Page 20 of Hellbound

Ksenia roused with a curse. “Gods—I thought you were asleep.”

“Nah, just waiting for privacy.” Varka gestured at the solitary road they were traversing before continuing. “Now, this may seem like a stretch, but I think you dislike the king.” Varka rested her chin against her hand, elbow sinking into the cushion.

Ksenia didn’t blink. “Make your point.”

“My point is that it’s hard to do anything about that. Even from my position as the head of a noble house. I have nothing on him, and it’ll take more than the Bound Eye to cause a disruption.”

Ksenia’s ears perked, but her eyes remained narrowed. “What do you know of the Bound Eye?”

“I know it is a rebel organization whose intentions are valiant but incapable of making change. At least without something short of a miracle.” The words fell smoothly from Varka’s lips, her brows knitted wistfully.

Ksenia chewed on her tongue. “It sounds like you’d favor a coup.”

“Straightforward one, aren’t you?” Varka barked a laugh and retrieved a silver flask from her pocket. She took a swig before offering it to Ksenia, who declined.

Varka shrugged. “All the better for us to be straightforward.” She leaned in, her hazel eyes meeting Ksenia’s golden ones. “I don’t know what happened to you. Or why you attacked the captain today. But I recognize vengeance when I see it.”

She held up her hands, cutting off Ksenia’s retort. “Don’t worry, I don’t need to know why you hate the king if you don’t want to tell me. Just that you hate him and have the guts to do something about it.”

They sat in silence, staring at each other. Varka was saying all the right words. She seemed sympathetic to the Bound Eye’s plight and delighted by Ksenia’s hatred for the king.

“And why do you hate him?” Ksenia’s blunt question cut the silence.

“Because he—” Varka’s hand clenched the rounded knob of her armrest, veins raised. “Because he killed my aunt and mother. I swear my life upon it.” She grew quiet.

Ksenia turned over her explanation in her mind. It made sense and was the fate of many of Karsan’s victims. Perhaps her family was in the wrong place at the wrong time and found themselves at the wicked end of Radegast’s blade. It didn’t matter what echelon you hailed from; Karsan did not hesitate when removing dissenters from his kingdom.

Varka’s conviction brought a lump in Ksenia’s throat. Being a bondsmith automatically made Ksenia and her family dissenters, written off as the enemy without sense.

She chose her words carefully. “I grew up near a bondsmithing family. Two girls, close to my age.” The black lake came into view, and her eyes unfocused upon its depths.

“We were friends before I understood the cost. One of them died, I was there. The other—I don’t know what happened to her.”

Varka offered no condolences, her expression somber.

Ksenia redirected the discussion. “What did Karsan have to do with your mother? Are you a princess?”

Varka doubled over in laughter, cursing between breaths. “That is the funniest thing I’ve heard today.” She swiped tears from her eyes. “I’d rather be damned to hell than be related to the butcher king. Thank the gods and moons I’m not a princess.”

Ksenia raised her brows questioningly.

Varka sighed, sobering up. “My mother and Karsan were involved in some relationship before her death. I was young, and she didn’t tell me much. I remember she was here one moment, then gone the next.”

Ksenia’s eyes trailed off to look at the greenery zipping by out the window. Varka’s recollections were not to be trusted; if a single drop of her blood had ever made contact with Radegast, then Karsan could rewrite her recollections if she divulged her opinions.

Regardless, Varka seemed to possess an astonishing amount of agency and presented herself as a well-connected potential ally. One that Ksenia could utilize in her pursuit of revenge.

The carriage creaked to a halt. The storm clouds had rolled in overhead, dark as night.

Ksenia stepped out, her boots landing in a shallow puddle. The worn corner of her sole loosened, flooding her left shoe with frigid rainwater.

The sight of the Golden Stag quickly washed away her frustration—a three-storied timber-framed building protruding slightly into the street. A decorative wrought-iron sign hung over the door with the gilded silhouette of a stag’s profile and tall lancet windows were fitted with diamond-lattice panes, raindrops racing down their glossy surfaces.

A solid oaken door swung open as Varka approached, and a broad-shouldered man with graying hair greeted Varka. “Lady Beranek! Welcome back. Come in, come in. Your usual room, I take it?”

Varka exchanged pleasantries with the tavern keeper while Ksenia drifted in, her mouth watering.

The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, crackling fat, and ale, mixed with the melting tallow of the candles in the chandelier overhead.