Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy #1)(83)
Lord Kerlan dipped his head. “Very well.” He strode over to the coffee table, flipping his golden pen between his fingers as he did. “What can I do for you, Ramson Farrald?”
Ramson parted his lips. He had been rehearsing this line since that night in the barn, when he’d lain on the hay, unable to sleep and aching in every joint and muscle fiber. “You know my father, Roran Farrald.”
Lord Kerlan had been shuffling through a stack of papers; he paused, and his eyes flicked to Ramson’s face like the tongue of a snake. “I do.”
Ramson leaned forward, gripping the edges of his seat so hard that his knuckles were white. “I want to help you destroy him.”
* * *
—
That had been a lifetime ago. The boy who had been heartbroken and angry at the world had died seven years ago in a dark alley. Someone else had crawled from the mud that day and risen to take his place. He stood in this room now, calm and cold and clad in a black silk vest paid for by the blood of his trades.
But part of him knew that he wasn’t any less lost than the broken boy of seven years past.
“Well.” Kerlan shut the door and moved silently across the room. Ramson was used to it. Kerlan had a way with the shadows.
He stood before his coffee table, wearing his confidence like an expensive suit and carrying that same twinkle in his eyes. One only had to step closer to sniff out the stench of power clinging to him, to catch the rotting smell of greed and corruption hidden beneath layers of kologne. The Farrald boy of seven years ago hadn’t seen that: to him, Kerlan had been a means to an end. A means to end his father, who had taken everything from him.
But Ramson Quicktongue saw everything.
“Sit, my son,” Kerlan said, and seated himself in front of the coffee table, gesturing for Ramson to take the seat across. Behind him, the great brass clock tapped down the seconds. “I thought my runners were mistaken when they brought news of your escape. It seems like I was the one mistaken.”
Ramson matched the smile playing about Kerlan’s lips. “I’ve come a long way for you, Alaric.”
“So convince me why I shouldn’t send you right back.”
“You don’t need convincing. You haven’t killed me yet, which means news must have reached you that I have something to offer. Something worth more than any Trade or deal you’ve made in your entire life.”
Kerlan tapped a gold fountain pen against a large jeweled ring on his middle finger. “Some similar whispers might have found their way to me. My yaeger certainly did sniff something strange about that young dama.”
It seemed Igor and Bogdan had done their jobs and passed the word on—exactly as Ramson had orchestrated. Ramson hid a smile and matched his former master’s metal-gray stare. “Ever heard of the Blood Witch of Salskoff?” he asked. When Kerlan was silent, he continued. “I’ve brought her to you.”
Kerlan chuckled, tapping his pen twice, precisely on the tip of his finger. “No, you haven’t, Ramson. Not without something in exchange.”
“I’ve learned from the best.”
“You crawl out of prison, show up on my doorstep with no ranking, and now you want to make a Trade with me? I don’t know whether I should admire your bravery or laugh at your stupidity.”
“Yet still you continue to entertain me. You’re known to dispose of useless guests within seconds of a meeting, Alaric. It’s been over a minute, and you’re still listening to me.” Ramson leaned forward on the coffee table. “You want my Trade.”
Kerlan’s eyes crinkled in the cunning way they always did when his subordinates did something right. Ramson still shuddered to imagine what those cool gray eyes looked like when a member of the Order did something wrong. “Go on, dear boy.”
“Reinstate me as your Deputy, and I’ll use the Blood Witch to whatever ends you wish. I’ll hunt down the moles in the Order. I’ll bury our enemies. I’ll make the Order invincible.” Ramson forced a cruel grin. “She’s powerful, but she’s volatile. And it just so happens I’ve gained her trust. I know how to manipulate her, and that’s closer than anyone has ever gotten to her.”
Kerlan rubbed his heavy ring against his fountain pen. The sound was like grating blades on bone, and it seemed to help him think. “You failed me, boy. I gave you a mission—personally—and you failed. You know how I view failures…especially among my ranked officers.”
“People learn from their mistakes. I happen to be very good at it.” Ramson tried not to think of the night Kerlan had sent for him and given him the most difficult job in the seven years of his tenure at the Order. Kill the Emperor, Kerlan had said, in this very room. Kill him, and if anyone finds a trace of evidence that you did it, I’ll be first to volunteer you for the gallows.
Ramson had been on his way to Salskoff when he’d been intercepted several days later. The Whitecloaks had arrested him without cause, without trial, and left him to rot in Ghost Falls.
During those sleepless nights within the grime-covered walls, when the stench of sweat and piss had become too much for him to bear, one single thought had haunted him over and over again. If he hadn’t been stopped, would he have finished the job? How far would he go to remain loyal to the Order?