Endless Knight(91)

He raked a hand through his blond hair. “I wanted to change my existence so much, my bloody Tarot card is associated with change to this day.” Voice rising with each word, he said, “This game is a hell we’ve all been damned into. It’s designed to madden us. The most intelligent Arcana ever to play is called the Fool. The one who least wanted to kill was named Death. And you, Empress, rule over nothing!”


“You don’t need to kill?”


He turned to his vodka, drank. “Need. Want. Doesn’t matter. I do it.” When he refilled, the bottle clattered against the glass. “If any of these Arcana knew what awaited the winner, they would not be so keen to snatch a victory from me. They would thank me for reaping their lives.”


“I had no idea you felt this way.” Understatement. He wasn’t merely weary of killing, he despised it.

Another glass down. “You have no idea about me at all.”


“You’re right. And now that I’m thinking about it, I do want a boon. I want to ask you questions about your life and past, and have you answer them honestly.” Still atop his desk, I reached over and took the bottle from him to refill his glass.

“And so I am snared?” With an exhalation, he sank into his chair once more. “Then ask.”


“What do those runes on your skin mean?” The runes I’d dreamed of . . .

“As much as you watch me training, I’m surprised you haven’t deciphered them.”


I gave him a helpless shrug.

“They tell a story, one I can never forget—even if I die in this game. Each morning I look at them in the mirror to remind myself. And I’ll never reveal it to you, so don’t bother asking.”


I pursed my lips. “Will you tell me what you do between games? Please?”


Leaning forward aggressively, he said, “I wander the earth and see men age before my eyes. I read any book or paper I can get my hands on. I watch the stars in the sky; over my lifetime some dim, some brighten. I sleep for weeks at a time and chase the dragon.” When I frowned, he explained, “Opium.”


Made from poppy, one of the Empress’s symbolic plants. Their red blooms adorned my card.

“I take it any way I can ingest it.” He seemed to be daring me to say something about that, which I would never do.

I couldn’t imagine how harrowing his existence must be, thanking God—or the gods—that it hadn’t been my fate. Was that why I’d pitied him when I was younger? When I’d gazed at his card with fascination, I must have sensed something about this man. His horse looks sick, and he has no friends.

“On the cusp of a new game,” he continued, “the anticipation is like fire in my veins. I endeavor to locate other cards. To shepherd them, or mark them for elimination. I prepare for all different catastrophes. This is what I’ve done for millennia.”


“I see. If you’re looking for judgment, you won’t find it here,” I said. “All I want is to learn more about you. Will you tell me about growing up?” Maybe he had happy memories like I did. “Where are you from?”


He gave me an accusing look. “Why should I tell you? You won’t remember it anyway.”


“That really bugs you, that I can’t recall the previous games.”


Instead of answering, he stood and crossed to a wall safe. Withdrawing something glittering, he handed a jeweled piece to me, his forefinger briefly brushing my wrist. “Perhaps this will assist you.”


My gaze narrowed on the stunning emerald necklace. “You gave this to me once.” He must have taken it off my corpse. After he’d killed me last time. “I’m surprised you were able to get my blood off it.”


He scowled, turning toward the window. Lightning forked down in the distance.

“Why show me this?” I set it away on the desk, not wanting to touch it any longer. Though I was amazed that he’d kept it this long, the piece reminded me of a bloody and violent death. “Why not just tell me what you want me to remember?”


“Because relating our past won’t have the same impact. Because you won’t trust what I say.”


“Fair enough. In the meantime, you can at least tell me about yourself. I know you were born three games before this one. What was your boyhood like? Will you finally tell me your name?”


“My name?” Staring out into the night, he murmured, “I was called Aric. It means a ruler, forever alone.” Harsh laugh. “How prophetic of my parents.”


Aric. At last, he’d told me. When I’d first arrived here, he’d said, “Death is all I’ll ever be to you.”


No longer. “Go on.”


“When I was a boy, I was well aware that I’d been blessed with fortune. My father was a warlord who ruled a fortified settlement, a great trading center in what’s now Latvia.”


So that was his accent.

He returned to his seat. “We were the wealthiest family in the land, and my parents loved each other very deeply. Wanting what they had, I agreed when my father urged me to marry. I’d just turned sixteen, and it was time for me to start a family of my own.”


Had Death—or rather, Aric—been married? I’d never imagined it was even possible. I felt a surprising flare of jealousy. “But your touch . . .”