Page 73 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

“So who am I to be?”

“A nobody.”

Ariadne stared at her for a long moment. “That will never work.”

“And why is that?”

“I am Caersan.” She gestured to the vivid veins across her face and neck. “Everyone will know. No one will believe my family would allow me to travel to Algorath on my own. Not without a chaperone or personal guard.”

Kall’s grip on her arm eased a bit as though he understood before she did. He could not know the intricacies of the Society, however. There were too many flimsy pieces to this plan.

Then Kall changed everything when he said, “Madan Caersan and no one question him. He guard, no lord.”

He was right. Not one of the Caersans had doubted his tale about being a son of a low-born Caersan family. Like Azriel, they had all taken him at face value. No one would have guessed that he was the only son of Markus Harlow by his late first wife. Being scratched from the history books made it simple to rewrite your past.

And if she played her cards right, she would be able to create her own personal history. She, too, could be the daughter of a forgotten Caersan woman.

“You will be my new ward, Cressida.” Phulan still did not stand. She remained as relaxed as ever at her table, quite certain neither Ariadne nor Kall would abandon her plan. Of course she was right. They had come too far and risked too much just by being here to back out now. “Your parents, Samanthe and Benedict Quinn, were recently killed in a dhemon raid in a small, unnamed village of Eastwood Province. They were my friends from my time in Valenul, and their Will sent you to me.”

Ariadne glanced up at Kall, who grunted in frustration before releasing her. Together they sat back down at the table, much to Phulan’s amusement, before she asked, “Were Samanthe and Benedict real people?”

“Yes.” Phulan grimaced. “And they did die a couple of weeks ago. Their daughter didn’t survive, either. You’ll bear her name for as long as it’s needed. No remains were found.”

Kall glowered at his hands. “Ehrun.”

Phulan placed her hand on his, startling him from whatever dark place his mind had taken him. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It is.” He frowned and pulled away from her. “It is.”

“How do you plan to explain Cressida’s survival?” Ariadne asked, turning her attention back to the mage. “My survival, I mean.”

Phulan smiled. “Cressida loved the forest. She was out picking mushrooms when the attack occurred and honored her parents’ caution to run.”

Run. Such a simple word that seemed to haunt Ariadne wherever she went. She had tried to run from Ehrun. The first time had been when she arrived at the keep after spitting in his face. He had hit her so hard, she couldn’t remember what happened between the entry hall and her cell.

The next time she had tried to escape, she made it halfway up the stairs from the dungeon when Ehrun caught her. He had beaten her in response and left her to his cronies. When next he saw her, he claimed it had been one of his lessons.

After that, she listened and never ran from him a third time. She had not wanted to feel that pain or that shame again. He had praised her for learning so quickly.

Those lessons had almost gotten her killed at the Vertium Ball. She had not listened when Azriel told her to run. After believing the dhemons had returned for her, she could only hear Ehrun’s voice scolding her and feel those bodies…

It had taken her until that night on the highway to listen to that word, run. Azriel had told her to go, and she did. She ran as fast as she could, but if it were not for Kall, she would not have lived. It had been his ax that cut down the dhemon on her heels.

Whether or not Phulan knew of Ariadne’s relationship with that word, she was not certain. Nor did she want to ask.

Instead, she merely nodded and accepted the story. She repeated the words and names until they felt real enough. Until she had memorized them, as she always had with her favorite love stories. Only this time, it would become a part of her own love story.

The one in which she would be the hero.

“How old am I?” Ariadne settled into the role she had to play.

Phulan’s smile was sad. “One hundred and twelve.”

Forty years younger than Ariadne. She thanked the gods for the gift of youth. Even if what had caused it had been a curse originally, her long life and lasting youth were not something she scoffed at. At least not when they worked in her favor.

Still, Cressida had been young. Too young. Like many of the vampires who died because of the war, she had had her hopes and dreams cut down too soon. Now she would live a little longer, if in name only.

“What will I wear?” She glanced at her trousers and shirt. Such an outfit would not do for a party, yet she had not brought any dresses from Monsumbra. Attending soirees had not been on her mind when she packed her bag.

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