Read Online The Malmillard Codex by K.G. McAbee - Free Book Online Page A

thoughts.
His only hope was that, whatever Madryn's plans for him, she would
not change them now. He knew he would not be able to stand it if
she left him here, alone. Oh, he could survive with no problem; he
could steal enough food and a horse to get out of the city, and
then become a mercenary to earn his bread. Living would be the
least of his worries.
    But living without Madryn would be
impossible.
    Val determined to ask her these and other
questions, this very night. He had to find out, had to stop living
with his heart in his throat, where it had taken up residence since
the day he'd met her. Tonight, he would find out his future.
    Val had just reached this point in his
musings when they returned to the Drunken Raven .
    "Innkeeper?" Madryn called as they entered
through the heavy street door that hung from rope hinges. Val
looked around. The taproom was filled with somber, silent women and
men, all gazing into brimming mugs, none of whom paid them the
slightest attention.
    A curious incident in itself.
    A massive woman with an uncanny resemblance
to her cousin the gatekeeper stuck her head up through a hole in
the floor, her mighty bulk nearly blocking this entrance to her
cellar. The ladder on which she balanced gave a protesting shriek
that shot across the quiet room like a moan from a damned soul.
    "Milady? Sir?"
    "Do you serve food in this place?"
    "No, indeed, milady, but there is a good
eating place just a few paces down the street, run by my sister and
her boy."
    "Damn," Madryn muttered under her breath.
"This entire village is one huge family."
    "My sister is a famous cook, and she'll be
pleased to arrange a most delicious dinner for you and the
gentleman," continued the innkeeper. "Shall I send word to her to
have it ready, say, sundown?"
    A silver coin winked into existence and was
gone almost as quickly, caught between two tubby fingers. Val
spared a passing thought to the abundance of silver. How much could
Madryn carry in that single saddlebag? How long until her supply
ran out?
    Madryn turned to him. Her hooded eyes told
him nothing, but her voice was cold. "I'm going to the docks to see
about a ship. Will you make sure Daemon is taken care of for me?
I'll meet you at this eating place at sundown and we'll have
supper."
    Val nodded, but she had already disappeared
without waiting for a reply.
    "Would the gentleman care for a drop of
something wet?" asked their landlady, who had finally managed to
emerge from the depths of the cellar.
    Val fingered the few coins that he had in
his belt pouch, remembering when Madryn had tossed them to him the
previous day. "For incidentals," she'd said, then gave him a
crooked smile. His heart had twisted within him at her tone, so
like that which one would use to an equal. At once he had been
filled with a desire that burnt into his vitals. Not just the
desire for her, though that was the greatest part of it; a desire
to be her equal.
    But he wasn't. He never could be. And he
didn't even have the satisfaction granted to some, the remembrance
of being free. He had been born a slave.
    "Why do you treat me this way?" Val had
snapped. The words appeared of their own volition; he could not
have dared to say them otherwise.
    "What way is that, Val?" Madryn asked, her
lean brown fingers unconsciously turning another coin.
    "You treat me…like a friend."
    "Ah, I see…it's that dislike of the nobility
that eats at you? Am I not supposed to speak to you at all, then?
Idiot! We're on the run, or had you forgotten?" Sarcasm leaked from
her voice. "If I treat you like a slave, how far will we get?"
    Val had nodded once, an unreasoning anger
roiling in his belly—not at her, but at her tone, at the impossible
situation. "Yes…but you surely don't have the need to treat me so
in private. Why do you do it?"
    Madryn laughed, but this was not her usual
soft, sardonic chuckle; this was sharp and bitter, more pain than
pleasure. "I beg your pardon; if I had known it bothered you so,