Bloodfire Quest (The Dark Legacy of Shannara, #2)(37)

Just like old times.

He thought momentarily of Drust Chazhul, dead now for over a week, lying in the ground to which he had been hastily consigned by a handful of the soldiers who had followed him to Paranor—a handful lucky enough to survive the doom that had overtaken their fellows and with no love for the late Prime Minister and no reason not to want him dead and buried. They would keep their mouths shut; they did not wish to be connected to the deed and had been made to understand that silence was what would keep them alive. It was an easy bargain to make. Drust Chazhul was nothing to them. He was just another in a long line of politicians that had found countless ways to make their personal lives difficult and their lot as soldiers more trying.

Stoon thought of Drust without sadness or regret. He had killed Drust because the Prime Minister had become an obstacle to his own ambitions. In his trade, you looked out for yourself first and foremost. He might serve a master or mistress from time to time, but it was never for long and never with any thought of permanent attachment. That he had stayed with Drust for as long as he had was something of an oddity. He doubted it would ever happen again.

Even with her.

He reached the next floor and turned down the hidden passageway leading to the Prime Minister’s chambers. How many times had he made this journey? How often over the years had he followed this very route through the bowels of the compound to meet in secret and plan great things? It would have been impossible to say, and in any case unnecessary to speculate. The past had no meaning in these matters. It was always about the future and what great promises the future might hold.

Farther down the corridor, several twists and turns later, he reached another set of stairs and climbed to the third floor. As he did so, he flashed back to the killing and recalled Drust’s face as the knife slid home and his life thread was severed. An image of it hung suspended in the air before him, fully remembered from the moment the killing had occurred. Shock and dismay, confusion and a clear sense that something was terribly wrong—all had shown in the man’s dying features. Stoon savored the memory. It gave him an undeniable satisfaction. There were many others like it, but none that provided such a clear sense of fulfillment. Drust Chazhul had been a monster, bereft of any sense of moral obligation or purpose in life. He had only wanted to achieve power and then hang on to it. Such men were plentiful and always replaceable. Such men needed purging, and when the chance came to remove one, it was an opportunity to be exploited.

Or so Stoon believed, and at the end of the day what else mattered but his own beliefs?

At the head of the stairs he found a landing and a locked door. He looked to see that the signal candle was lit and then knocked softly, waiting for her voice before he used the second key. He entered the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. The light was better here, thanks to a series of lit candles arrayed about the room and the pale reflection of the torchlight that illuminated the courtyards, its rain-washed glow streaming through the windows.

“You have news for me?” she asked softly, her voice low and seductive. She was sitting in her bed, wrapped in a silken robe, propped up by pillows and holding a tablet on which she had been writing.

“Yes, Mistress,” he answered. “I do.”

He extinguished the candle he was carrying and moved over to the chair he favored on these visits, wondering how the rest of the night would go.

“Have you missed me?”

He shrugged. “Always.”

“Life with me is so much better than it was with Drust, isn’t it? So much more interesting?”

“I’d be a fool to say otherwise.”

“And you are not a fool, are you, Stoon? Not where I am concerned. Are you?”

He watched Edinja Orle set down the tablet and rise from her bed. She walked over to where he sat, bent down, and kissed him on the lips. Her dusky skin smelled of sandalwood, and her long silver hair spilled over his face. “I didn’t hear your answer.”

“I didn’t give it. I don’t need to. You own me body and soul, Mistress. You already know that.”

She smiled, the teeth behind her lips as sharp as those of her cat.

“I know men aren’t to be trusted,” she said quietly, moving away.

Drust would have appreciated knowing who had orchestrated his death. He would have liked the symmetry of it, had he been able to look at it objectively. He had been so anxious to rid himself of Edinja that he had overlooked the obvious when he found himself the recipient of those threatening notes. When the possible doesn’t fit, one must take a closer look at the impossible. Certain that Edinja was dead, it had not occurred to him to wonder why no one had been able to verify her death. He had even accepted Stoon’s story about the disappearance of the body—that it quite likely had been spirited away by family members, a common practice among magic users. Seeing her poisoned right in front of him had been sufficient proof, and he had never even considered the possibility that she had arranged all this for his benefit, in order to catch him off guard and finish him.

Stoon had made certain it all went as planned. He and Edinja had become lovers and accomplices several months before, not long after Stoon had decided that things were not working out with Drust as he had expected. The “permanent position” he had accepted was leading nowhere. Drust was ambitious and clever, but he was not well positioned in the hierarchy of Federation families and there was a limit to how far one could rise when personal circumstances were unfavorable. Stoon had seen the need for a different alliance clearly if he were to improve his situation—something he was always looking to do. He had been looking around already when he met Edinja.