Wraith Walker

Chapter 7

     The Canins were worse than she remembered. It didn't help that her head was pounding from the wine they drank at Neve's. And then the Dwarven spirts she'd had when they got back to the room.

     On the balcony, Sasha had made her a drink—or two, or three, she couldn't remember exactly how many—and he pressed soft kisses along her jaw while she watched the smoke from Neve's fire rise. He had gagged a bit while making the drinks for her. But after raiding their normally well-stocked bar--she'd address where the rest of the alcohol went later with him--and finding nothing else, that's what she got. Sasha didn't seem to have a problem with the taste or smell of the spirits once they were on her mouth, and if he did, it didn't stop him from taking her to bed.

     And now, with too little sleep, too much alcohol, and a headache that rivaled any she'd had in recent memory, she stood in the Throne Room where Kethan normally did, hand on the hilt of her sword watching as the Canin scum filed in.

     The restaurant bill had been paid this morning. Along with the funds for the food, the Chamberlain sent a personal note of apology and such funds to cover the damage of the night before that the note was thrown away unread and all was forgiven—according to the account of the errand boy at least. Sasha and Tamsin had untangled themselves from the bed far earlier than she thought was necessary and readied for the day. They were not holding proper Court today due to the Canin's arrival, but the usual suspects, including the Wraiths, the Chamberlain, and a few other ranking members of the Court were milling around the Throne Room.

    Tamsin was playing Second for now. Kethan had left at dawn for Glaver Port to collect Alram's daughter as Sasha had promised. The sudden errand for him put a small hitch in their plans for the trip to the Seer. It would take him at least five days to arrive, maybe longer since he couldn't travel as quickly as the Wraiths could. He would ride back to deposit the girl at the Order, then Kethan would board a ship to meet them in Marvres, the capital of Kendecier and the Continent, for the rest of the journey.

     Kethan was one lucky bastard, Tamsin thought, trying to keep the disgust from her face. Three men, presumably Canin Court members, flanked their King. A surprisingly small group for the dog-like creatures who tended to travel in packs.

     The Canins were all oddly similar, not just in height but face as well. They could be related based on their features and coloring, but that's just how the Canins were-easily distinguishable to one another, and everyone else, to ensure pure bloodlines. They had large, snub noses nearly identical to a pig's. The nostrils were large and round, perfected for ages through tight lycan-esque bloodlines for smelling prey. They weren't quite wolf, not like the actual werewolves that used to roam, but more of a dog type. Domesticated, weaker, less temperamental than the average werewolves. Pale, waxy skin stretched too tightly across their face, leaving hollow cheeks and gaunt copper eyes. Lean muscular legs were draped in long brown pants, providing a certain nimbleness to them that always made her uneasy.

     Sasha sat on the smoke throne, dressed in black woven leather armor. Gold witchrunes had been stitched along the trim, a protection spell of some sort. The hematite crown sat upon his head, peaks glinting in the midmorning sun. He had so far spent the last hour here, chatting with the servants and the guards, and dodging the glares that the Chamberlain shot his way. Tamsin hadn't heard what the amount that had been sent to Neve's was, but was sure it was astronomical.

     They weren't a poor kingdom by any means, but the Chamberlain preferred some semblance of responsible spending. Tyanth made a large part of its money via trade, particularly fabrics. The Witches were natural weavers and apothecaries by trade. Weaving scarves with magical threads that could protect the wearer from poison, a shirt that force another to speak nothing but truth or, conversely, nothing but lies, or pants that would cripple one's manhood was naught but a day's worth of magical work for a witch, and a piece of clothing like that would sell for a month's wages or more in other territories, depending on the dye used.