Page 93 of A Pact of Blood

Chapter Thirty

Raul

As soon as I’ve finished gulping down my lunch, I take the opportunity to wander away from the carriage our blasted emperor assigned me to today. The company has hardly been “inspiring,” as he suggested with that manic glint in his eyes.

If I’m going to get through the rest of the day on the road to Rexoran without stabbing one of my noble companions, I need to make a little progress toward that later date when I never have to put up with this shit again.

I pretend I’m simply stretching my legs and shaking off the stiffness of the last three days of travel. I do actually need the effort—when I roll my shoulders, the muscles on my back twinge where the bear tore its jaws through me. The ache in my thigh where its claws gouged my flesh hasn’t totally faded either.

Every pang sets my teeth a little more on edge with aburn of humiliation under my skin. Marclinus decided not just to have me perform but to use me as a demonstration of his empire’s might, the fucking prick. I’d like to demonstratemymight by shoving his crown down his throat.

Of course, his guards would intervene before I could so much as lay a finger on him. So I’ll have to continue taking a page out of Aurelia’s book and find my more subtle means of undermining him.

This waystation is along a particularly colorful stretch of terrain, bright green leaves of bushy trees standing out against the low pinkish-yellow cliffs that jut up here and there farther off. After the fuss at the bridge during our last journey, the soldiers have ordered all of the people from the nearby town to stick to their own streets, other than the handful of workers who are assisting with the meal preparation and clean up.

Halfway along our convoy, many of the soldiers are hanging around outside the main waystation building—a long, low structure of the same pinkish-yellow stone. The sigil of Jurnus marks the lintel, with mosaics of soaring gulls and diving whales decorating patches of the walls.

The godlen of travel isn’t the only one honored at this spot. Not far from the waystation’s entrance, a fountain dedicated to Sabrelle burbles with water from a small spring. A sculpture of the godlen poses amid the current, brandishing a shield and sword.

Perfect. I can make excellent use of that.

I amble toward the fountain, but before I’ve made it past more than a couple of carriages, the exact asshole I’m least enthusiastic to see strolls into my path.

Marclinus grins at me with a sly cock of his head that sets me twice as on guard. The two barons who were trotting at his heels fall silent in eager curiosity.

“Ah, prince of Lavira,” the emperor says in a blasé tone. “You must be getting impatient to find yourself close to home again.”

The city of Rexoran isn’t too far off from the border between Dariu and Lavira, but it’s still a fair trek from there to our capital where anyone I know resides. I doubt Marclinus is going to give me leave to take a week-long detour.

I dip my head in a little bow that only I know is mocking. “It’s nice to see familiar terrain, but I’m more interested in finding out what Creaden’s challenge entails.”

Marclinus chuckles. “You can be sure I’ll conquer it. And while I’m up there, perhaps I’ll settle the empire’s latest conquering of your people once and for all. Maybe I should send you across the border to teach the rebels a lesson with your swordplay—just as long as you don’t run into any bears.”

Both of the marchions break into chuckles of their own. I smile thinly, my hand aching with the urge to ram the dagger I’m carrying into their guts, right where it would mean slow, agonizing pain before death.

In the back of my head, I send up a prayer to my own chosen godlen.Kosmel, let me stay as stealthy and discreet as you can be. Let me hide my anger so well they never see it.

The thought of all the power I hold that’s unknown to them steadies me. My hand relaxes at my side.

I very considerately refrain from stabbing anyone.

Our merciless emperor isn’t being anywhere near that considerate with Lavira’s citizens. I’ve tried not to picture the slaughter he’s ordered back home to punish my people for the brewing rebellion.

How many of those he’s had tortured and murdered were totally innocent? How many simply justified in their anger against the empire?

There’s nothing I can do to stop the carnage. If anything,he’ll take any rebelliousness I show as an excuse to come down on them even harder. But I’m not powerless, as my appeal to my godlen just reminded me.

I’ll simply hit him in ways he never expects, as I intend to right now.

I nod to Marclinus again and move to step around his little entourage. “I serve my empire as I’m able.”

As I veer around the nearer man, I cast a thread of my awareness into the shadows woven through his clothing. My lips tug into a wider smirk. “That’s quite the stash of hazebloom you have on you, Baron. I hope you don’t find our emperor’s company so dull as to need all that enhancement.”

I leave the baron sputtering and Marclinus turning on him with an arch of his eyebrows. If the vapid fool does need to smoke a little of that elating drug from time to time to put up with imperial obnoxiousness, I can’t actually blame him.

Meandering on toward the cluster of soldiers around the fountain, I notice a figure approaching from the opposite direction. Lorenzo catches my gaze for just a second with a brief flick of his fingers by his side.Talking to the kitchen.

He means he’s going to use his gift to nudge the locals in an ideal direction. He’ll send out an illusionary murmur or two speaking Aurelia’s praises to get the bunch in there chattering along the same line.

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