The Vampire & Her Witch

The smell of salt water in the air and the feeling of cold spray against his face should have been comforting to Rhys Blackwell after so many months spent far inland, suffering the stifling environment of Keating Duchy’s late summer and false fall.

If he was honest with himself, half the reason he’d left for Keating so early had been to escape the presence of Owain Lothian and his obvious contempt for his hosts. Rhys had done the bare minimum necessary to pave the way for the young Lothian Lord to negotiate with the guilds of Blackwell County.

Within a week, it became abundantly clear that Owain Lothian was not only outmatched by Master Isabell and her fellow Guild Masters, but he was also completely unwilling to turn to his father-in-law for help in negotiating an agreement with ’mere merchants.’

That suited Rhys just fine. In the time he’d been in Blackwell, Rhys had prodded the future marquis enough to confirm that Owain truly had killed Ashlynn on the night of their wedding. For months, Rhys had held on to a very faint hope, one he dared not speak aloud, that Owain Lothian had faked the whole thing in order to help Ashlynn escape from the Church that haunted every step of her life.

That hope had grown even stronger when the Inquisitor from the Holy City, Diarmuid, visited Blackwell to ascertain whether or not Ashlynn had truly been a witch. He brought with him a sketch of the birthmark on Ashlynn’s hip, but when Rhys examined the sketch, it only bore a superficial resemblance to Ashlynn’s mark, and yet the Inquisitor insisted that he’d sketched it faithfully after exhuming Ashlynn’s body from a grave at the edge of the Vale of Mists.

It had been too late, by then, to share the news with his wife or with Jocelynn; both of them had already left the County, but that one sketch had given Rhys his first night of peaceful sleep since the nightmare that followed Ashlynn’s wedding began. When he spoke to Owain about the matter, however, the young lord quickly turned belligerent, claiming that if not for Jocelynn’s intervention, he’d have turned the entire Blackwell family over to the Inquisition for harboring a witch.

Being forced to play host to his daughter’s murderer would have been reason enough for Rhys to flee his home, using the excuse of negotiating passage for foreign soldiers through Keating Duchy as an excuse for his absence while preparations continued for the upcoming Holy War. But Owain wasn’t done making his father-in-law miserable.

”He did what?” Rhys had asked his Steward, Sir Mor Penberthy. The man was a decade younger than Rhys, still in the prime of his life with naturally light hair bleached even lighter by years spent patrolling the outer isles, but he’d demonstrated an uncanny ability to learn about events in the county long before they reached the ears of most noblemen, and he worked hard to keep Count Rhys Blackwell incredibly well informed.

”It’s not that he visited a brothel, my lord,” the sandy-haired Steward said. ”Lord Owain seems to be discreet enough to send one of his men to bring a lady of the night to an inn outside the Salt Quarter. It’s what happened after that’s the problem.”

”How badly beaten was the girl?” Rhys asked with a grim look on his face. ”And does she want to swear out a statement that Owain is the one who beat her?”

”She won’t swear to anything in open court,” Sir Mor said with a heavy sigh. ”Owain’s man threw enough silver at her to buy her silence, but he failed to buy the silence of the brothel’s owner. The Silk Rose caters to merchantmen and ship’s officers, and Nit isn’t happy about the loss he’ll take now that one of his best girls refuses to return to work.”

”The priests at the temple didn’t say anything when I brought her there, but without them, her face would have been a ruin for the rest of her life,” the steward said, shuddering at the memory of her swollen cheeks, split lips, and blackened eyes. ”It’s a sick bastard who does that to a woman, my Lord.”

”Don’t remind me,” Rhys said, slamming his fist onto the table as he shook with rage. ”See that she’s settled somewhere Owain won’t run into her again,” he said with a frustrated sigh of his own. ”Buy out her contract with Nit and tell him to keep his mouth shut. I’ll find a way to deal with young Lord Owain,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely certain he could bring the young man to heel.

”And Mor,” Rhys added before he sent his Steward on his way. ”I’m afraid that Owain’s stay in Blackwell won’t be brief. He’s already offended Master Isabell once and she seems to be on her guard against him, even before he arrived. Look for opportunities to bleed the young lord’s purse dry. I’ll send a letter to his father encouraging Bors to force his heir to stand on his own two feet while he’s here.”

”It isn’t much,” Rhys said in defeated tones. ”But if he can’t afford the company of women from the Salt Quarter then he won’t be able to hurt them. And circulate a warning to the other brothels that Lord Owain is rough and unlikely to pay his debts if they don’t collect up front.”

”Of course, my lord,” Mor said, retreating quietly as he watched the weight of the world settling on his liege lord’s shoulders.

Not long after, Rhys had left Blackwell County, sailing up the River Senara with half a dozen knights and Baron Hender to face off against Duke Keating in what were sure to be an even more difficult set of negotiations than the ones Owain Lothian faced with the Guildmasters of Blackwell City.

Now, after summer had given way to autumn, and even autumn was yielding to the blustery weather of winter, Count Rhys had finally returned home. But this time, unlike years past, he returned to a manor bereft of the warmth and comfort of a loving wife and daughters.

Instead, he returned to the most ominous news he’d heard since learning that Owain had beaten Ashlynn to death on the night of her wedding...