Ten men in fancy outfits, many of them with medals pinned to their chests, stood around chatting in the great hall. Servants in black-and-white uniforms mixed with the barons. They carried trays loaded with little sandwiches or full glasses of wine. Along the walls ten armed men stood, seeming at ease, though their eyes never stopped moving, constantly scanning for danger. To a man they had cold, dead eyes. Killers’ eyes.
Damien took a moment to study the gathered men and found several guards and two barons all had modest internal soul force. No surprise to find a few warlords in such a powerful gathering. Lucky for him all the guards were in their mid to late twenties and the barons older yet. No one would recognize him from The Citadel.
Conversation fell silent when Lane entered. Damien knew just how they felt. She smiled her fake smile, grabbed a drink from a passing servant, and headed toward the closest group of barons. Damien checked her drink with an invisible thread of soul force and found it free of poison. He sent out more threads, checking the rest of the drinks as well as the food.
He didn’t expect to find anything. It would be too risky to poison the food in this setting. A baron might grab something he shouldn’t. Satisfied that Lane wasn’t in any danger at the moment, Damien went to stand in an empty space along the wall.
The older guards eyed him, sizing up the youngest member of their cohort. They didn’t look impressed. That was fine with Damien. He didn’t care what they thought of him and if they believed he was weak they might underestimate him. He crossed his arms and settled in for what he hoped would be a boring evening.
His gaze wandered from Lane to the barons, to the guards, but always returned to Lane. In that outfit she drew the eye of every man in the room. Damien frowned. At least some of the barons had to be married. Where were the wives?
“Hey.” A big, broad-chested warlord sidled up beside Damien.
He wore leather armor despite his soul force, whether to disguise the fact that he was a warlord or just because he liked the look Damien couldn’t guess. A claymore hilt jutted up beside his ear and he looked like he knew how to use it. A thick black beard covered his face and his left eye was missing. He had an imposing look which no doubt served him well in his chosen career.
“Evening. Which one are you with?”
“Baron Trasker.”
That focused Damien’s attention. If their information was correct and Trasker had hired the assassin his bodyguard could be a source of information, or a threat. “Which one is he?”
“The bald one with all the medals. You’re guarding the woman. She’s the king’s representative, right?”
Damien nodded, scanning the room for Trasker. There, chatting with Lane. Man, he did have a chest full of gold. How many wars had he fought in? He was a modestly strong warlord as well.
They seemed to be having a pleasant-enough chat. The baron didn’t look like the sort of person that would hire an assassin, not that you could really tell.
“Why’d they send someone so young to guard such an important diplomat?” the guard asked.
“Got me. I don’t pick and choose my missions. The higher-ups tell me where to go and I go. This job’s been a breeze. ten weeks of riding through the wilderness, camping under the stars with a beautiful woman, and no one trying to kill me. If it was summer instead of winter it would have been perfect. They can send me on as many missions like this as they want.”
“You don’t sound too attached to your charge.”
Damien shrugged. “I’m attached to getting paid. Anything happens to her and I’m liable to be out of a job.”
The bearded guard grinned. “You got the right attitude, kid. Name’s Sloan.”
“Damien.” They shook hands.
Miles emerged from a door at the rear of the hall. “My lords and lady, dinner is served.”
Chapter 30
Morana adjusted her tight, black dress and fluffed her curly copper hair as she walked down the dim tunnel. After she left that idiot Mikhail to return south, she’d flown to her master’s base in the northern mountains, as bleak and desolate a place as she’d ever visited.
It suited Connor Blackman perfectly.
She approached the library Connor had carved out of the mountain and paused outside the entrance to pull the neck of her dress a little lower. Morana didn’t know why she bothered. Connor never noticed her no matter how short her skirt or how low her top. Was it her or did he have no interest in women in general?
Morana squared her shoulders and stepped across the threshold. As always the darkness of the place struck her like a cold fist, sending a thrill through her whole body. How she wished to join Connor in this wonderful, consuming darkness. Soon, he’d promised her. For now he needed her soul force uncorrupted so she could move about as his agent in the wider world.
Connor had carved the library out of solid stone; the tables and bookcases were simply stone he’d left behind and shaped to his needs. Ancient tomes and scrolls covered the gray shelves alongside stranger artifacts like a horned demon skull that still retained eyes which followed her every move. If it had lips she suspected it would have licked them. The entire collection radiated demonic corruption.
She reached out to touch a black gem that pulsed with power, but caught herself before her fingers could brush the cold facets. Last time she touched something in his collection Connor had been very upset with her. She had the scars to prove it.
Morana strutted down through the rows toward
