To overthrow the cruel King who brutally slaughtered her foremothers, the last surviving water witch Elara Consuli must team up with novice warrior Juda Vikaris from the Serpent Order and realise an ancient prophecy, before the blood-thirsty ruler d...
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Roth Vi-Garran looked out across the sprawling citadel from the same window through which Juda had been climbing since his twelfth moon.
A dull pain had been bothering his eye sockets, pulsing over the bridge of his nose and between his brows since he'd awoken this morntide and no amount of pepper root could shift it. He was considering a flask of wine to help lessen the pain, but he'd been drinking more often of late, and the thread veins on his cheeks were thickening, as his father's had before the grog soured his organs and took his body to the grave.
The weather had taken a decidedly hostile turn. The Setalah was churning in the bay, high waves threatening to engulf the shoreline, their poison hungry for anyone who strayed too close. By eventide, the rain would sweep across the sea and batter Druvaria, as if it sought to carve the names of all who had perished here into the black rock.
As he stared at the distant waters, Roth wondered what her name would look like, etched into the cliffside, each letter like a scar upon his blackened heart. He remembered how soft it had sounded on his tongue when he'd whispered it. How it rasped like blades in his throat when he screamed it from his nightmares.
It was no good. He needed a drink, the stronger the better. Maybe some of the Dreynian imported stock would do. It had a harsher, puckery taste and left his mouth dry and wanting, but it would put him to sleep at least, deep enough to chase away the dark dreams that tortured him so and deaden the pain in his head.
He was about to make the journey to the wine cellar, deep inside the Library, when the door creaked behind him, a shriek of oil-hungry hinge and old wood.
Roth was well known for his sharp hearing, his senses fine-tuned from his many moons in the Order. It was rare for anyone to approach his study without the slightest sounds of their step reaching his ears, which is how he knew instinctively that the person now at his door was Lord Dageor.
The High Priest of Druvari possessed a step so light, that it was whispered among those who feared him – which by all accounts was most people - that he was more wraith than man. Roth had no doubt that if Dageor was to be met along one of the gloom-drenched narrow halls of the Citadel Vaults, he would be mistaken for one of the many ghosts rumoured to linger here and freeze the heart greater than all of the ghouls banded together.
He did not freeze Roth's heart – only his nightmares did that – but that did not mean he welcomed his presence, any more than he did the ghosts.
He turned to face him; his expression impassive.
'By Ban-Keren, Special Commander Vi-Garran,' Lord Dageor said from the doorway.
His long black cloak was fastened from collar to hem, reaching almost to his ankles and, as always, the distinctive gold medallion of the Druvari sect hung from his neck, a weighty reminder of his dark vows and his authority. His shaven skull was adorned with more ink than when Roth had last seen him, the bruised purple script now reaching his temples in swirls that looked as if they would come alive and writhe like tiny serpents across his flesh.
