Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Perhaps that is to be expected. Kyle’s name is like a curse in this place now, considering the events of the last few weeks. So is Tristan’s. It will be this way for quite a while yet.
Healing takes time, even for immortals.
“I am surprised he would take you back so easily,” she says. “The time you were gone, it was like a dark storm moved over my brother’s eyes. Each time he spoke, a cold bite to his words, bitter resentment, even as we drank royal blood together. All of those years … how you’ve left your stain upon him.”
Tristan thinks of the fire twenty-seven years ago, Wendy and her words in that burning house, and he says, Perhaps I have underestimated his love for me.
“Not that it matters at the moment,” she says, “what with my brother’s head so consumed by the latest blunder of his … incompetent assistant. The death of a so-called Brock.”
Tristan’s eyes lower to the headless corpse by the hearth, where another pool of blood has drawn a set of red wings on the floor in the glowing flames.
“Why we even keep a list of Protected Blood is so archaic. And to what end? Appeasing mortals? Keeping peace? Is there not any suitable wine in this damned place?” she asks suddenly with a careless toss of her current glass into the fire.
By wine, she means blood. Despite there being a perfectly fresh corpse at her feet, Tristan suspects that a woman of her stature would never deign to drink from such a disappointing musician. He may infect her with his mediocrity.
“Could you see to my brother about this dead Brock that so troubles him?” she asks without a glance his way. “Despite your transgressions, and beyond all reason, it is you he still trusts. How many lives does the cat have, I find myself wondering …” With one last disdainful glance down at the headless corpse, Ashara sneers and flicks her eyes away. “And yes, do summon someone to clean this mess. Just having it here reminds me of his incontinent use of vibrato with every insufferable note he played on that stiff and terrible instrument.”
It.
That is the term she uses for the decapitated human.
At once, agrees Tristan, then departs.
It is not without warrant that Ashara, freshly returned from her lengthy sabbatical, holds such contempt for Tristan. It was only by a thin slice of luck that it was during her absence from the House of Vegasyn that Tristan was found again. If he and Kyle had been discovered while she was still here whispering in Lord Markadian’s ears, it most certainly would have spelled a grimmer outcome for both of them.
Tristan owes a lot to Markadian’s mercy.
The pursuit of someone to handle the corpse of the dead musician is not as quick a task as Tristan hoped. After departing the study, he finds himself lost in a circular hallway, every door seeming to lead to an identical study. Each person he passes is too busy to even look his way. Two women pass by gossiping to each other, and upon Tristan waving at them, they swiftly move into a room, ignoring him. This is expected. Tristan has gotten used to the cold reception, even a year after his return. Decades of gossip and dark words have buried Tristan beneath a hill of judgment he is certain he’ll never climb out from under.
When he at last finds his way out of the circular maze, he discovers another one, wandering through a complex gallery of increasingly demented artwork. Six corridors he passes through in his pursuit of someone and doesn’t encounter anyone willing to give him even so much as a nod in return. Tristan doesn’t often wander in this corner of the House, to be fair, so most of the faces he passes are as unfamiliar as the halls themselves.
The House of Vegasyn is intentionally labyrinthine, so that only its most loyal residents can find their way about. It is also twisted with illusions, courtesy of Lord Markadian’s powerful talent of the mind, seeming to bend the laws of physics, with hallways existing where they cannot possibly, rooms appearing larger within than they ought to be, and other visual oddities that play with the senses. There is even a space that appears like a large domed greenhouse enclosing a forest that is populated by cute colorful butterflies, as well as a foyer with upside-down staircases that seem to lead toward doors upon the ceiling.
It appears to Tristan that several renovations have occurred during his long absence from this place, renovations that make him feel less like a loyal resident and more like the dishonored guest he has become. Every corner he turns, every archway he passes under, it feels like another punishing smirk from Lord Markadian, who will never forgive Tristan for those decades he spent away, feebly attempting to start a new life.