“Oh, you lie! I’ve never had any complaints before!”
I laughed as I turned to exit the room, the sounds of Alois’ mirth following me.
“Hey, Alois?” I called at the edge of the room. He grunted in response. “Did you steal that cask of whiskey from Hestin?” Alois’ laughter renewed, which was all the answer I needed before I strode from the conservatory and up to my wing on the third floor. I collapsed on my bed, barely removing my clothing beforehand, and sleep took me moments later.
Chapter 25
The Warlord
The clipping of my boots echoed through the empty tunnel that connected my manor to the Academy. It was small, not much taller than me, and I could reach out and touch both side walls easily, but it was secret, providing the necessary discretion and cover for these late-night visits. Not even Rohak knew of this tunnel.
He’d have a conniption fit if he knew I was venturing down here alone, especially slightly inebriated on the fine Hestin whiskey.
That was a great decision, taking that back with me.
I chuckled softly at the thought.
Grumpy, loyal, infallible Rohak.
What would he think about who I was visiting and what we were discussing?
The tunnel was straight and ended abruptly at a steel door that was locked to only recognize my magic signature.
Sensing my presence, the door unlocked with aclick, and I pressed the handle down to open it. The room beyond the door was small and square, entirely cast in stone with only a few candles as light. There was a bed in one corner, a piss pot in the other, and a desk in the third. The last corner held a solitary chair and the object of my quest tonight. Aside from a singular book, the room was bereft of any personal touches.
“Keeper,” I growled, shutting the door behind me.
The magical descendants of Solace made my skin crawl on the best of days and my lungs constrict on the worst. Violence lived close to the surface whenever I was in their presence. It’s one, but not the primary, reason why I worked so hard to eradicate them fifteen years ago.
I almost succeeded.
Almost.
The man didn’t turn his head or show any physical sign of recognizing my presence, so I strode into the room until I was standing directly in front of him. Yet he still made no movement.
Fucker is communicating with Solace. Even her name brought forth an almost deadly reaction.
As the final magical descendant of Kaos, I felt his presence and mannerisms more acutely, especially lately. He hated Solace, so I hated Solace.
It was simple logic, really.
The Keeper blinked rapidly before tilting his chin, so his eyes met mine.
“Truthsayer.” His voice was a rasp from disuse and lack of water, no doubt.
Eh, not my problem.
“Any news for me?” I ground out. I refused to sit. I wanted this conversation done with as quickly as possible.
“The visions are . . . questionable at best.” Years of sitting in this room and subject to my finite patience caused the Keeper to speak when asked. Otherwise, I wasn’t afraid to restrict his already restricted diet even further.
“Explain.”
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, weary. “The visions are less clear, future pathways less resolute. There’s too much variance and, I’m starting to suspect that some of what I’m seeing are actual lies. Planted images and thoughts.”
“From whom?”
“Solace or the Matriarch.” He shrugged.
