Lady Of Regret (Book 2) Read online

  Contents

  Lady of Regret

  Also by James A. West

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  About Author

  LADY OF REGRET

  Copyright © 2013 by James A. West

  First edition: July 2013

  Published by: James A. West

  Cover art by: James A. West

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Produced in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Also by James A. West:

  Heirs of the Fallen:

  Book One: The God King

  Book Two: Crown of the Setting Sun

  Book Three: Shadow and Steel

  (The battle continues Fall of 2013)

  Songs of the Scorpion:

  Book One: Reaper of Sorrows

  Book Two: Lady of Regret

  Be sure to join the Scorpion in upcoming volumes!

  Short Stories:

  Night’s Hunt

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my fantastic editors.

  To my readers, I cannot thank you enough. Be sure to check for updates and book releases at: http://jamesawest.blogspot.com

  To Julie: When the trenches are deep, dark, and muddy, you always drag me out!

  Prologue

  “O-ho, dear one, there’s always a price for favors such as you ask,” Mother Safi said across the rough-hewn table. She sat beyond the candle’s pool of dim light, knotted fingers stroking a weasel curled on the table, her cracked yellow nails rustling through the vermin’s fur.

  “A price, you say?” Wina asked, trying in vain to hold her breath. The hovel’s varied stenches were made all the more oppressive by the heat rising off the coals on the hearth behind the old woman. At the edge of sight, in every corner of the room, shapes flitted in the murk. She felt the weight of eyes and unkind intentions upon her, but could not pinpoint the source. I never should have come here.

  But she had come and made her request. Turning back was no longer a choice. Lady Mylene and those still alive at Ravenhold were counting on her to return with a cure. Would that she had been able to retrieve a remedy for the plague from anyone else, but none could heal such maladies as Mother Safi. And if the old woman demanded a price, it must be met. But what price?

  Mother Safi seemed to read her thoughts. “Of course there’s a price, girl. Compassion and generosity can no fill the bellies of my wee ones, now, can they?”

  Wina’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth when she caught the weasel staring at her. Intelligence shone from its blood-red eyes, a knowledge far greater than a lowly animal should possess. She swallowed, wishing for a cool drink to cut the dryness from her throat.

  “Have you no answer for Mother Safi?” the crone inquired, tone light, cajoling. She shifted her considerable bulk, making the chair creak and groan.

  Wina dragged her gaze from the weasel to the pocket of darkness concealing Mother Safi. How does the woman stay hidden? Candlelight bathed the length and breadth of the table and its litter of arcane objects and devices, bundled herbs; its arrays of rounded flasks filled with bubbling and noxious fluids of every lethal hue, assorted skulls, and other things, those that did not bear considering. Mayhap the shadows clinging to Mother Safi were some trick, akin to those she used to play on the children of Ravenhold, back before Lord Gafford had sent her off, some twenty years ago? Mother Safi, folk said of her even now, had always been one for devilishly elaborate pranks. Now Lord Gafford had gone to bones in his tomb, and Lady Mylene could turn to no one else, save Mother Safi.

  “So, child, will your precious compassion fill a belly?” Mother Safi asked again, all her former wheedling gentleness absent. “Answer, or be gone.”

  “Perhaps not of its own accord,” Wina said, struggling to keep her voice steady, “but compassion of the heart can guide the hand that provides food.” She wondered at these ‘wee ones’ Mother Safi had mentioned. Surely a woman of her years could not bear children. “Trust that if you require food for recompense, why, Lady Mylene will gratefully fill your larder.”

  “My larder?” Mother Safi swept the weasel aside, and thrust her face full into the candlelight. Milky spittle flecked her lips, more wetted her chin. “Think you to trade breath and promises for healing magic? Think you Mother Safi is so unwise to trade a bite of bread for such power as I can give … or is it your mistress who judges me the fool?” As she spoke, the fingers of one hand curled into a fist, nails digging into her palm. A single drop of blood squeezed out and fell to the tabletop.

  Stark terror froze Wina. Outwardly, she remained composed.

  As if challenged by Wina’s false calm, Mother Safi loomed nearer, a wrinkled hag rumored to have lived three lifetimes, each and every day of those lives bitter and torturous. Yet hers was more than an ugliness of creases, rheumy eyes, and bones ancient and bent. Within her lay cruelty sheathed in spite.

  Wina mustered courage enough to speak. “’Tis known within Ravenhold, the Tanglewood, and all through the Iron Marches, you are no fool,” she said evenly. “And but for urgent need, I would not have come at all … for ‘tis also known that you do not idly suffer guests. As to prices, speak your desire, and what is within my strength and authority to give, I shall make it so.”

  “Shall you, indeed?” Mother Safi’s fingers tightened, making a second drop of blood join the first.

  Wina grimaced, feeling those fingers at her throat, wrapping tight. But that could not be. Surely not. It was just one of Safi’s tricks. “Give me the cure I seek to end the plague and restore the sick,” Wina said, unable to speak above a fearful whisper, “and….” She faltered, struggling to add her mistress’ sole condition. She had to say it, for things must be clear between Mother Safi and the people of Ravenhold. “Fill our need, and after it has proven its worth, you shall be compensated.”

  “Service before reward, is that the way of it?”

  Wina drew herself up. “That’s Lady Mylene’s price.” Mother Safi’s bland expression revealed nothing. Wina feared she had gone too far, but then the old witch spoke.

  “Very well, child. I will cure Ravenhold.” With her bloody hand, Mother Safi picked up a wolf’s skull resting between them. Tipping it, she shook vigorously. Besides flaky bits of dried flesh and a few hairs, an amulet and chain rattled out of the eye socket, and dropped onto the table.

  “That is your cure?” Wina said in disbelief. The chain was silver, but so tarnished as to be mostly black. The eight-sided amulet, with a black gemstone at its heart, had been crudely fashioned from some dark gray ore. Spidery inscriptions encircled the edge. />
  “It is but the choicest of many possible cures,” Mother Safi corrected, catching the blemished chain with an obvious measure of caution, and lifting it to swing between them.

  “If it works as you say,” Wina said, reaching out to take the amulet, “then I thank you beforehand.”

  Mother Safi drew the amulet out of reach. “This is no bauble to be passed about on a whim!” The tip of her tongue darted over rotten nubs of teeth, flicked out to lap at the pale drool coating her lips, and retreated, a fat pink worm wriggling back into its hole. She brought the amulet near again. The dark gemstone trapped the candlelight, drew it deep within itself, and there murdered it. “Such a device craves and hungers, child. Even now, it seeks its own prices… Can you meet the demand?”

  Wina gagged at the unmistakable pressure building around her neck. She reached up to pull away the witch’s fingers, but Mother Safi was not close enough to touch her. Wina’s nostrils flared, her mouth fell open for a breath that would not come. Her chest began to burn.

  Mother Safi leaned closer, an excited leer stretching her lips. “Long have I desired to see Ravenhold fall for Lord Gafford’s betrayal. Long have I waited for recompense. Not in bread and cabbages, you foolish chit … but in blood. And so blood is the price I demand, and blood I shall have—yours, and all those who fester and rot behind the towering walls of Ravenhold. By my strength and authority, I have made it so.”

  Wina’s eyes went wide. In shock she found a wild, desperate strength, and drew a gulp of air. “You set plague upon us?”

  Mother Safi cackled madly. “O-ho, it does so bless my heart that you have come begging succor from the very one who afflicted you.” She fell into another fit of braying laughter.

  As if drawn to that hellish mirth, the weasel clawed its way back onto the table and sat up on its haunches, red eyes fixed on Wina.

  Wina’s throat squeezed shut, her eyes bulged. She clawed her neck, trying to rip off the nothingness that had taken hold of her.

  “It will be over in a moment, child,” the witch said, grinning broadly. “Just a moment more, and my wee ones can feast upon a sweet dinner spiced with fear, and made tender with pain.”

  Flaring spots dimmed behind Wina’s eyes, weakness washed over her. Her hands fluttered to her lap, the edge of one striking a hard shape. What … what is that? She slumped forward, and Mother Safi beckoned her to lay down her head. When her cheek bumped the rough tabletop, the shape under her hand dug into her belly, and she remembered. If she could only … she might be able to.… But no … so tired.

  “Sleep, child,” Mother Safi crooned.

  The weasel got down on four black paws and crept toward Wina. Its grinning teeth glinted in the candlelight, its nose twitched eagerly. It’ll eat my eyes first … next my lips.

  Wina’s eyes fluttered shut, and the unseen hands around her neck gradually released their hold. A trickle of air seeped down her throat, easing the fire within her breast. If not for her last thought, a single breath would not have mattered, but too easily she could see the old hag laughing over her corpse, drawing a rusted blade from under her sackcloth robes, using it to quarter her like a lamb, tossing those bloody chunks into an iron crock. Or will her wee ones eat me raw?

  Her next breath, deeper and stronger, fanned rising horror. “No,” she gasped.

  “Eh?” Mother Safi said, startled.

  Wina’s eyes opened to find the weasel had come within an inch of her, its needle teeth white and sharp and poised to sink into her flesh—

  With a cry, Wina sat bolt upright and batted the foul creature aside. It gave a hissing squeal, as it flew into the darkness. Wina paid it no more mind than she did Mother Safi’s astonished squawk.

  The hard shape at her waist filled her hand, and she tore the belt knife free of its sheath. Bright steel flashed between her and Mother Safi. Wina felt a brief tug of resistance as steel tore through old wrinkled skin, muscle, sinew. The witch toppled back, one hand clutched to the growing necklace of blood spurting from the folds of her neck. Before the hag could fall out of reach, Wina snatched the Wight Stone, the salvation of Ravenhold.

  The rickety chair creaked under Mother Safi’s immense backside, burst to kindling, and dumped her to the floor. Making bubbly retching noises, one flailing hand raised against another attack, Mother Safi failed to notice that the edge of her roughspun robe had fallen upon the coals on the hearth. The coarse fabric smoked, then flashed ablaze, as if she had been doused in oil. In seconds, the witch became a shrieking pyre. Seconds more, and the back wall of the hovel was burning with her.

  Wina thrust the amulet down her bodice, its cool touch against her skin filling her with a sense of purpose and excitement. Ravenhold would be saved! As she spun to leave, a furious racket erupted in a corner where the room’s shadows gathered thickest. Howls and screams raved within that swirling darkness, as if a pair of frost leopards were tearing at each other.

  Wina crashed against the plank door, ripping it half off its hinges. Her bone-white palfrey waited at the porch rail. She yanked the reins free, and bounded into the saddle. A prod from her heels jumped the mare into a gallop. They raced across a meadow, then down off the mountain following a twisting, rocky trail that would lead her to Ravenhold.

  As the moonlit Tanglewood embraced horse and rider, the thatched roof of Mother Safi’s hovel fell in with a whoosh of sparks and leaping flames. Wina thought she heard an enraged scream, but told herself it was only the rush of wind in her ears.

  Chapter 1

  Something was hunting them, using the chill mists to steal closer. Be it man or beast, Rathe did not know, but he felt its nearness in his gut, same as he felt the cold damp of the Gyntor Mountains on his cheeks. In more hospitable realms, summer reigned. Here, patches of winter snow yet lingered.

  Oblivious that Rathe had reined in, Loro rode on, grumbling under his deep hood, the hooves of his mount scraping and knocking over the trail’s rocky surface. His complaining faded into the distance, and quiet fell over the forest.

  Rathe drew back his hood, peered around, listening for any furtive sound. High mountain evergreens grew thick as dog hair right up to the trail, sometimes leaning over it. Sluggish white fog eddied through gray-black tree trunks, concealing anything beyond twenty paces. The fog had been a constant companion since he and Loro had escaped into the mountains, one short step ahead of men who would earn their gold whether he and Loro were brought back intact, or headless.

  Despite the rising sense of danger, nothing worrisome showed itself. Rathe’s fingers danced over his sword hilt, a restless drumming. He preferred using a bow to keep threats at bay, but the relentless wet had already fouled one bowstring. Ruining another served no end. He searched the mountainside above the trail, found a stubby spine of rock littered with boulders. From there, he might be able to see more.

  Breath steaming, Rathe dismounted, tied his horse to a clump of scraggly brush. The sturdy gray gelding gave him a curious look. Rathe patted its neck, then started upslope, leaving the horse to graze on what little it could find.

  The lightest touch against drooping branches sent cold water raining down over Rathe’s head and shoulders, wetting the few parts of him that remained dry. The climb warmed stiff muscles, if not much else. The cold of the Gyntors had a way of sinking deep into your bones, stealing heat and hope. Rathe ignored discomforts, as he scrambled over root and rock, using tree trunks to pull himself up when the way grew too steep.

  He went still at the base of the outcrop. Other than Loro, now rounding a bend farther up the path, he saw nothing. The flutter deep in his belly persisted. After spending a fortnight running from men who wanted to steal his life for reward, he had to assume danger waited at every turn.

  Unseen ravens croaked far overhead, calls muted. Only at night did they depart. Doubtless the birds were waiting for some grave ill to befall him or Loro. He had watched ravens and crows and vultures at work on scores of battlefields, first plucking out the eyes of the
dead, before moving on to other tender bits. He did not begrudge such creatures their appetites. Neither did he care to fill their gullets with bits of himself.

  Careful to remain behind cover, Rathe climbed up and around the outcrop, then crept through the boulders until he could look down on the trail. He glanced at his horse, almost lost within the screen of misted trees. The gray munched contentedly, sharing none of Rathe’s concerns.

  Preparing to turn back, Rathe froze when a dark figure glided swiftly and silently across the trail. He could almost believe he had imagined it, but the mist swirled where the shape had slipped across the path. A spidery prickle crawled up his spine. Shadows disturbed fearful hearts, not mist.

  Rathe drew his sword, the whisper of steel clearing leather loud in the dead still. He stole back down the hillside, coming out on the trail a few paces from where he had seen the figure. The gray stamped restively, snorted a blast of steam, went back to grazing. Curtains of fog meandered down the mountainside and into the forest. Nothing else moved.

  The longer Rathe studied the surroundings, the more he began to doubt he had seen anything. What seemed the shapes of kneeling men became rocks, as the fog continued its slow march. A horse’s legs became four crooked birches at the last twist in the path.

  “Would you test your blade against mine, Scorpion?” The question seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

  Despite the sudden hammering of his heart, Rathe’s voice remained steady. “Show yourself, and I’ll oblige you.”

  “Are you fearless, or foolish?” The unseen man’s thin voice was confident and cultured, smooth as oil.

  Rathe spun, sure the speaker waited at his back. Mist churned, moisture dripped, but no enemy showed himself. “I am curious,” he admitted, eyes marking every hazed outline. “If you know the name Scorpion, you’re either an admirer, or seeking the bounty for my head. Which is it?”