For years, the desolate old ruin had been associated rumours of ancient treasures and long-forgotten terrors. For Parten Hollyth and his companions, it seemed like the perfect place for a taste of excitement and grand adventure—until that adventure takes an unexpectedly deadly twist.
Now, trapped within the crumbling castle, Parten finds himself hunted by unnatural monsters, and stalked by the very man who'd once been his closest friend. His only hope rests in the blade of the lone warrior sent to bring him home.
But Tolias Loh is a dangerous sort of man—a renowned warrior cast out of the holy order sentinels and branded with the mark of heresy.
A Harlequin of Hate
The window was open just enough to let in the cool night air. The currents were pleasant, ripe with the fragrant aroma of evening rose wafting up from the gardens below. Amara Hollyth glanced longingly toward the velvety darkness, wishing she could be strolling between her shrubs and flowers, rather than seated here in the house's small library. Such was the burden of responsibility—and the Nine knew that House Hollyth had been in sore need of responsibility since her father had passed beyond the Morning Gate two years prior.
With a quiet sigh, Amara turned back to the man sitting across from her.
He was a quiet and stoic sort. His long black hair was gathered in a topknot, and the emotionless line of his mouth was framed by a neat, crisp goatee. He wore a simple grey jerkin over an open linen shirt, tied loosely over his chest. His imposing, two-handed sword—fashioned in the manner of the sentinels—lay on the table before him. Amara wondered if he'd trained with that very weapon during his time with the order.
His name was Tolias Loh, the once-sentinel. It was a dangerous name.
"I'm afraid your arrival is most unexpected, Master Loh," Amara said, absently drumming her fingers against the arm of her chair.
"I recognize that, your Ladyship. I don't expect you to understand. You are, I'm certain, a devout supporter of the Sanctum. I'm well aware that I have a certain reputation." The man's lips twitched in the bitter mockery of a smile. "What is the word they like to use? Heretic?"
"I believe I've heard it used before," Amara admitted. "Are you?"
"A heretic?"
"Yes."
"The Sanctum believes so," he said, pulling aside the collar of his shirt to reveal the ugly scar where the shape of three inverted triangles had been seared into the flesh of his chest. The Traitor's Brand. The mark of heresy. "I honour the Nine and my vow to the Guardian, but I cannot deny the reality of what I know to be true."
"That you are touched by the Midderlight."
He nodded.
Amara shifted uncomfortably. She understood little about such things. Midderlight was a form of magic, and though it was neither as hated or reviled as the fell arts of Shadowcraft, its use was still widely condemned by the Sanctum. But far be it for her to reject a power other than that of the Flame. She employed several melded Karinth warriors in the house guard, and she knew just how the Sanctum felt about that. If she ever forgot, Magister Oronmon was always all too keen to remind her.
"It is what it is," she said. She meant it to sound profound, but it came out sounding ignorant and dismissive.
Father would have done this better, she thought, wishing the burden of leadership hadn't fallen on her shoulders. But Parten would have already offended the man a dozen times over I'm sure. She sighed and resolved herself to the burden.
"You've come to offer your sword?" she asked.
He nodded. "I've come at the behest of the whisper that guides me. I can only guess at its intent."
"I see," said the heirocrat woman thoughtfully. Something in the way he spoke troubled Amara. "I'm afraid I have no place in my personal guard at the moment."
"I understand, your Ladyship. I can only follow where the whisper leads. I thank you for your time."
He started to rise, but Amara reached out to place her hand on his own. He flinched at her touch. Too late, she realized that this was not a man used to physical contact.
Too forward, she chided herself.
"There is, however, another matter that you might be able to assist me with."
Tolias Loh sat again, curiosity reflected across the stoic warrior's face.
"It could be dangerous," Amara warned.
"Danger does not concern me."
"No," she said, "I don't suppose it would. There's an old ruin not far from here. Perhaps twenty miles north and east. It's always been a place shrouded in rumours. Ancient treasure and long-forgotten terrors. Typical romantic drivel. Mostly, it's ignored. It's too weathered and decrepit to be of any real value and the land around it may be one of the few truly desolate places in all of Valicrast—bleak and barren.
"Parten, my fool of a brother, took a group of his friends and set out to explore it. That was nearly a week ago. We've heard nothing from them since."
"And you want me to go looking for them?"
Amara shrugged, feigning disinterest. "It was you who came to me."
"True enough."
"I can pay. A sum of thirty gold falcons?"
The figure was galling to her. She'd always prided herself on the frugality with which she managed her father's affairs now that he was gone. It's more than Parten's worth some days. But father charged me with crafting my brother into a true lord. While she held out little hope in ever achieving that end, she knew it would be impossible if he weren't present—or if he'd managed to get himself killed.
It seemed an unlikely thing. Amara had never held with any of the nonsense whispered about the ruined old castle, but maybe sending the once-sentinel after Parten would teach her brother a lesson.
And maybe tarpin will fly.
"That's very generous," Tolias Loh responded. He considered her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching and thoughtful. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and grave. "Tell me more."
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