my Lord.'
Dageor clasped his hands together once more, his full attention now on Roth. 'There is a softness within the nobles, a softness that displeases me. The sons of Druvaria are growing weak, fattened by the whims and fancies of their mothers and fathers. First, Luca-Zar-Kuron, the gold merchant's son is bested in Grimefell, no doubt set upon by the slum gangs, and now Terrick Bo-Dreven falls far too easily within the bloody square. There is much unrest afoot, and we must be prepared for the dark road ahead. With our most recent recruits to the Order, my concern is that we are not. The purpose of the trials, as you know, has always been to wheedle out the feeble, the weak-blooded, the fragile-boned, and yet even those who succeed, only do so because their opponent is marginally inferior than they.'
Roth frowned. 'And what has this to do with Juda?'
Lord Dageor was still, and yet Roth couldn't help but feel as if the serpent was about to strike.
'I saw something in the training yard that tide. Something that aroused my interest greatly. The novice possesses an air about him of which I have not seen since his guardian was Special Commander of the King's Elite Guard. I had assumed that perhaps you had instructed your ward well, my noble Vi-Garran, however Commander Grim seems to think that the child's peculiarities had caused you much trouble in his youth.'
His gaze swallowed Roth whole, creeping over his skin as if it sought the very marrow from his bones. 'He even suggested that you were frightened of the boy and had attempted to persuade him to accept Vikaris into the Order at a younger age than is permitted.'
The growl erupted in Roth's throat. 'Frightened? Of a boy? My Lord...'
Dageor dismissed his anger with an impatient wave of his hand. 'Yes, yes, that is exactly what I said to Commander Grim. The Roth Vi-Garran I know does not scare so easily. To face the King's foes with such steadfast resolve and brutal dedication, as you did, well...' He smiled thinly, the ice seeping from every pore. 'The King does not forget your service to the throne. Everything that you did. The lengths to which you went. It was quite remarkable to behold.'
Roth saw it then. Saw them. Saw her. They stood in front of him as real as Dageor himself. Death scratched along his collarbone with poison-tipped talons.
'I thank you, my Lord.'
'Indeed.' Dageor brushed past him to the window.
Roth wondered, if he pushed the priest's face through the glass, would the jagged shards blind him? He'd rather the bastard saw the Setalah as it rushed to meet his flailing body in his fall from the tower. It would be only fitting that he could behold the waters as they reached for him, sucking his flesh down to rot in the depths of their hold.
'There is a black vein running through the novice, Vi-Garran, as black as the Druvarian rock itself.' He did not look at Roth as he spoke, his gaze piercing deep down into Grimefell. 'His skills with the double-bladed scimitar are exceptional. His assessment of his opponent's weaknesses is second to none. Now, if he can curb that which allows him to be distracted, I am certain that he could rise through the ranks of the Elite Guard, maybe even to rival that of his own guardian. Commander Grim evaluates much the same.'
Roth steadied his breathing and fought to dullen the frantic pulse of blood that rushed to his head. 'I am much gladdened to hear it, my Lord. I have always thought Juda to be worthy.'
'I am sure.' Dageor glanced at him. 'It must be most gratifying. Although, recent events pose a great problem.
'How so, my Lord?'
Dageor wiped at one of the small circular panes of glass, examining his fingers, his mouth twisting into a grimace. 'There is a rot in the slums, Vi-Garran. A festering seed of dissent that has been allowed to grow for far too long. It's roots reach to the very edges of Grimefell and if we do not stop them, they will seek purchase on the rest of the citadel. While I am displeased with the stock of heirs the Order inherits from the nobles, I too must be wary of any novices that find their way into the King's Guard through other means. No one should be above suspicion, do you not agree, my friend?'
He looked directly at Roth and held out his hand, palm facing upwards. Grey smudges of grease and dust streaked his fingertips. Roth paused a moment, the instruction in the other man's stare as evident as it was irritating. By the dead gods, he fucking despised this creature.
Reaching for a cloth on his desk, he handed it to the priest with a strained smile. 'Of course.'
'I am pleased. Which is why I have decided to reinstate The Trial of Sin-Sabre for all those to be advanced to the King's Elite Guard.'
Wiping his fingers, Dageor handed back the cloth. It fell from Roth's grasp, his hands rendered too numb to take it.
Roth opened his mouth to speak, his voice hoarse with a shock he knew he'd have a job to conceal from the ever-watchful priest.
'My Lord, Sin-Sabre has not been carried out since...'
'Since the time of your predecessor, Special Commander Alterus Vi-Garran himself. Yes, I am aware, my noble friend.'
The Trial of Sin-Sabre. Roth did not want to believe that Dageor meant for this, but he knew in his soul that he did. He could see it, the blackened flame flickering in the dark priest's eyes. He knew he risked much to speak out, but he could not stop himself. This was an unthinkable, abhorrent move and he could not allow Juda to be exposed to it.
'My Lord, the trial was eliminated because the success rate was called into question by the highest authority. Too many novices were damaged irreparably by it. Good men. Strong, skilled men reduced to nothing but drivelling babes, their minds dissolved, their sanity destroyed. Alterus, my own father, saw this for himself.'
Dageor raised one, thin brow. 'And yet, he succeeded unscathed, did he not?'
'That he did, my Lord,' Roth replied. 'But not without great loss. Novices who had climbed the ranks with him, all worthy contenders to the King's Guard, were ruined by the trial. They never recovered.'
'Then I would suggest they were not worthy at all,' Dageor snapped. 'The whole purpose of the trial is merely an extension of the one in which the novices partake in the bloody square. The Grim tests their bodies. Sin-Sabre will test their minds. I would hope that you agree, in these difficult times, my noble Vi-Garran, that loyalty to our King is of the utmostimportance. If we put their physical prowess to the ultimate test, it only stands to reason, that we must do the same to their mental prowess. This way, we can wheedle out the truly weak, and of course, the traitors. As for the highest authority, as you say, there is none higher than Ban-Keren himself, and His Most Exalted wishes to reinstate The Trial of Sin-Sabre with immediate effect.'
Then it was done and there was nothing Roth could do.
If they were to proceed with their plans, Juda would have no choice but to endure the King's trial. It was bad enough to see the creature that Juda was becoming, but Roth could not lose him completely. He would not lose him. Not like that.
'Very well,' he said. 'By Ban-Keren's will.'
Dageor's graze drifted down to where the cloth lay draped over his foot, and then looked back at Roth.
With the iron cage around his heart, now battered and broken, Roth gritted his teeth and bent down to retrieve the cloth, wishing with all his blood, he could drive his dagger through the priest's throat and finally be done with it.
When he rose, he met the priest's stare with his own.
Lord Dageor's sickly light consumed him.
'Indeed,' he replied. 'By Ban-Keren's will. I am so very glad we understand each other, Master Librarian.'