Dieredon settled into a combat stance, and it was answer enough. Graeven sighed.
“You can’t defeat me,” he said, pulling his hood back over his face. Shadows enclosed all but his eyes and mouth, and his voice immediately changed. “I’ve always been the better, but my station has never given me chance to prove it. Besides, it would have been an insult for me to challenge someone so lowborn as yourself. I’d hoped the Watcher would kill you. Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to spread word of how your legacy ended at the hands of a
Dieredon launched himself at Graeven, and Haern remained behind to wait for an opening. The room was cramped, and it’d be difficult for them to fight side by side. Graeven’s sword connected with the knives, hard enough to send sparks floating to the ground. The two exchanged hits, and Haern felt a chill crawl up his spine at the sight. He knew Dieredon’s skill, having so recently received a painful lesson in the elf’s abilities. Yet as the two elves battled, Haern knew who was the better. Graeven had told no lie. He was the superior fighter. His sword weaved and feinted like a true extension of his body. With every stab and slash Dieredon made, he found himself out of position. Not by a lot, and he always recovered, or pulled his slashes back to block a fatal blow, but all it’d take was one mistake and he’d be bleeding out on the floor.
Which meant he had to help. When Dieredon fell back, Haern stepped in, his surprise attack as ineffective as he’d expected. Graeven parried it away, forced his sabers up to block what turned out to be a feint, and then brought his attention back to Dieredon. The two exchanged another set of blows, adding a slight gash across Dieredon’s arm, before Graeven had to return to the defensive, parrying and blocking their four weapons with his one with skill that bordered on art.
Still, against two powerful opponents in the cramped space, his maneuvers were limited, and Graeven knew it. Just as they were about to corner him, the elf lunged at Haern, startling him with his sudden, vicious speed. Haern failed to parry the sword in time, only shifting its aim so that instead of piercing his heart it slashed across the bones in his shoulder. It stung like the Abyss, and Haern fell away in fear of an onslaught. Instead, Graeven bolted for the door, Dieredon at his heels. Haern clutched his shoulder, forced the pain back into the recesses of his mind, and then ran, all the while knowing he could never match either of their speed. But he had to try.
No matter what, the Wraith had to die tonight.
The salty air stung as it blew against the cuts on Alyssa’s arms. It was that pain she first noticed as consciousness returned to her. The second was the realization that she hung from the air by her wrists, putting painful pressure on her shoulders and back. Last was that Graeven had betrayed her worse than anyone ever had in her life. He’d come in the middle of the night, finding Alyssa awake upon the bed.
“What’s happening out there?” she’d asked him. In response, he’d smiled, offered her his hand, and then struck her across the face once she accepted it. Two more blows came, and then darkness followed.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw the heavy shadows of boats, lit by a few carefully protected lanterns. Fear clawed at her heart as she realized the Merchant Lords were coming home to port.
“Help,” she cried, weak, hardly a whisper. She struggled against the rope, twisting her body about so she might glance deeper into the city. “Help!”
The second scream was better, but it still seemed weak. Worse was the silence her cry echoed in, the city unnaturally quiet. No one would be about. No one would come to save her. Tears rolled down her cheeks. This was it. This was how she’d die. She couldn’t begin to understand why the elf had betrayed her, though as the boats neared, she wondered if the merchants had offered him a bounty. Perhaps the elves figured her dying was good enough, regardless if it were at her hands or the merchants. In the end, it didn’t matter.
The only thing that mattered was the cold, triumphant smile on Warrick Sun’s face as he stepped down the plank and onto the dock. Armed sailors and mercenaries accompanied him. More boats arrived, and amid the din, Warrick approached. She hung from a heavy post, the rope expertly tied about her wrists so that her squirming only tightened it. The old man cupped her face in his gnarled hand so she would look him in the eye. She made no attempt to hide her revulsion at his touch.
“Aaah, Alyssa,” said Warrick. “We have some business arrangements to discuss. I hope you don’t mind.”
She refused to respond. Men came from the other boats, some of whom she recognized.
“Goddamn,” said Stern, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe the Wraith actually kept his word.”
“Cut her down,” Warrick told one of his men.
A ruffian pulled out his dagger and began sawing at the thick ropes. When it finally snapped, he caught her, not out of any inclination for protecting her from the fall, but just to have a grab at her breasts. He set her on the ground, then backed away. Alyssa pulled her hands free from the rest of the bonds. Trying to be brave, she stood before Warrick with her back straight, her arms at her sides, and addressed him with a tone she might have used on a disobedient servant.
“What is the meaning of this?” she asked. “What is it you think you’ll gain?”
“We stand to gain much,” Warrick said. “Tonight is the night we celebrate our ascension to lords and rulers of both Angelport and the rest of the Ramere. Not just that, though. We’ll celebrate the complete and total dissolution of the Trifect.”
Alyssa swallowed down her fear.
“Killing me will accomplish nothing,” she said. “My son still lives, and make no mistake, he will hunt you down and slaughter you all once he comes of age.”
Stern backhanded her, looking almost bored as he did it. She spat at him, feeling her cheek already starting to swell.
“Try not to be so shortsighted,” he told her.
Warrick reached into his coat, and he pulled out a heavy unsealed scroll. He offered it to her, and she reluctantly took it. As the rest watched, she unrolled it and read. Written in a careful hand that had to be Warrick’s own, the wording was simple, the scroll addressed to King Edwin himself. In it, she declared the Trifect no longer to exist, negated all trading agreements made with the other members, and swore to make no similar allegiances for a span of twenty years.
“This will mean nothing, not forced at knifepoint,” she said. “The others of the Trifect will know, and their wrath will be terrible.”
“Terrible?” Warrick asked, and his smile was ugly and full of missing teeth. “Is that so? Come now, who could refute this if key nobles bore witness?”
“What witnesses could possibly matter?”
“The head of the Keenan wealth.”
Alyssa’s sense of betrayal grew. First Madelyn had tried to kill her, and now she’d shatter the Trifect to pieces, despite the hundreds of years it had existed? Why? What madness had taken over her? She stood there, rubbing her sore wrists, and looked to the streets. Sure enough, she saw a large group of mercenaries coming their way. If only Laurie were alive, she thought. He never would have let something so terrible happen. She expected Madelyn to be amid the group, but she saw only Torgar leading the way.
“Where is Madelyn?” she asked, confused, as Torgar came up to them and bowed.
“Such a shame, that,” Torgar said, grinning. “the Wraith killed her, just like he killed her husband. Looks like little Tori’s in charge, but I’m her godfather, and I’ll be watching over things until she comes of age.”
Alyssa’s mouth dropped open. The entire Keenan wealth…in the hands of that drunken oaf? What was Madelyn thinking? Dumbfounded, she watched as Warrick took the scroll from her hands and gave it to Torgar, along with a small quill. Torgar signed his X at the bottom, then handed both back.
“We have no need of your help,” Torgar said to Alyssa. “You can stay up in Veldaren and rot, same with all the Conningtons.”
Ice water ran through Alyssa’s veins. With two of the three key families of the Trifect dissolving it, there’d be nothing the Connington family could do. It’d be over, all of it, and the merchants would be there waiting to pick up the pieces.
“We have all the witnesses we need,” Warrick said, turning back to Alyssa. “Now will you sign, or must we become more…persuasive?”
They’d torture her, she knew. How long until she broke? Because she would. In time, with enough pain, anyone would.
“I won’t,” she said. “I don’t care what it is you’ve done. I won’t sign. My son will inherit a fortune, not the
