The Only Option (3 page)

Approaching the keep, he nodded to the guards who pulled the heavy doors open for him and strode into the great hall. Rochus swept his eyes over the hall, across the royal table, but did not see his uncle. Unsurprising, he usually preferred to dine in his room, but it would have been nice to see him on the chance Rochus had to depart immediately to carry out whatever task he was about to be assigned.

Queen Irmhild turned from speaking with the woman to her left, and the frown on her face turned into a pleased smile. “Good, you're here. Took you long enough, magus.”

Rochus came to a halt at the foot of the dais and sank to one knee. On his shoulder, Song gave out a short, sharp, echoing caw, eliciting soft whispers and murmurs along the length of the crowded great hall that had fallen silent as his arrival was noticed. “My apologies for the late arrival, Your Majesty. I was far afield when the message arrived.”

“Mmm,” Irmhild murmured. “No matter, you're here now and no harm done. Rise.” When Rochus had stood, she said, “You and your peculiar birds. Did you bring that damnable cat along as well?”

“She goes where I go, Your Majesty.”

“See she stays out of my birdhouse, or she'll find herself dead for good, magus.”

“She's been admonished, Your Majesty.”

Irmhild grunted but did not otherwise reply.

Rochus bit back the questions that wanted out because impatience and rudeness would not get him anywhere. He would know why he was here when Irmhild wanted him to know.

After a few minutes, when conversation had resumed and most had ceased to pay attention to them, the queen finally gave a slight smile and said, “I suppose you would like to know why you're here, magus.”

“At Your Majesty's pleasure,” Rochus replied.

Irmhild laughed. “I remember when you were not nearly so polite, magus. Of course, I was even ruder than you in those days, hmm?”

Beside her, Consort Gretchen snorted softly. “Was? What is all this past tense?”

“You be quiet,” Irmhild said, smile widening. She looked at Gretchen briefly, and kissed her fingers, before finally shifting her attention back to Rochus. “Magus, you have been brought here because I've been called upon to repay a debt and it is not one I can refuse.”

Rochus frowned, brow drawing down. “Of course, Majesty, though I confess I'm confused as to how I can be of any help.”

“Necromancers are not in great supply, and you are one of only five who fit the requirements—and the only one currently on the continent.” She lifted the cup she still held, drained the wine that remained in it, and set it down with a hard clack. “You, my dear magus and old friend, are to be married.”

Rochus blinked. Stared at her. On his right shoulder, Song cawed again, startling everyone nearby. “Beg pardon, Majesty?” he said at last.

She laughed. “You are to be married. Lord Landau has called in a favor. He is in want of a spouse and says only a necromancer will do. Given what his family once did for mine, as I said, this is not a request I can refuse. Therefore, you are to marry him—tomorrow.”

Rochus was too baffled to feel anything else, though he knew anger would eventually spark to life. “Married. Tomorrow. What is the rush?”

“That is his affair and none of mine,” Irmhild replied. “I've had him summoned. You two can talk tonight, and tomorrow morning we'll have the ceremony. It's long past time you were properly settled down anyway, magus. This will be good for you.”

And there was the anger, but Rochus tamped down on it with discipline hard won over decades of practice. Landau, Landau… How did he know that name?

Soft footsteps came from behind him and only then did Rochus notice that silence had once more fallen across the great hall. “You called, Your Majesty?”

The voice swept over Rochus like fire and ice all at once, anger and disbelief lodging in his chest and momentarily stealing his ability to breathe. He turned as the man drew even with him and glared at Tilo, who stared back with sad, guilty eyes.

“Well met, my lord,” Rochus bit out venomously.

Tilo swallowed, his eyes dimming like a dampened fire. “Well met, magus.”

After excusing them from dinner, because there was no way he would make it through a tedious royal dinner without finding himself arrested and fined, Rochus led Tilo through the castle to his own rooms. He paid good money to have them retained for his permanent use, but it was a luxury he considered well worthwhile.

He motioned for Tilo to precede him inside, then followed him and closed the door with a sharp, muted bang. Then he kept walking, putting space and the large sofa in the middle of the front room between them. He stared out at the dull lights of the royal city through the window. On his shoulders, Song and Silence shuffled restlessly. “Go, enjoy the night,” Rochus said softly. Song cawed and Silence tugged at his hair, then they hopped down to the deep windowsill, fluttered to the edge, and flew off. Rochus pulled down the tapestry to cover the window and keep out most of the chilly night wind.

Slowly turning around, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Tilo, who was staring at the floor and looking much like a dog caught stealing supper from the table. “I'm going to assume that last night was no coincidence, though I do not know why you thought it necessary to fuck me before my arrival here. I'd also like to know why I am being made to marry you.”

“Because I need a necromancer—”

“Then tell the queen to send one like the rest of the damned kingdom!”

“Don't you think I've tried that?” Tilo demanded, not quite shouting the words, though he may as well have for the fury that filled his voice and blazed in his eyes. “I'm not fucking stupid, nor am I so spoiled a brat or whatever is running through your mind that I thought I must marry a necromancer instead of simply requesting one.”

Rochus pressed his lips together. Tilo didn't seem to be lying, but then again, he hadn't seemed to be lying last night either. “Why in the world would the queen refuse your petition? She certainly was amenable to your request for a spouse.”

“I've sent ten notices that my lands required the services of a necromancer. Every single time my requests go unanswered. The last one was sent three months ago.”

“And upon your arrival? Why come all this way and not ask her directly?” Rochus asked. “Your story melts like ice in spring.”

“It's not a fucking story!” Tilo bellowed, all the flames in the room flickering hard in reaction, and a wave of heat washing over Rochus before Tilo tamped down on his dragonfire. “I logged every single one, like I log all such things. I came here with every intention of asking her to send a necromancer and explain why ten petitions for help were ignored. But no one goes directly to the queen about such matters.”

Rochus sighed. “No, they don't. They must go through the relevant Supreme.”

“Yes, and I did, of course, go to see the Magus Supreme. But his clerks have no record of any of my petitions.” Tilo's gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders slumping.

Damn it. One or two petitions might go astray, even three in particularly poorly run territories, given all the steps involved: when a person was troubled, they contacted the lord of the territory, who investigated the matter. If it proved beyond his abilities to resolve, he petitioned the throne for further assistance, either a Queen's Hand if they did not know exactly what was wrong, or a specific type of magi if they did know the exact nature of the problem.

The petitions from the lord were sent to the nearest royal garrison, who would assign the Hand or relevant magi, or send the matter on to the royal castle if they did not have the magi needed. Necromantic matters were rare enough, and necromancers small enough in number, that they were practically never to hand. All petitions for a necromancer invariably went to the royal castle to be handled directly by the Magus Supreme's office.

That ten separate petitions had gotten lost along the way… That most certainly merited suspicion.

“I'm still not following how this provoked you to forcing a marriage,” Rochus said.

“It was all I had left,” Tilo said, voice thick with bitterness. “I need a necromancer; I have no way of knowing why my petitions are going astray or who is responsible. Every other path available, I have tried. If I went directly to the queen with my complaints, it would take months to sort out, and I've already wasted too much time. This was my only remaining option. I knew her Majesty would not refuse the chance to settle a debt—and nobody could interfere.”

Rochus dropped his arms. “I see. So what was last night about?”

Tilo's skin flushed pink, his eyes still on the floor. Rochus suppressed the urge to cross the room and make the little brat look up at him. Licking his lips, looking slowly up then hastily back down, Tilo finally said, “I've never actually met, or even seen, a necromancer. All I knew were the wild stories people like to tell. I didn't want to do something wrong or cause embarrassment, so I went to that tavern because someone said it's a frequent stopping point for travelers and my best chance at finding one. I saw you, decided to chat.”

“Chat,” Rochus repeated slowly. “You didn't really waste time chatting.”

The pink in Tilo's cheeks darkened to red, but he didn't look embarrassed as much as ashamed. The small knot of dread in Rochus's stomach grew larger and sprouted thorns. “You were attractive. I thought, why not see what happens, if…”

“If you could stand to make yourself fuck a half-dead on the chance it was necessary to coax cooperation from your new, reluctant husband,” Rochus finished.

“That wasn't—”

Rochus didn't want to hear it. “You must have known when you heard my name that I was your intended victim.”

Tilo nodded jerkily, more miserable than ever.

“Hoping to entice cooperation before the vows were even spoken?” Rochus spat out, the thorns in his stomach large and sharp, spreading throughout his body, leaving a crushing ache in his chest. Disappointment, regret, and bitterness ran through him like poison. “Whored yourself out to your husband-to-be then disappeared only to leave me feeling the fool upon my arrival here.”

“It wasn't—”

Rochus barreled on, refusing to be interrupted by whatever pathetic excuse or justification Tilo contrived. “You forgot one little thing in all your scheming, little kit: all I have to do is marry you. A few vows and some signed papers are all that is required. I'm under no obligation to go anywhere with you.”

Tilo jerked, the flush draining from his cheeks, leaving him looking like a man who'd been viciously backhanded by someone he trusted. Tears ran down his cheeks, and the flames in the room went out as a rough, ragged sob echoed through it in the moment before he fled, the door hanging open in his wake.

Leaving Rochus feeling like the cheerless half-dead bastard everyone accused him of being. Tilo was the one forcing a marriage, the one who'd…

Rochus swallowed against the sour scrape of bile in his throat. Only an hour ago, thinking of Tilo and the night they'd spent together had brought a smile, warmed him as well as any fire. Now he just felt sick, angry enough to slam his fist through a wall. He'd thought the attraction mutual, had thought that perhaps, for once, the goddess was smiling down upon him, or that he'd simply gotten lucky. Instead he'd been the victim of his own damned ego and spent the night fucking somebody who'd never really wanted him. Fucked someone so desperate for help he'd been willing to spread for it.

And instead of acting his age about the situation, Rochus had piled cruelty on top of the whole mess.

He sighed and strode into to his bedroom, stripped off his clothes beside the bed, then washed up at the bowl nearby before crawling beneath the blankets. Across the room, firelight flickered softly, making the shadows dance. Hunger gnawed at Rochus, but he ignored it, too sick at heart to feel like drinking.

There was simply no help for it. He could go to Irmhild and tell her all that Tilo had told him, but clearly the problem in Tilo's territory had been going on long enough. Whatever game was in play, better to deal with the more pressing problem and then sort out the underhanded workings behind it.

And after his recent behavior, the very least he could do was help, instead of fobbing the matter off on Irmhild.

He'd always known he'd be dragged to the marriage altar eventually. Irmhild was old-fashioned that way, but he'd hoped the situation would be a bit more pleasant than a desperate dragon who thought he had no other options. Fool Rochus for thinking that someone so beautiful, intriguing, and eager would truly want him. The way Tilo had offered up his own blood should have been the first clue; nobody did that. People didn't offer blood unless they wanted something. If Rochus had been thinking clearly—thinking at all—he'd have realized something was wrong. Instead he'd ignored his own advice and listened only to his damned cock.

Tired of unhappy thoughts, Rochus pulled the blankets up high and closed his eyes, counting his breaths until he finally lulled himself to sleep.

Unfortunately, the dawning day was no more pleasant than the night—was indeed a good deal more unpleasant, if the raging storm outside was any sort of omen. Rochus sighed loud and long, then threw open the trunks of clothes he kept at the royal castle and slowly dressed in heavy, formal black robes decorated with silver embroidery depicting the skull and raven crest of the necromancers.

A soft meow greeted him as he entered the front room, and Memory jumped off the couch to come and rub around his ankles. He scooped her up for her morning petting. “Sucking up, hmm? What did you do, kill someone's pet? How many times must I tell you to stop doing that, Mem. How sad would I be if someone killed you for good? Don't do that to other people.”

She meowed again then wandered off to go sprawl in the long seat beneath the window she'd long claimed as belonging to her and no one else. From outside came Song's familiar caw, the soft rush of wings. Rochus pulled back the tapestry and stepped back enough the birds could land on the window sill.

When they were settled on his shoulders, he quickly drank the cooled tea on a tray that had been left for him, then ate the cinnamon bread that was also on it as he headed off to get married.