Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(81)
The biggest show of his life.
The large clock suspended in the middle of the banquet hall showed seventeen minutes past nine. He had precisely forty-three minutes to find Kerlan, and to persuade him to reinstate Ramson as Deputy. He needed the words penned into the Order’s official mandate.
And then, as soon as Kerlan lifted his pen from the page, Ramson would kill him.
The hilt of his small dagger pressed into his sleeve, a perfect blade no longer than his forearm. A misericord, Bregonians called it, used to deliver the final blow of mercy to an opponent. At a single flick of his finger, the contraption that bound it to his arm would eject the blade into his palm.
For the first time tonight, he took in the hallways with a sweeping glance. Memories rose, unbidden, in his mind. He could still see, on the plush red carpets, the writhing bodies of people he’d disposed of simply because they were in his way—fishermen and weapons traders and business owners who tried to cheat them. He could still hear their muffled screams through the closed doors that led to the basements below. Bit by bit, he’d helped Kerlan clear Cyrilia of anyone who stood in their way, extending the Order’s underground reach like an invisible hand unfurling beneath the broken empire.
No more, Ramson thought as he strode down the halls, away from the music and dancing and light. The carpets were less worn, the walls decorated with gilded frames—paintings of far-off places, mysterious islands, and oceans that glimmered turquoise.
Ramson recognized these places. It had always haunted him that he shared a home kingdom with Alaric Kerlan, that he’d almost traced Kerlan’s exact steps many years past, fleeing from their wrongdoings to establish themselves in a foreign empire. It was as though, in a desperate attempt to free himself from becoming the demon that was his father, Ramson had run onto a path that had made him into a different kind of monster.
The chandeliers above burned brightly, almost jarringly. Kerlan always made his entrances at his parties after nine o’clock. Ramson was getting closer to Kerlan’s living quarters, and he was surprised there wasn’t a guard—
“Stop.”
A figure peeled from the shadows of the next corridor, regarding Ramson with cold eyes. Ramson recognized him. He had a name: Felyks.
“Guests are welcome in Lord Kerlan’s banquet hall,” Felyks said. “His personal quarters are private.”
Ramson smiled a hungry smile. “I’m no ordinary guest, Felyks,” he said, and pulled off his mask.
Felyks did a double take; his eyes went round. His hand twitched for his sword, even as he backed into the wall. “Qui-Qui-Quicktongue.”
Ramson gave a mock bow. “In corporeal form. You seem happy to see me.” His cheery tone dropped. “I want to see Alaric.”
Felyks struggled. “I—I can’t let you do that,” he said at last, and unsheathed his sword. “The Kerlan Estate has rules.”
“Rules that I set in place,” Ramson said, stepping closer to the guard. He relished the way Felyks cringed slightly. “Now let me past, or I’ll be using your body as a doormat.”
“That’s hardly necessary,” came a light, familiar voice with the crystal-clear lilt of Cyrilian nobility. A man had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, by the turn to the next corridor. His indigo silk coat flapped lightly over his slight figure, and his gold-tipped shoes tapped rhythmically with each step as he approached.
“Hello again, Ramson,” said Alaric Kerlan, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve come to extend you a very personal welcome.”
Felyks straightened at the sight of his boss, who strolled past him as though he were a part of the wall. Ramson stood where he was, though something stretched taut within him. He felt rooted to the place as a strange helplessness descended upon him, trapping him under the presence of Alaric Kerlan once again.
“Ramson, my son.” Kerlan’s teeth glinted very white when he smiled. “It’s been so long.”
“I’ve counted every day.” Ramson’s cheeks felt frozen, his mouth stuck in a smile.
“I’m so honored.” Kerlan gestured at the nearest door. “It seems I’d be an extremely bad-mannered host to not have you for tea. Please, after you.”
Ramson stepped through the door to a nondescript study, walls lined with bookshelves that boasted gilded tomes and dusty books, as well as the occasional eccentric piece of decoration—or, as Kerlan preferred to call it, exotic. A jade-sculpted dragon from Kemeira; a curved brass lamp that looked to be from one of the southern crowns; a piece of rainbow-hued rock from the depths of the Silent Sea itself. In the corner was a large brass clock, its rhythmic ticks punctuating the silence.
Yet as Ramson took in the room around him, he was suddenly struck with a realization so stark that it left him reeling. He remembered this room well, too well—it was almost as though he had been standing in it yesterday, rain-soaked and lost and wild, a boy with nowhere to hide and nowhere to run.
* * *
—
After Jonah’s death, Ramson had wanted nothing more than to get away from the military, from his father, from Bregon, from every single bit of the world that he’d thought of as safe and good, but that had betrayed him.
Twelve years old, he’d boarded one of the supply wagons from the military in the dead of night, with nothing on him but a pouch of coins and a name and address hastily scrawled on a piece of paper. He still remembered huddling in the back of the wagon between crates of stale vegetables and rotting meat, watching as the winking torchlights of the Blue Fort grew smaller and smaller.