CHAPTER 52

The morning greets me with an overcast sky and a dull pain climbing up my arm. I sit up, groggy, alarmed, until memory comes charging back through the fog of dreams.

Lysander’s place. Hollow House. Right.

I’m still lying in bed in a stupor of pain and sleep when I hear steps in the hallway outside. I barely have time to pull up the covers before the door flies open and reveals Amelia standing there, dark circles under her eyes but not a hint of relenting despite them. I tried to think of the events of last night as a dream, but Amelia’s face speaks to its veracity.

“Gonna laze about all day, are we, your highness?”

I look outside. It can’t be much later than six.

“I just—”

“Sur you did. Now get dressed,” she slaps a neat little pile of clothes on a cupboard. “And come down for breakfast. We need to get you properly fed before the excitement.”

Amelia closes the door as she leaves, abandoning me with a question burning in my lips.

Excitement?

Part of Lysander’s plans for me, I’m sure. The situation puts me in mind of the days before my departure from Reach. Medrein also tried to work me down to the bone before I managed to make my escape.

Amelia walks in front of the door, muttering to herself, and a shiver courses over me. I remember the shadows outside. The bodies moving at Amelia’s whim, an ocean of darkness which mixes with my nightmares to form something much more monstruous.

Could she really have defeated Valkas’ bodyguard?

My new clothes are nothing like Lysander’s garish outfits, thank the gods. I’m surprised, in fact. They’re a lightweight but tough, thick fabric, seemingly practical above all. Workman’s clothes. Putting them on is a challenge that I overcome slowly, but one I’m determined to master. The lack of a hand can’t stand in the way of going after Katha, from finding out what happened to Rev.

All I need is a plan.

I stop at the window before abandoning the room. The courtyard outside is a wide space encircled on three sides by the house itself. What I’ve been calling a house, at least, since ‘manor’ or ‘palace’ seem better descriptors. There are stables to the left of my window and the rest of the L shape is devoted to the house itself. A lane leads up from a forest, circles the tree that stands proud in the center of the courtyard, and leads back down and away.

There isn’t a sign of the fight that took place yesterday. The courtyard is clean, washed by yesterday’s wind and smatterings of rain.

The corridor outside is quiet, my steps muffled by the thick rugs. There are paintings everywhere up on the walls. Stern unknowns look down at me from thrones and from atop horses, interspersed with heroic battles and tragic deaths. None of them are familiar to me. The one object that traps my attention is curiously detached from the general décor. It’s a wooden shield shaped like a leaf and embossed with the stylized design of a dragon’s head. Its eyes shine with rough-cut emeralds and two long horns curl behind its head. Two spears lie crossed behind the shield, with short handles but with long, sharp blades, almost sword-ish.

A sudden scent reaches my nose, wafting from downstairs. It smells like food and warmth. My growling stomach quickly washes away any worries about the objects on the wall. Down a flight of stairs I find a similar corridor to the one above leading into a large vestibule and a grand main door. I follow my nose, and soon my ears, to the smells and bustle of the kitchen, where I find Amelia alone and a plate piled with food in front of an empty seat.

“There you are,” she says without turning from stirring something inside a large pot. “Finally among the living.”

“Good morning,” I say cautiously. I peer into the corners of the room, half expecting to see a shade lying in wait for its mistress’s orders.

“Hadn’t noticed,” Amelia responds. “Now sit down and eat up. We’ll be starting as soon as I’m done with this.”

“Starting what?” I ask. “Where’s Lysander?”

Amelia finally turns back, fixing her dark eyes on me. I find myself sitting down and dutifully sticking a strip of bacon in my mouth. After that, Amelia doesn’t need to deflect any questions. All I can think about is the delicious meal in front of me, hearty stuff fit for a king.

A tiny bell rings in a room adjacent to the kitchen. Someone comes in, stamping their boots to clean off the worst of what’s clinging to them. Amelia tenses, turning her head a little without ever ceasing to stir.

“Amelia?” calls a man’s voice.

The housekeeper relaxes immediately with a shake of her head.

“In here, Gedden. Should have known it was you. Delos never fails to trail mud into my clean floors whenever he gets the chance.”

The door connecting the two rooms opens and a young man walks in dressed in a large blue coat open at the front. I pause, a third rasher of bacon halfway to my mouth, as our eyes meet with a flash of recognition. This is the man I first evaded in Black Sword Keep, the one who came to check up on me. However, all he does is smile, wink, and give Amelia a peck on the cheek.

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“Dazzling as always.”

“And you’re still a shameless liar,” Amelia answers without hiding the humor in her voice. “Sit down and I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Sit down I will,” he says. “But I’d rather you skipped breakfast and found me some strong tea. Is the boss home?”

“Not yet.”

Gedden takes the chair in front of mine and sits down, observing me with unashamed curiosity.

“That was a fine trick you pulled yesterday,” he says. “It got a lot of things in motion, what you did. Do you know that?”

“Like what?”

Gedden opens his mouth but Amelia touches his shoulder before he can answer. His smile only grows.

“Ah, nice one. Almost got me to disclose state secrets. Sorry. My mouth is a tomb.”

“Ransacked and plundered of all it’s worth,” Amelia mutters, putting a steaming cup in front of him. “Drink up and cease your nonsense, Ged.”

Silent minutes roll in while I finish my meal and Ged blows softly on his drink. I can tell from his fidgety eyes that Gedden is the sort of person who grows uncomfortable in silences. All it takes him is an excuse, a gulp of his drink, a disappointed face, and:

“Ah, I love it here, Malco. I really do. But it’s a shame we never got coffee right.”

“What’s coffee?”

“The drink of the gods,” he sighs wistfully, looking at his mug with longing before his eyes snap back up at me. “How d’you do it? Just between us. I had you manacled and you were missing a hand. I thought I’d covered my bases without nailing you to the wall.”

“Picked the lock.”

He scoffs. “With what? There was nothing to—” Ged’s eyes widen in understanding. He slaps his forehead. “The nails. Delos’ goddamn stupid nails. He was afraid a Rogue was gonna try and come through the window! Oh, the bastard is gonna pay.” He shakes his head and takes another suffering gulp of his tea. “So, Rogue, right? Or something rogue-ish, at least.”

I go to answer that yes, the Archetype has given me Rogue perks, but my tongue freezes up before I can. I frown, try again, but nothing comes out. It’s just like yesterday, when I tried to tell Lysander about how the Inquisitor’s focus was Secrets and choked. After a couple more increasingly frustrating tries, Gedden slaps the table and gives a sharp, loud laugh.

“Sorry, kid. I’m messing with you.”

Amelia smacks the back of his head and turns to me, a surprisingly affectionate expression on her face.

“There’s a geas, Malco, a magical prohibition. You can’t talk about this stuff unless it’s with people that have gone through it already. Definitely not the likes of Gedden.”

“Hey! I’ll be one of you in time. Just you wait.”

The way he says it means something.

“You’re Godtouched?”

He smiles sheepishly.

“I am indeed.”

I try a variety of answers in my head, but none feel right.

“Couldn’t tell.”

“See?” he turns to Amelia. “I’m halfway there already. All we need is the—”

Another smack to the head stops him from continuing.

“If you’re like this around Valkas I don’t have much hope for the future. Drink!”

Gedden is Godtouched?

The confidence is certainly there, but for all his extravagance Gedden seems to belong in the room and in the world in ways no Godtouched I ever met does. I’m sudden wary of him, even as he sips his tea quietly and smirks to himself, like an apparently amiable wild animal that could nevertheless go into a frenzy without the slightest notice.

But he is amiable, I give him that. For the better part of an hour he directs the conversation, telling us how the night at Black Sword Keep progressed after Lysander magicked us away. It wasn’t pretty, apparently. No one wanted to discuss the fact that the Black Sword Keep’s Challenger – the titan-woman I’d seen fighting the lightningwielder – had lost, which meant that dinner talk mostly centered around my embarrassing escape.

“When you stumbled out of the dungeon, Lysander managed to teleport you into that hiding place with a lot less fuss than this. Valkas had half his people looking for you in the city, the other half quashing rumors that a Challenger had escaped after beating the dungeon. And then to have you reappear under his nose, having what was to be his big triumph spoiled… I hardly need to say it, but yesterday he was fuming. I think he might do something dire soon.”

“He already did,” Amelia says. “Some of his lackeys paid us a visit yesterday.”

From Gedden’s expression, I gather that this is both surprising and worrying information.

“Are you serious? The old Valkas knock?” Noticing my confusion, Gedden’s smile widens and he leans in to whisper, “Two in the front, one in the back.

“Aye,” Amelia says, oblivious. “The brute of a bodyguard of his, the captain of the Red Harbor guard, and some skulker Mossgreen caught in the woods. Thankfully, I had time to prepare. Only one of them walked out.”

Gedden whistles, surprise on his face.

“The big man must be pissed. Does this mean war is finally on?”

To that, Amelia doesn’t answer, but her stirring seems to gain new energy.

“Why don’t Valkas and Lysander get along? I thought they were both Black Sword guild,” I ask innocently.

It’s a double-edged question. On the one hand, the more information I gather the better prepared I’ll be to plan ahead. On the other, I used to think of Godtouched as a unit, almost a pantheon. To hear of such plotting, backstabbing, and even war is both fascinating and incredible.

“They are Black Sword,” Gedden says, turning his hand in the air. “But you have to think of the Black Sword guild as an anthill. One where every ant is trying to murder the rest to become queen.”

“Now, now,” says a voice behind us. “You’ll give our guest the wrong impression, Gedden. “Surely we’re not so bad.”

Gedden stands up immediately, his genial demeanor gone. Standing in the doorway, with Delos looming behind him and shaking a travelling coat from his shoulders, is Lysander.

“Sorry, Lys. Didn’t see you there.”

Lysander cocks a quizzical eyebrow. Realizing he’s still standing for no apparent reason, Gedden sits down on the edge of his chair.

“Malco,” the blond elf says, nodding to me. I feel myself sitting up straighter. “Hope the night’s excitement didn’t perturb your sleep. I don’t believe we’ll need to expect any intrusions today, so I’d like you to devote your energies to our guest, Miss Amelia.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Beckra will be showing up later by horse, possibly with a guest, so please communicate that to the servants.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Thank you,” Lysander’s voice is soft, yet decided. Every word carries the tone of a command, and everyone pays attention to what he says. “We will meet in the study. There’s much we must plan. Incidentally, did you get a chance pick your Expertise, Malco?”

“Hum, yes, m’l—uh… Lysa—” the elf’s eyes never leave mine, and he gives me no indication of what I should call him. “Yes. I did. Alchemist.”

“How fitting, considering how a potion got you into such trouble. Very good. I’ll take that into consideration. Be diligent with Amelia, Malco. I’ll soon have need of you. But before you become useful, I need you to become stronger.”

With a final nod towards me, Lysander leaves the kitchen, trailed by Gedden. The enormous dark-haired elf, Delos, follows after them, too silent for his size. Soon, the sound of their steps dwindles, and then it’s just me and Amelia.

She gives the pot a final stir and brings the spoon to her mouth for a taste. Nodding, she turns to me. Amelia’s appraising eyes hide more than just exhaustion. There’s a resolute sadness there, dancing behind the unbreakable façade of her determination.

“Come on,” she says. “We’d better get to work.”