We flee into the thick woods east of the manor, sticking along the outskirts. The familiar stuffiness of the caves returns once the broad canopies swallow up the moon. Fear also returns as I notice we’re skating a thin line, getting close to the auxiliary chain of Aramastun’s army.
Our eyes swivel in the dark woods, everyone pin-drop quiet. The trees are gnarled, slightly curved from the ever-present wind blowing into them for eons. It’s hard to see anything—Skartovius wisely discarded our torch once we exited the catacombs. The last thing we need is a single orange beacon signaling our whereabouts to anyone beyond these woods.
So I walk blindly. Flies and rodents avoid us as we dig deeper into the forest. I wonder if they sense the death of my vampire mates, the danger they bring to this enclave of nature. Bushes rustle and tree limbs creak from the night critters watching us traverse the woodlands.
We make it through without incident, evidently clearing the scope of Aramastun’s army.Perhaps he left the area once he realized we were no longer in the manor.His regiment could beunder our feet even now, traveling through the same catacomb tunnels we did before we doubled back.
Past the woods, we reach a valley of prairies. I haven’t been this far north before, though it looks much the same as any other grassland. We jog through, having little cover from prying eyes, and then dash into more woods.
It is here we stumble upon the entrance to Demilord Aldion’s abode. It’s a quaint castle of old stone and brickwork with a curling wall of vines and roots climbing up the windows and pillars. The place looks abandoned, dark as we make our approach. I wonder if we’ve made a mistake coming here.An abandoned outpost would be preferable to conversing with Aelin, I wager.
A lantern flickers to life inside the small fort, through a window on the second level. It trickles down a hall, past more windows, and eventually descends to the first level. The double oak doors open a moment later, and the demilord stands before us.
Tymon Aldion is a broad-shouldered, squat fellow with a bulging belly. He was a larger man when turned, and clearly saw no reason to trim his physique once made a vampire. His brow furrows, hand placed at his shoulder for the hilt strewn across his back. His hand twitches and drops when Skartovius steps in front. “Lord Ashfen,” he murmurs, surprised and more than a little suspicious. “What brings you to my home?”
“Necessity, Tymon. The Night Judge has seized Manor Marquin. We seek refuge.”
A slight shadow slips behind Tymon to stand beside him.
Aelin is still as beautiful as she was when she left the Grimsons. Her dark flowing hair frames a gaunt face with the succor of human blood in her cheeks. The tall, skinny noblewife hauls a whining babe on her hip, and her belly is nearly as bulbous as Tymon’s, showing another whelp on the way.
Aelin was chosen during my first shadowgala as broodstock for Tymon Aldion. I had been horrified, imagining such a pretty girl as a concubine or forced breeding mare for a vicious vampire. But the lifestyle seems to fit her immensely, and she offers me a coy smile as she takes place in her husband’s shadow, over his shoulder. She’s nearly a head taller than him, making her close to my height.
“My home is always welcome to the lord of my court,” Tymon says with a small bow. He steps out of the doorway, blocking my sight of Aelin, and sweeps his hand past him to the hallway. “My lady, prepare rooms for these men, women, and . . . friend.” He trails off on a drawl when noticing our interfolk companion.
“I have two infants to feed and can hardly make it up the stairs, beloved,” Aelin says in a sultry voice.
She’s had two, soonthreehalf-blood whelps with Tymon Aldion, in only a handful of years?I muse.Yes, this place is certainly well-suited to her wants and needs.
There’s a calculation in Tymon’s eyes when his noblewife doesn’t fall in line immediately. I see a flash of it, a hint of danger, and my stomach sours. He says, “Right, right. Get the vowagers to set the chambers, then.”
My brow twists. “Vowagers?” I haven’t heard the term in years—the name for the mute, beige-robed priestesses of the Truehearts. Mother Eola, head vowager of the House of the True, raised me alongside Father Cullard. She was a mean old bitch, but hearing the word brings a pang of nostalgia with it.
“Yes, Lady Lock,” Tymon says. “They are the—”
“I know what a vowager is,” I grumble. “I’m just confused whyyouhave them.”
The demilord fixes me with a glare. He’s never liked me. Never appreciated what I represent alongside his lord’s side, as a human. He tries to hide his distaste at my interruption.
In a warning tone, Skartovius says, “Demilord Tymon is our host, and we are his guests, Sephania. We would do well to respect him here.”
I clench my jaw. Over Tymon’s shadow, Aelin gives me a small smile. It seemssomeoneappreciates my candor, at least.
“The mute sisters of the True suit our purposes well,” Tymon explains, sniffing indignantly. “They are hardy servants and keep quiet.” When I think he’s finished and he begins turning to walk away, he adds, “Plus, their blood is sweet, like the nectar of the damnable Trueheart deities themselves.”
I freeze in the doorway, my body running cold and tensing. Lukain and Garroway nearly bump into me from behind. They stand at my sides, ready to strike should I order it.
I keep down my anger. “Lord Ashfen is correct, sir, and I apologize. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Tymon Aldion bows low, putting on an arrogant smile that curls at the corners of his lips, as if to prove he’s won this battle and I have no fight here. “Of course, Lady Lock. You are most welcome as our guests this cold evening. Please, Noblewife Aelin will show you to your quarters. Perhaps you can catch up on old times.”
Chapter 3
Sephania
It turns out Noblewife Aelin has no interest in catching up on old times. I’m grateful for it, and incredibly tired.
There’s something disconcerting and strange about this old abandoned-looking castle in the woods. The darkness of it, even once inside. The smell of it, brisk pine floorboards creaking alongside the bitter scents of stone and leather, as if nature is offended at the builder’s gall to craft such an unnatural structure in its forested bosom.