detoured from a routine mission at Martintown to head north into Kyrakavia to take a brief look around. I left in the early hours of this morning to come further on to Caradoon. It seems a fitting place for the likes of Goth.’
Cloot flapped excitedly. Tor could see Saxon was thinking hard.
‘He’s here?’ he asked.
Cloot flapped joyously then hopped to a higher perch and stared towards the white building. Saxon followed the direction of the bird’s gaze and his broad jaw set itself firmly.
‘Then we keep a vigil until my eyes confirm it.’
The trio remained in their secret spot and watched carefully.
As night closed in on dusk, Saxon stretched. So did Cloot.
‘I have to take a look,’ was all Saxon said before moving soundlessly through the trees and emerging to walk stealthily across the street.
What’s he going to do?
Tor, time is our enemy. I must get us back to the Heartwood.
Tor ignored the caution, shooshing Cloot so they could watch.
Goth lay back amongst the silk cushions. He was dressed in the voluminous silk robes he now preferred; they hid the gauntness which the stracca had imposed on his once stocky frame. The room had a salubrious air, but closer inspection revealed it to be tired and jaded, like its clients. Once the stracca worked its magic, though, nothing else mattered and Goth could pretend he was Chief Inquisitor once again, living at the palace, powerful, rich, respected and feared. He liked the last most of all.
During the long, painfully bright days spent in recovery from the effects of the previous night’s stracca, reality bit like a snake. Fast and unrelenting, the truth of his life always struck as he emerged from the haze of intoxication. Sometimes the pain of it could make him weep. Xantia would come and soothe him.
Why she stayed with him Goth was never quite sure. She told him they were kindred souls; reassured him they shared the same enemies, the same dreamsand desires. And yet he saw how her lips pursed each time he drifted into his pleasant oblivion. She did not like her life. He was not altogether sure she liked him. But she had saved him from death, brazenly ordering those cringing guards to allow her into his cell. Her plan had been simple and cruel. The old hag, Heggie, was expendable. Bribed with a purse, she had agreed to accompany Xantia into the jail and remain there in Goth’s stead. After all, what could the Guard do to her; and, in truth, neither Goth nor Xantia cared if the old woman was punished for her part in their skullduggery. Yes, Goth loved Xantia for that cruelty; her passion for power and her unquenchable thirst for revenge was almost as addictive as the stracca.
Goth remembered how it had been her idea to remain in Tal to watch Gynt’s crucifixion. How they had sniggered together beneath their disguises at all those stupid people keening and weeping in distress. It had been more fun than a bridling.
Seeing Alyssa had made the risk worthwhile. She had looked so regal standing up there, proud and defiant. If he was still a whole man he would have been hard with lust at that moment watching her. Curse the Kloek who had taken his manhood. It did not seem to bother Xantia that he was not whole. In fact, if he really thought about it, Xantia was not at all interested in him as a man. But she admired his cunning mind, enjoyed his games.
Watching Gynt’s head split open had been the highlight. He had died bravely, Goth would give his enemy that. His forgiveness of the King had been amaster stroke, but oh, the delight of witnessing his death. Goth had been forced to bite his teeth together to keep himself from laughing aloud.
Xantia’s eyes had been sparkling at the hour of Gynt’s death. Goth remembered the high colour on her cheeks. And whilst the rest of the mob stared in horrified silence at Gynt’s limp body and the surprising amount of blood gushing from the huge wound in his head, Xantia had turned to watch Alyssa. She had bitten her lip
Cloot flapped excitedly. Tor could see Saxon was thinking hard.
‘He’s here?’ he asked.
Cloot flapped joyously then hopped to a higher perch and stared towards the white building. Saxon followed the direction of the bird’s gaze and his broad jaw set itself firmly.
‘Then we keep a vigil until my eyes confirm it.’
The trio remained in their secret spot and watched carefully.
As night closed in on dusk, Saxon stretched. So did Cloot.
‘I have to take a look,’ was all Saxon said before moving soundlessly through the trees and emerging to walk stealthily across the street.
What’s he going to do?
Tor, time is our enemy. I must get us back to the Heartwood.
Tor ignored the caution, shooshing Cloot so they could watch.
Goth lay back amongst the silk cushions. He was dressed in the voluminous silk robes he now preferred; they hid the gauntness which the stracca had imposed on his once stocky frame. The room had a salubrious air, but closer inspection revealed it to be tired and jaded, like its clients. Once the stracca worked its magic, though, nothing else mattered and Goth could pretend he was Chief Inquisitor once again, living at the palace, powerful, rich, respected and feared. He liked the last most of all.
During the long, painfully bright days spent in recovery from the effects of the previous night’s stracca, reality bit like a snake. Fast and unrelenting, the truth of his life always struck as he emerged from the haze of intoxication. Sometimes the pain of it could make him weep. Xantia would come and soothe him.
Why she stayed with him Goth was never quite sure. She told him they were kindred souls; reassured him they shared the same enemies, the same dreamsand desires. And yet he saw how her lips pursed each time he drifted into his pleasant oblivion. She did not like her life. He was not altogether sure she liked him. But she had saved him from death, brazenly ordering those cringing guards to allow her into his cell. Her plan had been simple and cruel. The old hag, Heggie, was expendable. Bribed with a purse, she had agreed to accompany Xantia into the jail and remain there in Goth’s stead. After all, what could the Guard do to her; and, in truth, neither Goth nor Xantia cared if the old woman was punished for her part in their skullduggery. Yes, Goth loved Xantia for that cruelty; her passion for power and her unquenchable thirst for revenge was almost as addictive as the stracca.
Goth remembered how it had been her idea to remain in Tal to watch Gynt’s crucifixion. How they had sniggered together beneath their disguises at all those stupid people keening and weeping in distress. It had been more fun than a bridling.
Seeing Alyssa had made the risk worthwhile. She had looked so regal standing up there, proud and defiant. If he was still a whole man he would have been hard with lust at that moment watching her. Curse the Kloek who had taken his manhood. It did not seem to bother Xantia that he was not whole. In fact, if he really thought about it, Xantia was not at all interested in him as a man. But she admired his cunning mind, enjoyed his games.
Watching Gynt’s head split open had been the highlight. He had died bravely, Goth would give his enemy that. His forgiveness of the King had been amaster stroke, but oh, the delight of witnessing his death. Goth had been forced to bite his teeth together to keep himself from laughing aloud.
Xantia’s eyes had been sparkling at the hour of Gynt’s death. Goth remembered the high colour on her cheeks. And whilst the rest of the mob stared in horrified silence at Gynt’s limp body and the surprising amount of blood gushing from the huge wound in his head, Xantia had turned to watch Alyssa. She had bitten her lip
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