17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

M adan had avoided Alek Nightingale's ball for several reasons. First and foremost, as the only living relative to the late Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell, he'd be expected to remain in mourning for quite some time. In doing so, he'd effectively remove himself from the list of eligible Caersan bachelors in want of a wife. As if he'd had any intention of marrying a Caersan woman. Ever.

Secondly, he continued to actively dodge Markus Harlow. As Emillie would've been with Alek, their father—as if Madan could ever consider that vampire to be so to him—would also be in attendance. By the way the Princeps had watched him in the Council Chamber, he got the awful feeling that, perhaps, his thick-headed brother had said too much. He had a tendency to spill secrets when under emotional duress—as evidenced by his inability to keep his mouth shut with Ariadne about literally anything.

That did not mean, however, that he wanted to avoid Alek himself. Though he hadn't had many interactions with the Lord Governor alongside Azriel, he trusted his brother's judgment enough to know Alek Nightingale wasn't who the rest of the Society painted him to be. Whatever rumors surrounded the Caersan were likely twisted, taken out of context, or falsified completely.

So when he went to meet up with Alek a couple of nights later, Madan wasn't worried about what others would think of him. He doubted anyone thought much good about either of them as it was.

Boone's was Laeton's finest gentlemen's club. It sat at the heart of the city in a building as grand as the Council Chambers. Three floors of white stone rose above the surrounding merchant businesses, a mere street away from Madame Ives' modiste, like a moonlit beacon of aristocracy. With a strict guest list, only the most prestigious Caersan lords were welcome within. As a newly appointed Lord Governor, Madan was one of the fortunate few now welcome. Azriel had never accepted an invitation, finding the restricted club too elitist as a half-vampire.

Inside was just as impressive as out. With high charcoal walls and dark wood accents, the rooms loomed like caves of posturing Caersan men. Thanks to the Season being in full swing, even more were in Laeton than typical. Madan could recall a time in the middle of winter when he accompanied his sisters into town and stopped in briefly with Markus. Then, there had been a couple dozen strewn about the rooms, enjoying their drinks and cigars while playing games of chess or billiards.

Now, with so many men searching for prospective wives amongst the debutantes attending the capital's many balls, the rooms were filled with chatter, smoke, and the raucous laughter of vampires enjoying their time away from responsibilities.

Madan made his way through the front entrance, where a large bar sprawled at the far end of the foyer with crystal bottles of liquor displayed on neat shelves behind the keep. Though the games and boisterous talk were similar to that of the Drifter's Inn and Bistro, the atmosphere, tailored suits, and overall cleanliness set it far apart from the dredges Azriel had carried Ariadne out of mere months ago.

He leaned into the bar and the keep set a glass atop a cork coaster, waiting for his order. "Whiskey. Neat."

The keep nodded, his oiled, slicked-back hair gleaming in the moody lighting. With a flourish, he poured the drink. "Anything else, my Lord?"

"Lord Governor Nightingale?"

"Ah, yes." The keep gestured to the stairs leading up. "Top floor. Enjoy your evening, Lord Caldwell."

With a quick thanks and incline of his head, Madan took the glass and started off. The name and title had yet to settle in. Though he certainly could get used to the perks of being a Lord Governor—membership to places like Boone's being just one—the business behind it all didn't sit quite right.

This was meant to be Azriel's position. Though his brother had hated the very idea of it, he'd known it was coming the moment Garth Caldwell took ill. Madan never considered the title and all its responsibilities being passed down to him. The very notion had been preposterous, for he knew that, as much as Azriel said he would give it to him, his brother would've never forced the role on him unwillingly.

Unfortunately, just that had happened the moment Loren fucking Gard revealed Azriel's true heritage. That bastard would pay for his crimes one day.

For Madan continued to hold tight to the possibility that Garth Caldwell's illness hadn't been from old age. Gods knew his wife was ancient in comparison and continued to move freely about the Caldwell Estate in Monsumbra—if not with some assistance from time to time. Someone had poisoned him, and it was likely the same substance that took Madan's arm: liquid sunshine.

The liquid acted slow, from what Madan could remember of his time in the cellar of Loren's guardhouse. If it'd been given to Garth in small doses over time, it would've wreaked havoc on his innards. Even a single helping of it would've been enough to cause death. His grandfather's sudden decline in health all but screamed foul play. Partnered with the fact that he'd been working to create a peace treaty between vampires and the Crowe, Madan's suspicions only grew.

There was only one person in power who profited from war. And it was the only vampire he was aware of having access to that terrible potion.

The thoughts plagued Madan as he ascended to the second, then third floor of Boone's. The number of patrons in the wide open rooms in the upper levels decreased the higher he went. By the top floor, he was almost completely alone.

Boone's ceilings soared in the highest rooms, the slants painted with murals of the gods of Empyrean. Sora, the Goddess of the Heavens, shone brightest of them all with her brown skin, pointed ears, and feathered silver wings. Her gray eyes and silver hair almost glowed amongst the soft clouds, outshining even the Goddess of Flame, Emry, who ruled over the desert and steppes to the east.

Yet neither goddess, despite Emry's stark tattoos, shaved head, and iridescent wings, was the one who drew Madan's attention. Instead, it was Bastien. The God of Rain was positioned away from the others amongst the stormy clouds. Despite his burgundy complexion and leathery wings, his long, dagger-like fangs were the closest to a vampire's. He was beautifully ethereal, like the other celestials, but it was his brassy eyes, the tone so similar to the marbled gold in Madan's, that held his attention.

Madan didn't find the vampires' history books tasteful in terms of their take on the timeline of the Keonis Valley, yet he couldn't fault their artistic renderings of the gods. They took the ancient texts of the fae and created magnificent visuals based on what was written.

"Lord Caldwell." Alek's voice cut across his thoughts, and when he turned to follow the sound, he found the Caersan lounging in a leather wingback chair. "I am pleased you made it."

He started across the room, away from where the handful of others on the third floor played a rousing game of billiards, and took a seat in the matching chair beside Alek. "Of course."

After all, it had been Madan who requested the meeting. It hadn't taken much convincing. Alek always seemed ready to accept such invitations.

"I don't believe I've offered my congratulations," Madan said, "on your engagement to Miss Harlow."

Alek's black eyes glittered. If nothing else, Madan couldn't deny the fact that the man was wickedly handsome. His long, inky hair shone blue in the firelight, and his hooded gaze always seemed to be filled with steam, no matter who he looked at. Right now, they smoldered at Madan, and he didn't appreciate the way it made him yearn for Whelan.

"You have my thanks." Alek raised his glass. "But I assume you did not ask me to meet you here to speak about my future bride."

"Would that be strange?" Madan took a sip from his drink and raised a brow. "I was her guard for more than a year."

The Caersan responded with a dark chuckle. "I suppose that is true. Is that all this is, then? A chance for you to get to know me and ensure her…safety?"

"No, you're right." Madan reached across himself to set the glass onto the coaster of the small table between them and winced. It wasn't often he felt phantom pain in his missing limb, but he certainly didn't appreciate it when it happened. "I wanted to thank you for your help with the Council. I understand why Azriel was so quick to trust you."

Alek inclined his head. "It was not so long ago that I was in the same position. When my father passed, it was…unexpected. I had not been appropriately prepared."

"No one expects their predecessor to die so suddenly."

Alek didn't flinch at Madan's remark, and that let Madan decide on two things. The first was that Alek was not upset by his father's passing. Whatever happened between the two of them left its mark, and he was, likely, thankful for the Caersan's sudden departure. The second was that Alek knew what really happened to Azriel, and he had the suspicion that Madan also knew the truth.

Between both of these realizations, he was ready to dissect the Lord Governor's knowledge about it all. To do so, however, he needed to make sure he could trust him.

"Everyone dies eventually." Alek studied Madan's face, those dark eyes roaming and analyzing. "Though I am deeply disappointed by your predecessor's fate, I am pleased to have finally made your acquaintance. He spoke very highly of you."

Madan's heart gave a twang. It isn't the first time Azriel's life had hung in the balance, but to think that his fate rested in the hands of a Caersan woman riddled with self-doubt and a dhemon with poor self-control made it all the worse. He wouldn't have sent them alone if he truly doubted it. The worry, however, ate at him.

"Did he tell you anything the last time you spoke?" Madan asked, checking to ensure the others in the room were all still hulking around the billiards table.

After following his gaze, Alek tilted his head. "You ask as though I were one of the last to see him."

"Were you not?"

Now Alek's eyes narrowed. He knew something, and Madan could feel it. The brief telepathic tête-à-tête he had with his brother thanks to Brutis and Razer had been informative yet lacked substance. Between what Azriel and Ariadne had said, combined with the cover story provided by Lord Knoll, he'd pieced it all together. Almost.

"I was at the Harlow Manor shortly after the news broke." Alek's words were careful. Weighed. Precise. As though he'd practiced them again and again. "The younger Miss Harlow was quite distraught."

"And Lady Caldwell?"

"I did not see her." The Lord Governor sipped his drink. "I assumed she was beside herself after everything that happened. She had already been through so much, after all."

Madan nodded. That was likely the honest truth. If the state in which he saw Ariadne after a week of travel was any indication, she'd been beside herself since. "I heard Azriel's pyre was empty."

"And I heard Lady Caldwell was in Monsumbra with you."

"The Dowager Caldwell is taking care of her."

"Will she be back for the wedding?" Alek was prying as much as Madan. They were but two Caersan men seeking confirmation from the other to validate their beliefs. "Miss Harlow would be displeased if her sister were not in attendance."

Alek defended his feigned ignorance with the skill of a lord bred for the Society and raised to play its games. In comparison, Madan had only half the same advantages. Bred though he was by a pair of the most powerful Caersan families, his training had strayed from mere mind games and gossip. He'd been forced to learn how to gather information without being noticed, for he stuck out wildly from the dhemons with whom he'd been raised.

So Madan checked again that they were quite alone before leaning in on the elbow just above the amputation, bringing himself closer to Alek. "You know as well as I that she will not."

As he suspected, this didn't seem to surprise Alek, but his eyes darkened. Whether from confirmed suspicions or protectiveness, Madan couldn't tell. Alek had been, after all, a friend to the Harlow sisters for much of their lives. He'd even courted Ariadne earlier in the season.

Leaning in, Alek leveled that cautionary gaze on him and said, "Where is she?"

"What do you know?" Madan shot back, not daring to reveal everything to someone he wasn't certain knew it all already.

"You are correct in assuming I was one of the last he spoke to." The corners of Alek's mouth tightened. "I gave him a final request, from one Lord Governor to another: survive ."

Satisfied, Madan cocked a brow and said in their low, conspiratorial whispers, "Then you know precisely where she is."

"And why are you not with her?" Alek's question stung like venom, and that onyx stare struck like daggers. "She will die."

"No." Now Madan sat back, relieving the aching pressure from his stump of an arm. "That's the problem with you Caersan men."

Alek said nothing. He merely glared, waiting for the rest of Madan's thoughts.

But Madan sipped from his glass and smacked his lips, quite satisfied with the way he'd pulled the rug out from under the Lord Governor. "You assume your women are helpless. Quite the contrary, really. Think about what Miss Harlow has done with you."

For a moment, Alek's brows furrowed, then eased back up as a small smirk of approval curled his lips. "Miss Harlow is, indeed, devious in her plans."

"She got what she wanted from you," Madan agreed, "in much the same way her sister got things from me."

"Algorath is still a serpent's den." Alek no longer had the audacity to feign his emotions. Instead, he returned to studying Madan with interest. "How will she ever free him and make it out alive?"

"I'd never send my sister into danger alone." Madan smirked at Alek's piqued interest at the term sister . Now was not the time for that tale, so he powered on, "She is building her repertoire for…survival."

Alek's eyes narrowed, understanding. "A sword is useless against magic."

Madan nodded in agreement. "That's why I've armed her with allies and knowledge on how to strip mages' power."

"If you think a Desmo of Algorath is not prepared for such things," Alek said with a huff, "then you are a fool, Lord Caldwell."

"I'm quite aware of what a Desmo is capable of." Madan leaned back in again, forgetting all pretenses in a sudden flash of anger. "And the only reason I'm not going to kill you for sending my brother into that hell is for Emillie's sake. Her plan was sound…until he was placed with the Desmo most likely to kill him with her own hands and claim it was a training accident."

When Alek opened his mouth to speak again, Madan raised his hand to stop him and continued, "I need to know one last thing before I go."

"And that is?" Alek looked almost amused by the threat. The same mistake most people had shortly before Madan did, indeed, kill them. Everyone thought Azriel was the most dangerous of the pair. They had no idea what Madan was capable of, though he feared missing a limb would put a damper on things.

"Can I trust you?"

It obviously wasn't the question Alek had been expecting. The Lord Governor blinked, his brows flinching together for a beat. "An interesting question—"

"Can. I. Trust. You." The words hissed from between Madan's teeth, his gaze boring into the Caersan with a flash of intensity. "Everything we said today stays between us. I need to know that when it's time to act, I'll have a powerful ally beside me—in the Council Chamber and otherwise."

Interest mounted in those coal-black eyes, and Alek sat back to study him again with languid interest. "Yes. You can trust me."

This time, when Madan made to bid him farewell, Alek cut him off and continued, "So long as you answer all my questions."

So Madan settled back in and did just that.

Algorath was the most beautiful city Ariadne had ever seen, and it only got better during the day. Thanks to the Noct, she could don an outfit not unlike those used by the city guards, including a shemagh to wrap around her face, and walk through the bustling streets alongside Phulan. The way the city seemed to glow under the midday sun made her blood pound and her senses go on high alert. While her instincts told her that what she did was wrong, the rush of it thrilled her in a way she never knew before.

The people of the city only made Algorath that much more stunning…and that much more dangerous.

"It's best for your face to remain hidden," Phulan had said as she wrapped the shemagh over Ariadne's face and hair the first day. "We don't want Melia's people to see you yet. Not until we're ready."

"Are you friends with Melia?" Ariadne had asked, adjusting to the constricting new clothing. If it were not for the Noct's cool touch, she would have been too warm under the layers.

Phulan had scoffed at that. "That woman has no friends. She has allies."

"And are you an ally?"

"She keeps close tabs on me," Phulan had said, checking that she did not reveal too much of her skin. "And in doing so, I've become someone she keeps around."

The answer had thrilled her. If Melia wanted Phulan close by, that meant she had a way to get closer to Azriel. If she could make herself known to Melia, she could potentially become one of those allies . As an ally, she may be able to find a way to free Azriel. She just had to be careful.

Yet despite her rising tide of excitement and hope, Kall did not hesitate to put a damper on things. He had stood before the door, arms crossed like a disgruntled nanny and said, "Not safe."

"Posh." Phulan had waved her hand dismissively. "I'll keep her safe."

"If Azriel—"

"If Azriel was here," Phulan cut him off, "you wouldn't stop him. You wouldn't question him. Why do you question her?"

Kall's blue complexion flushed, and he eventually relented. To avoid Melia's eyes and ears around the city, he could not join them in their journey across Algorath, so he stepped aside to let them pass.

Now, as Ariadne made her way through the streets and bustling markets for the fifth day in a row—filled with hundreds or even thousands of mages and magickless humans—she still felt that horrible twist in her gut. The bodies pressed in close. Too close.

She had not liked the markets since her return from the dhemon keep well over a year ago, and despite Phulan remaining by her side, she could not keep the anxiety at bay. Though Kall had been acting like an overprotective mother hen, perhaps he had been right. Each morning, she had woken and readied for the next outing, and each morning, he stood by the door with worry on his face.

But they had to be seen. Not Ariadne's face, perhaps, but to make Melia notice them, someone needed to see Phulan in public with a stranger. Only then would she gain the next step needed to find Azriel.

They took advantage of their time by meeting with people Phulan trusted to discuss legal routes to pry Azriel from the Pits. Every single one of them gave them the same dismal answer: Once a prisoner goes to the Pits, there is nothing they can do . After all, it was considered a trial by combat. They accepted their fate the moment they entered a Desmo's training grounds.

Still, Kall had made them promise to keep their outings minimal. Ariadne could not miss her lessons in the garden. So, by early afternoon, they returned to the house where Phulan would put up an illusion just strong enough to make it appear as though the stone garden was empty and silent. Drawing others' attention meant ensuring they only saw what they wanted them to see.

It was on the sixth morning that a messenger arrived at Phulan's door with an invitation to Melia's chateau in the Suin District. Phulan slid the smooth, neatly decorated paper across the amethyst table to where Ariadne sat, enjoying her breakfast in the sunlight. The ink shone like diamonds.

"Tonight?" Ariadne frowned at the invitation. "After sunset?"

Phulan made a face. "It seems she wants to be…accommodating."

"How does she know I am a vampire?" Ariadne looked from her to Kall as though he might hold the secret.

With a sigh, the mage took a seat and said, "Because I told her."

Kall shot to his feet, shouting in the dhemon tongue. He pointed a finger at Phulan, sharp teeth bared, and then hauled Ariadne to her feet by the arm.

To her credit, Phulan did not flinch at Kall's outburst. "You are overreacting. I wanted her to know." Then she looked to Ariadne and said, "Please trust me as you've done so many times now. I'm not Melia's friend or ally. She doesn't know your name, just that you're a visitor from Valenul."

"Why would you want her to know?" Ariadne could not help the rising tide of nerves that wrapped around her gut and chilled her from the inside. "Would she not suspect me?"

Phulan shook her head. "According to all knowledge coming from Valenul, Ariadne Caldwell is mourning the death of her husband in Monsumbra."

"So who am I to be?"

"A nobody."

Ariadne stared at her for a long moment. "That will never work."

"And why is that?"

"I am Caersan." She gestured to the vivid veins across her face and neck. "Everyone will know. No one will believe my family would allow me to travel to Algorath on my own. Not without a chaperone or personal guard."

Kall's grip on her arm eased a bit as though he understood before she did. He could not know the intricacies of the Society, however. There were too many flimsy pieces to this plan.

Then Kall changed everything when he said, "Madan Caersan and no one question him. He guard, no lord."

He was right. Not one of the Caersans had doubted his tale about being a son of a low-born Caersan family. Like Azriel, they had all taken him at face value. No one would have guessed that he was the only son of Markus Harlow by his late first wife. Being scratched from the history books made it simple to rewrite your past.

And if she played her cards right, she would be able to create her own personal history. She, too, could be the daughter of a forgotten Caersan woman.

"You will be my new ward, Cressida." Phulan still did not stand. She remained as relaxed as ever at her table, quite certain neither Ariadne nor Kall would abandon her plan. Of course she was right. They had come too far and risked too much just by being here to back out now. "Your parents, Samanthe and Benedict Quinn, were recently killed in a dhemon raid in a small, unnamed village of Eastwood Province. They were my friends from my time in Valenul, and their Will sent you to me."

Ariadne glanced up at Kall, who grunted in frustration before releasing her. Together they sat back down at the table, much to Phulan's amusement, before she asked, "Were Samanthe and Benedict real people?"

"Yes." Phulan grimaced. "And they did die a couple of weeks ago. Their daughter didn't survive, either. You'll bear her name for as long as it's needed. No remains were found."

Kall glowered at his hands. "Ehrun."

Phulan placed her hand on his, startling him from whatever dark place his mind had taken him. "This isn't your fault."

"It is." He frowned and pulled away from her. "It is."

"How do you plan to explain Cressida's survival?" Ariadne asked, turning her attention back to the mage. "My survival, I mean."

Phulan smiled. "Cressida loved the forest. She was out picking mushrooms when the attack occurred and honored her parents' caution to run ."

Run. Such a simple word that seemed to haunt Ariadne wherever she went. She had tried to run from Ehrun. The first time had been when she arrived at the keep after spitting in his face. He had hit her so hard, she couldn't remember what happened between the entry hall and her cell.

The next time she had tried to escape, she made it halfway up the stairs from the dungeon when Ehrun caught her. He had beaten her in response and left her to his cronies. When next he saw her, he claimed it had been one of his lessons .

After that, she listened and never ran from him a third time. She had not wanted to feel that pain or that shame again. He had praised her for learning so quickly.

Those lessons had almost gotten her killed at the Vertium Ball. She had not listened when Azriel told her to run. After believing the dhemons had returned for her, she could only hear Ehrun's voice scolding her and feel those bodies…

It had taken her until that night on the highway to listen to that word, run . Azriel had told her to go, and she did. She ran as fast as she could, but if it were not for Kall, she would not have lived. It had been his ax that cut down the dhemon on her heels.

Whether or not Phulan knew of Ariadne's relationship with that word, she was not certain. Nor did she want to ask.

Instead, she merely nodded and accepted the story. She repeated the words and names until they felt real enough. Until she had memorized them, as she always had with her favorite love stories. Only this time, it would become a part of her own love story.

The one in which she would be the hero.

"How old am I?" Ariadne settled into the role she had to play.

Phulan's smile was sad. "One hundred and twelve."

Forty years younger than Ariadne. She thanked the gods for the gift of youth. Even if what had caused it had been a curse originally, her long life and lasting youth were not something she scoffed at. At least not when they worked in her favor.

Still, Cressida had been young. Too young. Like many of the vampires who died because of the war, she had had her hopes and dreams cut down too soon. Now she would live a little longer, if in name only.

"What will I wear?" She glanced at her trousers and shirt. Such an outfit would not do for a party, yet she had not brought any dresses from Monsumbra. Attending soirees had not been on her mind when she packed her bag.

In an instant, Phulan's melancholy disappeared and was replaced with her typical keen interest. How she hid away her sorrows with such ease, Ariadne had no idea. In a way, she was envious of the mage's ability to do so. Hiding her true feelings had never been simple.

"I have the perfect dress."

And so she did. She had many dresses, in fact, meant to be worn at Algorathian parties, such as the one thrown by Melia. Unfortunately, not one of them suited Ariadne's typical taste from back in Valenul, and all of them had a low-scooping back.

Her hands shook as she held the meager, draping fabric before her and imagined what it would be like to wear it. For so long she had worked to hide the massive letters across her shoulder blades. The scars sank far deeper than the surface appearance.

EHRUN

It took several tries for Ariadne's words to form in a tight, airy tone. "Is this all you have?"

"What is it, dear?" Phulan asked from her closet, where she stowed away another gown that had been even more revealing. "I know it's not what you're accustomed to, but here things are…different."

Different. Less oppressive was the better term. Though Ariadne quite liked the Caersan fashions, she was more than aware of how modest it appeared in comparison. These were dresses for someone like Camilla, not her.

"I do not know if I can wear this."

Phulan called from the closet, "Of course you can, dear. I don't mind at all."

She swallowed hard, her throat burning. "I cannot. My back…"

The mage reappeared from the closet, her brows taut. "What happened to your back?"

When Ariadne did not reply right away, Phulan's gaze snapped to the space just over her shoulder as though she could see the skin there. Something dark swept through her expression before settling into a melancholy understanding. "That bastard."

Ariadne chewed her lip.

"Has no mage helped you?"

A shake of her head. "No one but Azriel knows."

A long silence stretched between them. Images of Phulan healing Kall's wounds with nary a scar flashed through her mind. If the mage could work such powerful magic, not unlike Izara, who had amputated Madan's arm and sealed his wounds, could she remove scars as well?

"I have a shawl." Phulan swept back into her closet and produced an opaque black length of fabric that seemed to ripple in the blue candlelight. "Wear this, and no one will be the wiser."

A weight eased from Ariadne's chest as she accepted the soft cloth. She blinked back the heat from her eyes. "Thank you."

"You will look marvelous in it," Phulan said, her voice softer than Ariadne had ever heard it before, "and I'll be beside you every step of the way. If we're to keep up this ruse, you need to look as though you came here with nothing."

"I did come here with nothing," Ariadne reminded her with a half-hearted laugh.

"Then we're already halfway there." Phulan winked. Her face grew serious again. "When you are ready, darling…I can help you with those scars. Now bathe and change quickly, or we'll be late."