Iron and Magic (The Iron Covenant #1)(14)

“Terrific.” Of all the fucked-up magic, human sacrifice was the one threshold even Roland wouldn’t cross. It opened the door to old primal powers nobody wanted to resurrect.

“Nobody has proof that any of it happened,” Lamar said. “But it makes any alliance appear shaky. We’re both desperate, and Nez will expect us to cut and run the moment things get hairy.”

Hugh leaned on the corral’s fence. That was a problem. The only way to hold off Nez was to project a show of strength. The alliance had to appear unbreakable, otherwise Nez would expect them to fracture and attack anyway. Lamar was right. They had to overcome that burden. They had to appear completely united.

“There is a tried-and-true method of making an alliance appear secure,” Lamar said carefully.

Hugh glanced at him.

“A union,” Lamar said, as if worried the word would cut his mouth.

“What union?”

“A civil union, Preceptor.”

“What the hell are you on about?”

Lamar took a deep breath.

“Marriage!” Bale yelled out.

Hugh stared at Lamar. “Marriage?”

“Yes.”

They had to be out of their minds. “Who would be getting married?”

“You.”

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and he said the first thing that popped into his head. “Who would marry me?”

“You’re handsome, a big, imposing figure of a man, and um…” Lamar scrounged for some words. “And they’re desperate.”

“What the hell have you been smoking? I’m penniless, I’m exiled, I own nothing…” He left out broken.

“And a recovering alcoholic.” Lamar nodded. “Yes, but again, they’re desperate. And we’re running out of food.”

Hugh shut his eyes for a long moment. The world was sliding sideways, and he really needed to get a grip.

“Who would I be marrying?”

“The White Warlock.”

Hugh’s eyes snapped open. “You want me to marry a man?”

“No!” Lamar shook his head vigorously. “It’s a woman. A woman. Not a man.”

Thank God for small favors. He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Well, I’m relieved it hasn’t quite come to that.”

“It’s a business arrangement before anything else,” Lamar said quickly. “But if you’re married, that will cement the alliance. You said yourself, you told Nez you were ready to settle down. He will believe the marriage.”

“They have a castle,” Stoyan said. “Apparently, some rich guy bought an old castle in England before the Shift, had it disassembled and brought to Kentucky.”

“You like castles,” Bale said.

“It’s a good defensible position,” Felix said.

“At least meet the woman,” Lamar said.

“Shut up,” Hugh said.

They fell silent.

“Did you come up with this idiotic idea?” Hugh demanded.

“It was a joint effort between me and my equivalent on the other side,” Lamar said. “If it helps, your prospective bride has to be talked into the marriage as well.”

“Perfect. Just perfect.”

He reviewed his options. He had none. He could marry some woman and feed his troops, or he could let them get slaughtered. What the hell, he’d done worse in his life.

“I’ll see her,” he said.

“That’s all we ask,” Lamar said.





3





The wind died. The tree line was still, the wide leaves of sycamores and the frilly foliage of oaks hanging motionless in the fading heat of the early evening. Nothing moved.

Elara leaned on the heavy gray stones of the parapet and sent her magic forward. A sick feeling flowed back to her, a greasy nasty smear on the soothing face of the forest, like an oil spill on the surface of a crystal-clear lake. There you are.

Rook reached for his small notebook, wrote a message, and passed it to her.

Do you see it?

“Yes. It’s alone.”

The blond spy nodded, an impassive look on his tan scarred face. Logic said he must’ve felt emotions, but if so, they were buried so deep that no hint ever rose to the surface.

“Thank you,” Elara said.

The notebook disappeared into some hidden pocket of his soft leather jacket. He crossed the rampart to the inner edge of the battlements, hopped onto the parapet with the easy grace of an acrobat, jumped down, and vanished out of sight.

The vampire remained where it was, in the shadow of a sycamore, invisible from the wall. But now she knew it was there. There would be no escape.

An undead here, only a few dozen yards from the castle and the settlement on the other side. A creature piloted by a Master of the Dead, capable of carving its way through their settlement.

Next to her Dugas stirred, brushing a persistent insect away from his gray hair. The older man was very tall and lean to the point of being almost wiry. A scar crossed his face, carving its way through his forehead, his dead milky left eye, and across his cheek until it disappeared into his short beard. Both his beard and hair had gone white long ago, but his eyebrows kept a few black hairs, stubbornly refusing to age. He was wearing his white robe today. It suited him much better than his usual getup of Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt.