Book 6: Epilogue (RAW) (Patreon)

Epilogue

The last thing Larynda remembered was the sudden, unnatural weight of drowsiness pressing down on her. Not the pleasant heaviness of a full stomach or a sleepless night finally collecting its due, but something thick and smothering, like a velvet curtain being pulled across her thoughts. 

She had barely tasted the inn’s simple breakfast that Estaza had given her. A little bread, some weak broth, bitter tea gone half-cold in its cup. Her thoughts had been elsewhere entirely, fixed on Gilgamesh and the struggle unfolding even now within the citadel of this cursed town. She had imagined steel ringing on steel. Even as sleep had stolen over her, she had been thinking of him.

Then she woke and felt the bite of rope on her wrists and ankles. Larynda jerked hard against her bindings, her limbs straining, her wrists burning raw where the cords bit into her skin. Rage came a heartbeat later, hot and blinding enough to almost drown the fear.

She had been a fool.

A fool for trusting Damien de Savant. A fool for believing that smooth, polished tale of the prodigal son seeking to reclaim what was rightfully his. A fool for mistaking charm for sincerity. The half-elf forced herself still, breathing hard through her nose, trying to think past the pounding in her blood. She could feel the wards here, thick and ugly, but at this distance, she still should have been able to reach for her magic. She should have been able to feel it answer.

Instead, there was only silence.

“Dullstone is laced in the fabric.”

Damien’s voice slipped into the room before he did, calm and measured, as though he were commenting on the weather. He drew up a stool and sat with maddening casualness, like a man paying a social call rather than visiting a bound prisoner. He reached forward and removed the gag from her mouth.

“Dullstone,” he repeated, as if lecturing an inattentive pupil. “Trace amounts in the cloth. More in your morning repast with some soporific, Maiden’s Blessing.”

Larynda sucked in a sharp breath, her mouth dry and bitter. “You bastard!”

“Yes,” Damien replied with a sigh, his expression barely flickering, “in that regard, you are indeed correct.” He waved a hand dismissively. “But let us not dwell on my rather dull parentage. I imagine you are far more interested in why I could not allow you to charge my father’s keep. First, I might add, no matter how powerful you are, you would be dead.”

She swallowed against the rawness in her throat. Fear clawed at her, but she forced it down. Panic would do nothing. She needed time. Time for something to change, time for a gap to appear. And for that, she needed him to keep on talking.

Her green eyes narrowed to slits. “Why,” she asked, each word clipped and hard, “and when?”

The beautiful man reached for a carafe and poured himself a cup of wine. The red liquid glugged into the goblet, and for one faintly ridiculous moment, he looked annoyed that it had not filled higher. Even now, even here, vanity clung to him like perfume.

“Narilmu. And, because,” he said at last, studying the wine as though it were the more interesting conversation, “I was paid in gold and promises to do so. And because I wished to see for myself whether he truly could do it.” His mouth curved, but there was no real humor in it. “Whether Gilgamesh could stand against the full weight of the Church and my sisters, if he truly put his mind to it. Whether the words of de Aserac were truth… or merely wind dressed as prophecy.”

Larynda stared at him in disbelief, then disgust. “That’s betrayal.”

“No,” Damien said, with the patient tone of a man correcting a child, “it is pragmatism, albeit in a rather brutal form.”

He crossed one leg over the other, all infuriating composure.

“When you are responsible for a thousand men, sentiment becomes a luxury. I needed the Church’s backing to secure legitimacy, one way or another. No matter who prevails, I emerge with advantage.” He lifted the goblet slightly, his gaze distant now, thoughtful in a way that made him seem, for one fleeting instant, almost tired. “Though you should know, I truly do hope Gilgamesh wins. I have always had a weakness for underdogs.”

“That’s just playing both sides.”

“Yes, you have a flattering ability to point out the obvious,” he replied blithely. “It is.” He took a measured sip, unashamed. “I admit it freely and without apology. Better this than a war dragged out over months, perhaps years. Claims here and there. Better this than shadows full of knives and sleepless nights waiting for the end to come by assassin’s hand. This…” he gestured lazily to the walls around them, “is cleaner. One way or another, it ends soon.”

Larynda’s stomach twisted. Cleaner. The word made her want to spit in his face.

“And if what I saw in Al-Lazar is any indication,” Damien continued, “then the odds are, however slightly, in Gilgamesh’s favor.”

At that, fear surged through her so sharply it almost hurt. Not for herself. For him.

“Let me go, Damien.” Her voice came lower now, rougher, and in spite of everything, there was a tremor in it she hated him for hearing. “You know how Gilgamesh reacts to threats. To tests. To betrayal.”

A faint shadow passed over Damien’s face, gone almost before she could be sure it had been there at all.

“I have found,” he said carefully, “that he is rather pragmatic in his own way. He could have killed that new Sultana of Al-Lazar, and he chose not to. He is sentimental beneath all that iron. He clings to old customs, to breaking bread, to debts of hospitality and all the rest of that antique nonsense.” He turned the cup slowly in his hand, watching the dark red cling to its sides. “Ultimately, he will understand.”

Larynda could not help the bitter laugh that escaped her. Understand? Did Damien truly believe himself so clever, so untouchable, just because he had broken bread with the man and could call himself a friend? Gilgamesh might understand the raw logic of it. But understanding did not always equate to forgiveness.

Damien let out another sigh, softer this time, and looked down into his wine as though it might offer absolution.

“It is why I fostered good relations with him,” he said. “And it is also why I gave him that woman.” His mouth tightened, and now there was bitterness there, real and unvarnished. “She, like you, is another card I may yet have to play.”

Something cold and ugly unfurled in Larynda’s chest. She had known Damien was ruthless. Known he was vain, self-serving, slippery as an eel in oil. But hearing him reduce flesh and feeling and trust to tokens that could be played made her skin crawl. 

“I suppose,” she uttered, fighting to keep her voice steady, “that next you’ll claim this is all part of some grand plan.”

“Not a grand plan for I have no grand designs,” Damien answered, and this time his smile was thin and humorless. “But, it is a plan nonetheless, and I hope it is sufficient enough to ensure that I win.”

He set the goblet aside and rose from the stool in one fluid motion. The movement was elegant, almost graceful, and somehow that made him seem all the more repellent.

“Now then,” he said, stepping closer, “if I untie the rest of you, do you promise not to do anything stupid?”

Larynda glared up at him. For one heartbeat, she considered lying. Saying yes. Smiling sweetly. Waiting for the slightest opening and sinking her teeth into his throat if she had to. It would have been wiser. It would have bought her something.

But rage was a fire in her veins, and pride was an old, stubborn wound that never learned.

“What do you think?” she snapped.

For the first time, Damien looked honestly disappointed.

“Well,” he sighed, with a sound that was almost genuine, “that is indeed a shame.”