The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3)(40)

And then he drew his sword.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN




Walraven’s Dagger





Corriveaux heard the steps coming down the darkened hallway, but the Leerings had already warned him of the visitor’s approach. He waited in the darkness, past the curtain of light that spilled down on the stone plinth in the center of the room. He was nervous. Even though Walraven was an old man, he was cunning and would not be taken off guard easily. Corriveaux knew he could best him in a battle of strength, but this would be a battle of minds.

At last, he could see Walraven in the shadowy corridor. The older man’s mass of gray hair was wild and unkempt, his figure more gaunt than before. There was a haggard, weary look on his face. The walk down the steps into the dungeon had fatigued him, which showed in his labored breathing.

Walraven paused in the threshold of the room, his eyes scanning the darkness.

“You sent for me, Corriveaux?” Walraven asked mildly, still not entering.

“Come in, old friend,” Corriveaux greeted. He kept perfectly still.

Walraven’s expression tightened somewhat as he shuffled into the chamber. “My joints have been aching lately. Is there a Leering for arthritic joints, I wonder? It would be a helpful invention.”

Corriveaux was not fooled. That declaration of weakness had been a purposeful attempt to seem more vulnerable. He was sharp, the old man. The truth was, Corriveaux respected him immensely. Walraven scratched a patch of gray hair at the back of his head and scrunched up his face, his eyes still probing the dark.

“What is the report from Comoros?” he asked the old man. “What have you heard from your man Fox?”

He asked the words deliberately, studying Walraven’s face for a reaction.

The older man rubbed his throat. “Mayhem, as you can expect. Deorwynn was executed and the old king poisoned. The kishion is being hunted, but unless we send another to find him, he will likely remain beyond our power. The girl is taking the throne.”

Corriveaux smiled darkly, bridling his fury. Walraven did not use Maia’s name, he noticed. Their humiliation at losing her and the High Seer together was still a festering sore. They had been outmaneuvered by an old woman from Pry-Ree, one who continued to meddle with their strategies.

“The installation of a new queen is perfect for our plans,” Corriveaux said. “The people will be unruly for a while. She will seek to change things, which will only add to the confusion.”

“Have you had word from the armada?” Walraven asked with unconcern. “When will they arrive?”

“Why do you wish to know?” Corriveaux asked pointedly.

“It is no matter,” Walraven said with a shrug. “Only curiosity. This may interest you, though. There appears to be a schism among the mastons in Comoros. The incumbent Aldermaston of Augustin . . . the one known as Kranmir. You know of him?”

“I do not. Dahomey is my specialty. Augustin is one of their wealthier abbeys, if I recall.”

“Indeed. The former king had positioned Kranmir to assume command of Muirwood. Kranmir and some of the king’s loyalists are starting a civil war. They mean to challenge the girl for the throne.”

Corriveaux snorted. “So if we do nothing, they may kill each other for us? How foolish of them. That kingdom has always been fractious. But it does not change our plans. Let them howl and stab each other. When the armada arrives off its shores, they will learn the true meaning of the Void.”

“Yes, I am sure they will. I told you about Kranmir because I believe we would be better served to strike the south first. You do not know the earldoms as I do. The north is controlled by a disgruntled man named Kord Schuyler, who ran the earldom of Forshee and murdered his predecessors.”

“I recall that,” Corriveaux said.

“He is acting with Kranmir, and they have summoned an army to march on the capital. It will leave the south undefended. Just a suggestion, my friend, for the next time you contact the armada commander by the waymarker.”

Corriveaux narrowed his gaze at Walraven. He slowly walked around in the darkness, his footfalls muffled by Leerings that had been installed for that purpose.

“Put your dagger on the plinth,” Corriveaux said softly, his own drawn and gripped tightly in his hand.

Walraven’s neck muscle twitched. “If you feel it is necessary,” he said with nonchalance. He walked into the room, bathed with light from the Leering in the ceiling. He reached into his robe and withdrew his dagger, the symbol of his membership in the Victus. Any Victus who refused the call to put his dagger on the plinth would be hunted down by a kishion and killed. Setting down the dagger also made a man vulnerable, which was just what Corriveaux wanted.

Walraven stood there for a moment, his dagger clutched in his hand. Then he gently reached out and set it on the plinth.

“You killed Gastone,” Walraven said simply, stepping away from the plinth.

“I did,” Corriveaux answered.

“You thought he betrayed us?” There was a curious tone in his voice, but still . . . he sounded almost indifferent.

“No. I thought you betrayed us, my friend.”

Walraven’s brow crinkled and then smoothed. “Ah. I see.”

“I knew you would,” Corriveaux said, moving closer to the older man, watching him for any sign that he would flee or snatch back the dagger. He was preparing himself to plunge his own weapon into Walraven’s back. He knew just where to stab him. “I watched your movements after Gastone’s death. You knew I would do this, Walraven. You knew I had to kill you. I thought you would flee on a ship.”