Author's note: This is the final chapter in the tale of Avilia and Sligh. Like the four chapters before, it's self-contained. Important events from earlier instalments are explained, so you don't need to have read the other chapters to understand what's going on.
Thanks to everyone who's read the stories. I hope you've enjoyed reading them as much as I've enjoyed writing them.
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Prologue: Bloodmark
This early in the morning, in this polite part of the city, the street was quiet. A slight chill hung in the spring air, as if winter was clinging on with cold fingers.
Sligh made his way swiftly to the tenement where he'd rented an apartment. The sounds of pursuit hadn't followed him beyond the great park. Likely, the soldiers were still searching for him there, or even in the black mausoleum.
Preparation,
he thought to himself with a smile.
Assume everything will go wrong, and plan how to move forward anyway.
The chance of discovery had been an eventuality that he'd planned for. He couldn't have foreseen what had brought the searching soldiers into the park in the end -- the screams of a ghost reaching her climax -- but he'd brought enchantments to lead them astray, to disappear before their eyes, to glide through the air like a whisper of wind.
Costly, those charms had been, but he hadn't regretted using them. The bag with half the loot from the mausoleum was safely hidden. He didn't need money right away, and he could leave the gold and silver and gems where they were until the robbery was long forgotten.
At least, he corrected himself, he could if Avilia agreed. Half of the loot was hers, just as half the loot in her saddlebags was his.
Avilia was in fact the reason for his rapid pace. His own safety wasn't in doubt. Hers was.
He wondered, as he had several times already, where she was. He'd seen the two nameless rocs take off from the park surrounding the mausoleum, and the royal guard flying after. And then a third roc, Farflier, had launched into the air and sped away.
He didn't wonder whether Avilia was alive. The blow she'd taken to the head was a nasty one, and she'd been badly hurt. But he had to assume that she was safe, on her way to someplace where she could recover. They'd find each other.
Instead, he let his mind linger on the night's other events. It was clear now, beyond dispute, that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Not just from when she'd finished him off after Ispara's ghost had vanished, leaving him on the brink of his climax. No, it was most obvious from the way she'd flirted with him.
He recalled how she'd sucked on his ear. How her fingers had rested on his hand whenever they stood together. How she'd kissed him before he returned to the mausoleum to retrieve the last of the loot.
By the Skies, but just remembering was making him hard again. He needed to find her as soon as possible, to make sure she was alright -- and to spend a month fucking her if she was.
He reached the door of his tenement and opened it with a key he'd never used. He'd only been here once before, back when he first arrived in Arnhol. The apartment was rented under a different name than he'd used at the Priory. When he closed the door and started up the stairs, he left outside any trace of the man who'd robbed the Archduke's mausoleum.
His rooms were at the end of the corridor on the uppermost floor. Another unused key opened the door and he stepped inside. He knew instantly that someone was there.
"You should know better..." he began, then stopped.
A light appeared in the blackness. Not a lamp, not a glowstone. Magelight. It hung in the air, illuminating a robed figure.
"Perhaps I should," a woman's voice spoke from beneath the heavy cowl. "Still, it seemed worth the risk."
Sligh closed the door behind him. Caught unaware, unprepared, he had little chance of escaping from a sorcerer. "May I sit? It's been a long night."
"I'm sure it has." The woman moved aside, and he sat at the long table. The lamp stood where he'd left it all those months ago, with a small flask of oil beside it. He busied himself lighting it, then reached behind him for one of the bottles lying on the shelf.
"I have only one cup," he apologised as he poured himself a measure. "I wasn't prepared for company."
With the oil lamp burning, the woman let the magelight disappear. She stood silent, watching him from beneath her hood. He tried to ignore her and savour the warm liquid as it burned its way down his throat and into his gut.
This was one thing he hadn't planned for. Well, not beyond his usual paranoia.
Did I miss any clues?
he wondered.
Was I so wrapped up in my smugness and thoughts of Avilia that I just walked into a trap?
He took another sip and went over every step of the way from the park to the tenement -- the advantage of having a well-trained memory. Nothing. There had been nothing to warn him that a sorceress was waiting for him here.
He looked up as she shifted impatiently.
Mistake, mage. You're supposed to be in charge of the situation.
He decided to make it count. "Sorry, I nearly forgot you were here. Please, sit. I'm sure you've had a long night too."
She stiffened at that. With the lamp burning, he could see that beneath the heavy cloak her form was slim. Her voice had sounded young, and she'd spoken with precise accents.
Upper end of society. The very top. Now, who do I know of that fits-- Skies! Her?
She started talking again. "You are no doubt wondering how I found you. It should be obvious. I know everything about you. I know, for instance, that you have been calling yourself Brene here in Arnhol -- except to rent this apartment, of course."
