The Cursed Blood, стр. 61
“Be that as it may, we have things to discuss that are NOT for children’s ears. Will he accept my invitation, or do I need to have one of you summon up a portal to send the brat back to that silly log hovel you call home to play with that old Indian of yours, Father?” Sir Becket glowered as he poured himself another glass, a wicked sneer on his thin lips. Gramps looked from me, to the sergeant to his son then back to me.
I nodded. “I’ll go, but Manx comes with me for protection.”
“Oh, please.” Sir Becket cackled dismissively. “Camelot is the safest place in all Feydom. Always has been. No child needs a war dog to walk about my castle or streets safely.”
“So, the silver masked assassins that attacked our coach, killed our driver and his poor horses… They were there for what, exactly? To deliver us welcoming baskets and travel guides?” Fazool chuckled as he put his expensively booted feet up on the table and smiled unabashedly at him where he stood at the head of the table, the water glass half to his lips and looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. “Perhaps you sent them to give us all a nice massage with those pointy swords of theirs? No harm was meant, just some relaxation and murder to pass the night, is that it?”
The glass shattered in Sir Becket’s hand.
“What harm can it do that the boy brings the dog?” Matron Malice asked in her heavily lilting accented purr, like for all the world she just wanted to get on with things. “I know Manx, as do you. He will be no trouble if there is no trouble.”
“Oh, very well,” Sir Becket grumbled as he wiped his hands on an embroidered golden silk handkerchief and refused to meet anyone’s gaze until he raised his chin from his chest and glared at Fazool. “But never again, Halfling Witch, will you question my honor.”
“Oh, darling,” Fazool giggled with a dainty hand over his lips. “You’d have to have something for me to question it.” At this Sir Becket clamped his mouth shut, looking like he might explode by the many colors and shades of red and purple his face shifted through, but he seemed to not have the words to retort.
After offering everyone a shaky, embarrassingly week smile I allowed myself to be led from the room with Manx at my heels and Sergeant Blake glancing back periodically at the watchful and protective Witchound uneasily at the lead.
“Life for a Darkling squire in Camelot is purposefully difficult, challenging, and full of training, study, and exercise,” Sgt. Blake explained with his hands behind his back as he walked me down a torchlit hall of stairs with measured strides that had his bootheels clicking on the damp stone. “From your age on each squire is baptized in combat and drilled to be soldiers.”
“Just the ones here?” I asked, my question pausing the sergeant in his stride as he eyed me.
“No, all the houses are the same.”
“Even ones like me born outside one of the houses?” I asked curiously. This seemed to pain the sergeant who worked his jaw and hung his head a moment before answering.
“Outside of the banished, The Hydratic Order and Forsaken, there ARE no others, lad—and those of that kind tend not to live long past their awaking. Fey hunt them you see.” Sgt. Blake answered softly as he shook his head and frowned as if remembering something ugly and unsettling. “It’s a kind of sport to them. We try to find them, but it rarely ends well. You’ve been lucky.
As a bit of background, the Banished are those thrown out of a Darkling house for some reason or another. In regard to the Hydratic Order, not much is known. Other than that they hail from Japan, dress like ninjas out of the movies and have a very strict belief/honor system that roughly translates to “The Code,” (that they will literally die to keep the tenants of), the feared Order is a complete mystery.
I couldn’t help myself, I laughed coldly. “I’ve not been so lucky.”
The sergeant’s angry frown softened, and he nodded. “True. I’m sorry to hear of what befell your family. We tried to help.”
“You tried?” I asked, my little fists balling up.
“I did. I led the expeditionary scouting unit myself to fetch you and yours, until your grandfather called us off.” Sgt. Blake’s words left me speechless. “’Aye, lad. Your parents’ blood is on your famous grandfather’s hands. Didn’t tell you that, did he?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Not surprised,” Sgt. Blake grumbled. “In his time Artur was a fierce and noble Darkling. Guess he forgot he’s been nothing but a glorified groundskeeper to a colonial preserve for decades and thought he could save you all himself. Old fool.”
“Grandfather isn’t a fool,” I snapped. “There has to be more to this. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Why would a Darkling Lord of Camelot, a King nonetheless, give up his enchanted sword, abandon his people and run off to shack up with a whore Witch, then let the family he built die all because he hates his first-born son and heir and ignore his duty to the Blood by keeping you from us? You’re right,” Sgt. Blake agreed scornfully. “It doesn’t make sense. Not a lick of it.”
“Gramps ruled Camelot?” I asked dumbfoundedly.
“Indeed, loved by all and Camelot prospered until our Lord’s mother died. Artur’s wife, that is. Poisoned she was, and Artur lost his mind. Gave it all up just like that and became a disgrace, even once got drunk and told some tales of Feydom to an idiot mundane author who got the thing published. What a bloody mess.”
Sgt. Blake came to a stop and unhooked a ring of keys from his belt, fiddled through them a moment