who only glared back, eyes flashing with Grace.
“Yes,” Rogger continued. “Raven ser Kay did not die a noble death on some battlefield, but instead met his end in bed, of an affliction of the heart. Or more specifically, a dagger to the heart, wielded by a concubine who shared his sheets. A comely lass of great beauty, I’ve heard, but one whose family ties could be traced to the Reaper King. An unfortunate discovery made after she used that same dagger to slay herself.”
Delia sat straighter. “Such is the tale sung by balladeers.”
“A truly tragic end, one embellished with details over the centuries, making it a grand tale of love, revenge, and honor. But where such ballads end, the true story begins.” Rogger paused to puff on his pipe, then continued. “For Raven ser Kay was not like other men
… There was a reason he survived so many battles. He had a secret he kept from the wardens and castellans of Tashijan. A secret that a comely assassin revealed upon the point of her dagger.”
“What secret is that?” Tylar asked as Rogger paused again.
“He has no heart.”
“What?”
“There is a reason he is titled Krevan the Merciless. It comes from his much older but truer name: Krevan the heartless.”
Tylar shook his head. “What foolishness is this?”
“He speaks the truth,” Krevan grumbled from his bench. “I was born with no heart.”
“How…?” Delia asked, growing paler.
Rogger explained. “Exposed as a babe in the womb to black alchemies, his blood was corrupted. It is a living thing, flowing on its own through his flesh and organs, needing no muscled pump. It is this same corruption that allowed him to survive the assassin’s blow. You can’t stab what isn’t there.”
Tylar stared at Krevan with new eyes.
“But such a wound could not be hidden. His secret was laid bare. He was given a choice by the warden at that time. Be stripped and humiliated… or allow the Raven Knight to die.”
Rogger glanced again to Krevan. “So he walked away, leaving his past to the balladeers and historians to pick and chew over like dogs on bone. He started a new life-not unlike you, Tylar-among the low and forgotten. Out of the seed of his pain grew the Black Flaggers.”
Tylar sensed corners of the story left untold, but he did not press.
“But how did he come to be corrupted in the first place?” Delia asked. “To be born without a heart?”
The answer came from the doorway. Wyr-lord Bennifren entered, carried by the same woman. “Because he was born here… in the Lair.”
Delia covered her mouth in shock.
“This is his true home,” the ancient baby said in that sickly sibilant tone of his. “He is born of the Wyr.”
Krevan gained his feet. “One does not choose a birthplace, but one can choose a life thereafter. I renounced this place long ago.”
“Blood is always blood.”
Krevan spat on the floor. “And shite is forever shite.”
The knight’s outburst only amused the Wyr-lord. Dark laughter flowed. Krevan seemed to sense he had been drawn deliberately out. He straightened and glared. “What of the bargain? Will it cost me more of my blood?”
“That bought Allison’s freedom eighty years ago. You struck a hard bargain. I still miss your mother.” He reached up and squeezed the breast of the woman who carried him. There was no reaction. “She had the sweetest milk of all my cows. Whatever did become of her after you left here? Died I heard. Drowned. Was it an accident or did she still have a bit of will left in her? Perhaps she missed her former life.”
“What you did to her…” Krevan’s reaction was not an outburst, but a coldly spoken promise. “I will still kill you for that.”
A tiny arm waved away his threat. “She let you flee the Lair. She had to be punished. But I’m surprised it took two centuries for you to finally come looking for her. Who’s to blame for that?”
Krevan’s eyes narrowed.
Tylar read the pain there, deep rooted and old. He had to end this. He spoke up, drawing the Wyr-lord’s attention. “Is there a deal to be struck here or not?”
“To the point,” Bennifren said, ancient eyes staring out of the pudgy, soft face. “Very good. The council has conferred. We will allow you safe passage through our burrows.”
“And the price?” Tylar asked.
“One you can live with, I believe… and that is the point of all this, is it not?”
Tylar smelled sour milk wafting as the Wyr-lord was carried closer.
“For ages upon end,” he continued, “the Wyr clans have sought divinity in flesh. We have made many strides toward that end. The black knight who led you here was but one success, a mortal man almost unbound by time. But he does age, like myself, only much more slowly. A century or more and he will expire, as will I. That is, if he does not die sooner of severe wounds or sickness like any man. We have some manner to go before we can breed godhood out of mortal flesh-but we grow closer with every passing birth.”
Tylar had seen the results of such births over the years: children without limbs, creatures of misshapen flesh, Grace-maddened beasts. But the worst were those like the abomination before him. Twisted by alchemies in the womb, yet wise beyond reason. They were dangerous and cunning.
He would have to tread lightly. He had no misconceptions about the Wyr, and they surely were not blind to his own abilities: from the Grace flowing through his body to the smoky daemon held in check. Yet they allowed him into their Lair without fear. He did not doubt that eyes watched from unseen places, and safeguards were in place to kill them all at the slightest provocation.
“Then what do you want from us?” Tylar asked again.
“As payment for saving your flesh, we ask only that you leave a little of it behind.”
“What do you mean?”
The eyes of the babe flashed brighter. “You have been blasted by Grace, had it infused into your being. One such as yourself could help us achieve our ancient goal in a single generation.
“We want nothing more-and nothing less-than a single sample of each of your eight humours. Leave that behind and passage will be granted to all of you.”
Tylar considered this offer. It was plain enough. He began to open his mouth, ready to agree.
Rogger mumbled around his pipe, the words barely reaching Tylar’s ears, “Bargain, damn you…”
Tylar realized he had been too ready to seal the deal. “You ask for much,” he stumbled out. “I say my blood alone should buy us passage.”
“What you offer so freely we could perhaps take by force,” Bennifren countered, eyes squinting with threat.
“But what will it cost you? You know I am not without weapons.”
“Your daemon…” the Wyr-lord sneered, a disturbing expression on a babe’s face.
Tylar nodded. Let them believe he could wield the creature like a sword. “You would never find your way out of our burrows. We have traps that can kill even a daemon-cursed man. And what of your friends? Do you throw their lives away so easily?”
Tylar sighed and countered. “Then I’ll offer blood and both biles.”
“Shite and piss? That’s how you sweeten the deal. I’m not moved.”
“Then make a counter.”
“I will leave you tears and sweat, and take all else.”
Tylar narrowed his eyes. The Wyr birthed abominations in their drive for divinity. They would want his seed more than anything else. He suspected it was this very reason he was still alive. While the Wyr might harvest most humours from his corpse, his seed would die with him.
Yet now that he considered it, this was the one humour he would keep to himself. He would not have some twisted child born from the seed of his loins. Not among the Wyr. He had only to consider Krevan’s story to know better.
“You may have all my humours except one,” Tylar said.
“You wish to restrain your seed from us,” the babe said, as if reading his mind. “Is this not so?”
Tylar felt a chill despite the hearth. Dark intelligence shone from the little one’s eyes. He sensed a trap being
