“Yes, milady.”
Zusa left, and she felt a pall settle over her. The walls of the mansion confined her, and she headed for the exit, wanting fresh air, wanting to be alone. At the doors to the mansion, Zusa stopped, for a great commotion had started. Soldiers, at least a hundred, were streaming into the mansion, shouting and joking with one another as if they’d arrived for a feast. Every single one bore the Gandrem family crest. Servants ushered them down various hallways, trying to find spare rooms.
In the center of it all stood John Gandrem, greeting his men. And with her arms wrapped around his waist was Melody.
“Our family will be kept safe,” Melody said, noticing Zusa standing there amid the sea of confusion. “Do not worry for my daughter, nor her son. You’ve done much to protect us, but it’s time we do this the right way.”
Zusa said nothing, just continued to count the men. When the number reached two hundred, she returned to Alyssa’s room and hid above the door, her body awash in shadows, her daggers at the ready.
Tarlak could hardly believe what he was hearing, and even if he believed it, he certainly didn’t like it.
“Are you sure he wasn’t lying?” he asked, plopping down in his chair. Haern stood at the door to his room, hands on the hilts of his swords. “You know priests of Karak aren’t exactly known for their truthfulness.”
“Trust me on this,” Haern said, shaking his head. “He didn’t lie. Whoever this Luther is, he set his sights on nearly every major player in Veldaren. The Gemcrofts, the Conningtons, myself, the thief guilds…”
“Why Thren in particular, you think?”
Haern shrugged.
“Thought Thren would be the least likely to fold? Seemed there might be some sort of familiarity between Thren and the Suns, too. Not sure.”
Tarlak frowned while rocking back and forth.
“Every major player,” he said. “Every single one but the King…”
Haern chuckled.
“Perhaps he thought the King too inept to pose a problem?”
Tarlak shot him a look.
“This is no laughing matter. What you’re talking about is beyond dangerous.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do,” Tarlak insisted. “You want to travel all the way to Ker so you can infiltrate the Stronghold, to interrogate a priest whose name you can’t be sure is real, and who might not even be there. And this isn’t some ordinary building, either. This is the dark paladins’ home, their training ground, their own little private fortress. Damn it, Haern, I’ve heard horror stories about their dungeons that make Thren seem like a pretty butterfly.”
He stood, waved a finger.
“And most importantly of all about this nonsensical plan…there’s no money in it!”
The wizard plopped back down in his chair and rubbed his forehead with his fingers.
“I won’t help you,” he said. “None of us will.”
“I thought not.”
Tarlak sighed.
“You’re still going, aren’t you?”
Haern nodded.
“They wanted us dead, Tar. You know I can’t leave us in danger like that. What happens if he tries again? We still don’t know what Luther wanted to accomplish, other than plunging Veldaren into chaos.”
“So you’ll go alone? They’ll kill you, you have to know that.”
Haern seemed far too assured, far too confident. Nothing of his rant was rattling him. Something was up, and it stank.
“I know it’s suicide to go alone,” his friend said. “That’s why I’m not going alone.”
Haern stepped away from the door, revealing Thren Felhorn leaning against the doorframe behind him, arms crossed, an amused expression on his face.
“I must say,” he said, glancing about Tarlak’s room. “I think I expected something more. And forgive me if I may be so bold, wizard, but I don’t think anyone has ever referred to me as a pretty butterfly in my entire life.”
He smirked as Tarlak’s jaw dropped open.
“So please…don’t do it again.”
