Dreadful E-Book

Caitlin Rozakis

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 480

Beschreibung

A sharp-witted, high fantasy farce featuring killer moat squid, toxic masculinity, evil wizards and a garlic festival - all at once. Perfect for fans of T. Kingfisher, K. J. Parker and Travis Baldree. It's bad enough waking up in a half-destroyed evil wizard's workshop with no eyebrows, no memories, and no idea how long you have before the Dread Lord Whomever shows up to murder you horribly and then turn your skull into a goblet or something. It's a lot worse when you realize that Dread Lord Whomever is… you. Gav isn't really sure how he ended up with a castle full of goblins, or why he has a princess locked in a cell. All he can do is play along with his own evil plan in hopes of getting his memories back before he gets himself killed. But as he realizes that nothing – from the incredibly tasteless cloak adorned with flames to the aforementioned princess – is quite what it seems, Gav must face up to all the things the Dread Lord Gavrax has done. And he'll have to answer the hardest question of all – who does he want to be? A high fantasy farce featuring killer moat squid, toxic masculinity, an evil wizard convocation, and a garlic festival. All at once. Dread Lord Gavrax has had better weeks.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Acknowledgements

About The Author

PRAISE FOR DREADFUL

“An absolutely magnificent comedic fantasy with a hint of bite. This book was a witty, empathetic, and genuinely funny meditation on the nature of good and evil. It was easily one of the best books I’ve read this year.”

Olivia Atwater, author of Half a Soul and The Witchwood Knot

“Dreadful is pure fun. Caitlin Rozakis delivers a (loving) send up of classic fantasy tropes alongside a compelling redemption story and plenty of quirky humour. … Highly recommended.”

Heather Fawcett, bestselling author of Emily Wilde’s Encyclopaedia of Faeries

“It was very kind of Caitlin Rozakis to write this book for me. Sure, the rest of you should like it too, but it was clearly written for me, with all the elements I love: fun and humor, breaking fantasy tropes, interesting and complex questions about identity and redemption, and some delightful goblins!”

Jim C. Hines, author of Goblin Quest

“A spellbinding (literally) massacre of all our favourite tropes, underscored with a pleasing dry wit.”

Tom Holt, World Fantasy Award-winning author

“Rozakis has conjured a spellbinding debut that is just what it seems to be: clever, whimsical, and a little spicy.”

E.C. Myers, Nebula Award–winning author

“Outrageously funny and self-aware, Dreadful is perfect for fans of The Princess Bride. Rozakis blends wit and whimsy with a deft hand in this charming debut that had me laughing with every page-turn. A vital addition to the cozy fantasy genre.”

Rosiee Thor, author of Fire Becomes Her and Tarnished Are the Stars

“Caitlin Rozakis cleverly takes the tropes of a fantasy story and upends them in creative and entertaining ways, freshening the genre.”

Robert Greenberger, Editor, Thrilling Adventure Yarns

“With a unique and razor-sharp voice, Rozakis cleverly flips the script on your typical swords-and-sorcery fantasy … Readers will tear through this quick-witted and fast-paced novel and search eagerly for Rozakis’s next creation.”

Mary Fan, author of Stronger Than a Bronze Dragon

“Caitlin Rozakis’s debut novel, Dreadful, is an absolute delight… I didn’t want it to end, even as I kept reading ‘just one more page’ because I couldn’t wait to find out what happened next.”

Hildy Silverman

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Dreadful

Print edition ISBN: 9781803365473

Barnes & Noble edition ISBN: 9781835410547

Dryad edition ISBN: 9781835411001

Broken Binding edition ISBN: 9781835410950

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803365480

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: June 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Rebecca Rozakis 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Rebecca Rozakis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To Chuck – This book wouldn’t exist without you.If nothing else, you believe in the unfathomablepower of garlic.

1

He woke up with no eyebrows and no idea how he’d gotten into such a position.

It wasn’t just that he couldn’t remember why he was lying on his back, or why there were tiny fires smoldering throughout the room. He couldn’t remember the room.

It was not the kind of room to be forgettable. The floor was made of black marble, with concentric silver circles embedded in it. The remains of an elaborate pattern of magical runes and indeterminate squiggles chalked around the outermost circle had been scuffed into partial illegibility. A dagger whose death’s-head pommel gave him the willies lay coated in caking blood. The wall had manacles embedded in the stone, which made him passingly grateful to have only been on his back on the floor. He didn’t know whether the large articulated bird skeleton was intended as an oft-used resource or just decoration. The human skull with a half-melted candle jutting out of it attempted to be both. As far as he was concerned, it succeeded at neither. Who had chosen this decorating scheme? He was tempted to give the owner a piece of his mind, if only he could remember who the owner was.

Or who he was.

The realization did not so much hit him as politely tap him on the shoulder, having waited patiently for him to stop being distracted by the mess. He lost his breath at the thought. How could you forget who you were? If you had forgotten, how could you fail to notice that simple fact?

But then, how often did you think about it? He couldn’t remember when he’d last informed himself of his own name. But then, he couldn’t remember much of anything. He would have to ask the next person he saw.

Someone knocked on the door.

He immediately abandoned any resolutions of asking anyone anything. He was the only person left in the ruined workshop of someone who kept human skulls as décor, and things were on fire. He did not want the sinister owner of this room to come back and blame it all on him.

If he stayed very still, maybe they would go away?

Very slowly, and with great deliberation, the bird skeleton collapsed.

He had enough time to see it start to fall, and feel his stomach plummet with it. He had nowhere near enough time to catch it, although he tried. The main mass, its mount weakened by whatever had removed his eyebrows and his memory, slammed into the floor before his outstretched hands. The resulting crash scraped his nerves and echoed through the workshop. Some of the bones bounced free, and these toppled down the bookshelf with musical little plinks. He scrambled after them as if somehow, if he could just make the sounds stop happening, whoever was outside would overlook the first big crash. Bones skittered away from his shaking fingers, a cascading arpeggio. His elbow knocked into the bird skull, which rolled audibly across the floor, grinning all the while. He slammed a foot down on the skull, shutting its gaping beak, and unbalancing a teetering pile of books. He shoved books back before they could fall, which knocked the stone pestle behind it over. He sat down heavily, defeated. The bowl, only a little chipped, took its sweet time rolling in a spiral, the sound of stone on stone wobbling finally to a halt.

There was a long silence.

Someone knocked again.

“My lord?” The voice was scratchy, accented as if the words didn’t quite fit right in the owner’s mouth. “Need firefighting team?”

Oh. He probably should try to put out all those little fires before something bigger caught. But letting in the team would reveal their lord was not here, and then they would want to know who he was, and then a great number of very uncomfortable questions he did not have answers to would result.

What would this lord of theirs sound like? Evil, clearly. He tried to make his voice sound deeper. Keep it short.

“Everything’s fine.”

He looked around frantically. Not much in the way of firefighting equipment in the room. A black table hosted glassware, or at least, it used to. He hoped it wasn’t a problem that half of the potion flasks had shattered, and that a blue liquid was oozing out of a cracked alembic. The way the worktable sizzled suggested it might be. But none of the remaining bottles seemed likely to contain water. Fortunately, most of the fires were on the tiny side.

“Need help, my lord?”

Very persistent! Very commendable! Possibly suicidal! The owner of the voice clearly put duty ahead of self-preservation. He grabbed a thick sheaf of papers and set to beating the little flames to death.

“No!” He knocked over a broken bottle, which crashed onto the floor in a spectacular spray of glass shards. A whiff of purple smoke escaped as the contents rapidly dried into a powdery residue.

“My lord?” The handle of the door jiggled.

His voice rose to a crack: “Stay out!” There was no way they would fail to notice he wasn’t their master, but it was too late to come up with a better plan. “You’ll… uh… disrupt the spell!”

The jiggling immediately stopped. “Sorry, my lord!” The voice had its own note of panic now.

“Leave me alone!” There, another fire out. The hem of his robe had been eaten away to a lacy texture by that splash.

“Yes, my lord!”

He would have savored the sound of retreating footsteps, but he was too busy putting out the owl wing that had caught alight.

Not until he’d extinguished the last of the fires did it occur to him that the sheaf of papers might have been valuable in and of itself, and perhaps reducing the bottom several pages to charred ruins had been unwise.

He collapsed in the massive wooden chair in the corner to catch his breath. It was a monster of a thing, a dark wood nightmare that had to weigh a ton. Sultry carved women peered through hair that barely hid their nakedness. One licked an apple in her hand with a long, forked tongue. He stared at it, fascinated and vaguely disgusted and all too distracted from the real issues he needed to be considering.

So, this was shock. It seemed terribly inconvenient that the brain’s reaction to being placed in mortal jeopardy was to become much stupider.

Focus. Who was he? He was dressed in black velvet, which fell all the way to the floor except for the new holes. Expensive. Soft shoes, nothing meant for tromping around outside. A belt, made of small silver panels linked together, which felt rather like it had been made several years’ worth of beer and cakes earlier. The sleeves were a lost cause, shredded and singed, the remnants trailing impractically. It all gave him a rather sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

An enormous mirror, as wide as his outstretched arms and half his height, loomed from an ornate stand bolted to the floor a couple inches away from the wall. A sheer piece of black fabric hung over the top, completely covering the glass so he could see dim outlines. He forced himself to his feet. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the cloth free.

No shock of recognition.

The middle-aged face that looked back at him was not remotely familiar. Pale white skin, dark hair, a rather sinister goatee. Although the look was ruined by the bit of jowl that started to appear around his chin. And the soot. And the lack of eyebrows.

The falling sensation in his falling stomach finally hit the bottom. This menacing room, with its mixture of the weird and the ridiculous? It was his. The voice outside the door obeyed his commands because they were familiar. There was only one kind of person who would have such a room, who would dress in such a way.

He was a Dark Wizard.

He half expected some kind of acknowledgement of the realization. A roll of thunder, the croak of a crow. But there was nothing. He stared at his reflection, feeling increasingly ridiculous. He turned up his palms, willed them to crackle with electricity or fill with fire or, well, something.

Nothing.

The mirror itself, though, filled him with a sense of unease that did not dissipate until he had draped the fabric back over it. The fabric had two sides, he noticed. One side was translucent, allowing shapes to be discerned. The reverse, on the other hand, was somehow completely opaque. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but something told him to make sure the opaque side faced the mirror.

So. A wizard. It gave him something more to work with, but the lack of name itched at him. The desk was awash in singed papers and cut crystals, stoppered bottles and small wooden chests, all sprinkled with shards of broken glass. He’d have to sift through it. Surely there would be some kind of clue.

He grabbed a handful of papers. He had a moment of fear that he would have forgotten how to read (How did he know he knew how to read?) but the words looked perfectly familiar. They were spell notes, diagrams and explanations. As he read them, meaning flooded back. He paused for a moment, staring at his hand. It wasn’t enough to just will the flame, he needed to picture the diagram, and anchor to another object, and give that odd little twist in his mind. A dried rose, part of an incongruous bouquet shoved in a dusty bottle in the corner, crumbled to ash as a little ball of fire appeared in the middle of his cupped palm. He stared at it until it burned its way through the fuel he’d given it, and then winked out. He crumpled his face into his hands and nearly wept. He still remembered something. He wasn’t totally powerless. He had magic.

Or some of it, at least. The simple things. The complex workings, though, eluded him. He could feel the shadowy architecture in his mind, as if he’d stepped into a darkened cathedral with only a single candle for light. The soaring buttresses were more felt than seen. They were still there, just waiting for enough light to be revealed.

What else was here? He started opening the little boxes at random. Three teeth, small enough to be a human child’s, with too much root left to have fallen out on their own. A pile of black pellets, which he only realized were fewmets after he’d poked them a bit with a finger and then pulled back in disgust. A button, a tiny golden key, the stub of a candle, the skull of a mouse, and an ornately carved black rock that nearly hummed with malice. Two of the boxes were carefully sealed shut with wax; he couldn’t remember what was in them, but he knew better than to disturb them. It was too much to have written notes to himself, it seemed. He resolved to write such notes to his future self. Then he realized how very damaging it could be if found by an enemy—did he have enemies? Surely most Dark Wizards must have enemies. That was probably why he was in this situation in the first place.

He leaned back and looked at the room around him. Papers everywhere. Books, sheaves tied with dusty black and red ribbons, loose piles. It would take him a year or more to read it all. He wasn’t sure he had a year. Eventually he was going to need to leave this room, and then someone was going to notice his predicament. What would they do when they learned the truth?

Well, at the very least, he could try to burn them to death. He found the thought both comforting and not comforting at all.

He spotted a jar half-buried under shrapnel and bird bones at the back of the desk and felt his heart leap with excitement. Why? Somehow, he’d been looking for this. It was part of the routine. The jar was unlabeled, of course. He took a breath and unscrewed the lid. Inside crawled a nest of furry black caterpillars. They twisted and crawled over each other in a revolting manner. He felt vaguely nauseated. There was something wrong with them. As he looked closer, he realized they had no feet. Nor even really bodies. They were more just a stripe of hair. Then he burst into laughter, tinged only slightly with hysteria.

They were eyebrows.

Great Teirthrax, he must do this all the time, if he kept an entire jar of replacement eyebrows. The uncontrollable explosion thing, if not the memory thing. (And who was Great Teirthrax? He had a sudden flash of owl wings and hot breath and unquenchable hunger and resolved to be more careful who he called on in the future.) He picked one up by the edge and dangled it above his face, hesitating. It twisted and yearned towards his forehead. He swallowed and laid it on the skin. It crawled across his face (the back of his neck crawling in response) and then sunk tiny claws in. He cursed involuntarily and the entire bouquet burst into flames.

This time, at least, he remembered the spell for putting out small fires. Then he grabbed another eyebrow, gritting his teeth. It was no less painful but at least less surprising. He flipped up the mirror cloth to check his work. He looked a good deal less goofy, and more saturnine, with the eyebrows firmly in place. There was nothing to be done about the fat around his chin, though, without a rather more involved spell. He wondered why he hadn’t cast it. He wondered how much denial his past self had been in.

His stomach rumbled. He wondered what his past self did to get a decent meal.

He was thirsty, too, which was a more pressing matter. And eventually, he was going to want some clothes that weren’t shredded, and maybe a bath, and a few other needs that were gradually making themselves more apparent. He couldn’t stay in this windowless room forever.

There was just one door. He pressed his ear against it. Someone was humming softly, and badly out of tune. The owner of the scratchy voice, perhaps?

He couldn’t let anyone know that there was a problem. His memory might return at any moment; he was certain that any plans he might have had would be thoroughly ruined by an admission of weakness. He owed himself that—not to destroy whatever it was he had been working on. Not to mention the potential consequences, if it became known. Rivals, apprentices, he might even have a nemesis or two? Dark Wizards weren’t known for their friendly relations, he was certain. Or their benevolence around the countryside. He didn’t want to die, by fireball or by pitchfork.

He tried to imagine how a Dark Wizard might act. Aloof, certainly. Angry, perhaps. He drew himself up. Distracted. Yes, that might work: he was preoccupied by his research, and very important, and had little attention to spare for things beneath him such as names or where food came from. That was for underlings. If he had a firefighting team, he must surely have some kind of cook? Because he wasn’t sure how to make more than a sandwich, and he really wasn’t sure where he would obtain the pieces of said sandwich.

Would he be the type to absent-mindedly carry papers and keep working as he went, or to lock everything up? It seemed safer to lock it up. There was a large iron key hanging next to the door that glowed faintly as he picked it up. It went with the lock, he could feel. He took one last deep breath and opened the door.

There was no one there.

Then he looked down. Around waist height stood a… he wasn’t sure what it was. It wore armor. The armor seemed to have been intended for someone else, as it didn’t fit particularly well. The helmet seemed improbably large, given the guard’s lack of stature. A proud red feather had once added height, but it had snapped in half at some point. Through gaps where helmet failed to meet breastplate, the neck appeared green, with a couple of warts that sported impressively long hairs. Farther down, he could see an equally improbably-shaped codpiece. He wasn’t sure if that hinted at vanity, a lack of appropriately sized armor, or biological facts about an as-of-yet unidentified species that he did not actually wish to know.

“My lord!” The mismatched armor collection pulled himself up to something approximating attention. “Need help with fires now?”

The guard gestured hopefully at the row of buckets, some of water and some of sand, lined up next to him in the hallway.

“Ah, no,” he said. He’d meant to ask about food, or maybe a privy, but suddenly lost his nerve. Maybe it would be easier to find it himself. “Carry on, uh…”

He had no idea how to address the spiky little creature, whose halberd seemed entirely too tall for someone of such a height to wield effectively.

The creature seemed to sense his confusion, which was not a promising start to the charade. “I be new Captain of Guard!”

What had happened to the old Captain of Guard? Something better discovered on a full stomach. Maybe. Or maybe better just left alone.

“That’s, that’s, uh, excellent. You just keep on… guarding.”

The captain saluted, misjudging the placement of the inherited helmet, and giving himself a solid whack on the forehead. The creature staggered a little, so he turned away, determined to spare them both the embarrassment.

The stone passageway was badly lit with torches that guttered but did not smoke, casting eerie shadows. He must have enchanted them that way. It seemed like it would have been just as easy to cast ever-burning torches that burned steadily, but he supposed it wouldn’t have been as atmospheric.

Turning the corner, he nearly collided with a shorter, balding man dressed in dark red. The man recoiled in quickly suppressed terror before slapping an obsequious expression on his olive face.

He didn’t trust that expression any farther than he could throw the oily bastard, which he doubted was very far. Arm-strengthening exercises clearly had not been part of his personal daily routine.

“My lord?” the man in red fawned. Steward, perhaps? Majordomo? Someone with an urge to please, certainly. It was a pity he didn’t use an actual name.

There would be no escaping talking to someone, it seemed. Angry, important, he reminded himself. He narrowed his eyes. “Report.” That seemed innocuous enough.

It seemed to do the trick. “The princess has finally ceased her demands, as you predicted.” The steward’s voice oozed satisfaction. “The goblins watching her have reported that she merely cries in the corner of her cell. She still refuses to eat, however. It may be necessary to use another nourishment spell on her.” The little man’s face glowed at the prospect, disturbingly excited.

He nearly lost his breath at the influx of new information. He had goblins. He had, most likely, just been talking to a goblin. He had a princess. He had no idea why he had a princess. But he didn’t much like the idea of the steward anywhere near her, and he hadn’t even met the girl yet. Or at least, he didn’t remember her yet.

“Princess Eliasha’s father has offered a small fortune for her return,” the steward continued.

Oh, that seemed like a fairly good reason. “Tempting,” he said, in as neutral a voice as he could muster. What would he do with that much money? Some more practical clothes and a castle with a lot more natural light, perhaps? What was his past self planning to do with it? More ugly furniture, probably.

The steward cackled. As his master appeared to be in a good humor, he was clearly willing to play along. “It would be, my lord, wouldn’t it? I wish I could see the old fool’s face when he discovers the true plan.”

Oh dear. There was a plan. Of course there was a plan. “Perhaps you shall,” he said magnanimously.

The blood drained from the man’s face immediately.

And that had apparently been a threat. His stomach clenched. He needed to figure out what this plan was, and how far along it was, as soon as possible. But right now, he needed his steward friendly and helpful, not terrorized. He forced a small smile that he did not remotely feel. “There are such things as magic mirrors, you know,” he said, surprised that he did know such a thing. “I still have use for you, my faithful servant.”

“Yes, yes, thank you, my lord,” the steward babbled in relief. It was kind of funny, to be honest. He didn’t like the man at all, and watching him tremble had a certain entertainment value. He wondered if that was why he’d kept him around. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

He cut the steward’s declarations of gratitude off with a gesture, and the man fell mercifully silent. “Now, where were we? I’ve rather lost track of time in my work.”

“Would you like to visit the princess now that she’s in a more… docile mood?” the steward suggested after a moment. He must not be consulted often—a thin sheen of sweat had popped up on his forehead.

“Perhaps in a bit,” he allowed. He wasn’t sure he did want to visit her. There was a certain desperate curiosity, but he had no idea what he’d say to the woman. “I think perhaps a change of clothes may be in order.” He raised his arms with their tattered sleeves.

“Ah, yes!” The steward affected surprise. He couldn’t possibly have not noticed until that point.

“Lead on,” he said, giving the phrase a sardonic twist. Because there was no way that he did not know the way around his own castle. Of course.

The steward swallowed and turned. The man did not particularly seem to enjoy having his master at his back. Perhaps he should pretend a new tendency for paranoia? Or develop it for real? He wasn’t sure he’d want the steward at his own back. Surely the little man could only be pushed so far before fear and humiliation made him snap. Or maybe he merely turned it all on prisoners.

His chambers turned out to not be too far. The steward threw open the door, pausing to see if his master wanted to proceed. He merely raised an eyebrow and the steward scurried in. He wasn’t sure what the steward was afraid he was going to do, and it felt dangerous to use threats he didn’t understand. But surely not as dangerous as letting a cowed sadist suddenly discover that his tormentor was vulnerable. What if his servant decided that small treasury sounded good enough for him? He was riding a tiger, it seemed, with no way off. And this was just the second person he’d met.

As he stepped inside the chamber, he was dismayed but not surprised to see the decorating theme continued throughout his living spaces. At least his taste was consistent? He faced a monstrosity of a four-poster bed, a hulking thing of black wood draped with blood-red velvet. More obscene carvings climbed each bedpost. It was… tacky. The chamber boasted a window, at least, although the shutters were barred. Instead of torches, he found clean-burning candles, to his intense relief. He almost tried to thank a deity, realized there was no one he felt safe thanking, and stuttered to a halt in his own thoughts.

Motion caught his eye, and he turned to find a creature standing wide-eyed by the ornate wardrobe. It was about half his height, including the points of its ears. The green skin promised perfect invisibility in a swamp or somewhere else suitably mucky. Here, it clashed terribly with the décor and the hastily tailored livery which had clearly been intended for someone larger. It shifted nervously from foot to foot, staring at its claws. Goblin, his mind supplied helpfully.

“Your new valet,” the steward said. There was something in his tone that promised a larger story there. “His name is, uh, Grrribeetle, was it?”

The little creature muttered to his claws, only partially comprehensible in his trembling. “Mumble-mumble, M’ster Siraco. Mumble, Dread L-lord Gavrax.”

Names! He could have kissed the goblin, but he forced himself not to react. “Siraco, remind me, what happened to the last one?” He tried desperately to make the question sound casual, lazy.

“You burned him alive for crushing the pile on your favorite robe,” Siraco answered, his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips as his gaze slid over to enjoy Grrribeetle’s reaction. The young goblin swallowed hard, clearly taking it as a warning.

“Ah, yes,” he managed to choke out, hoping his sudden nausea wasn’t too obvious. Had the old Captain of the Guard met a similar fate? How did he possibly keep the castle running if he kept executing the staff? “I hope a repetition will not be necessary. Welcome to the, ah, team, young Gr…r…ri… beetle?” There was some kind of trick to rolling the r’s which he couldn’t quite figure out.

The goblin valet nodded frantically.

He wondered how old Grrribeetle was. He couldn’t remember why he knew what an adult goblin was supposed to look like, but he knew this one was composed even more of elbows than he would be at full growth. A teenager, or whatever their equivalent would be. Probably still in the stage where he was eating everything in sight. He had a sudden flash of tantalizing memory, of wolfing down an entire stale loaf of bread in his youth and not really caring that it was stale, and then it was gone again, leaving just the memory of a memory behind. He wished them both gone so he could chase it, but they still stood there expectantly.

“Well, Grrribeetle, I have a princess to visit, but this certainly won’t do.” He held up the tattered sleeves. He had his doubts about the suitability of the creature for the job, but he didn’t know where his own clothes were so it was worth a try.

Siraco hovered. Did the man not have anything better to do?

“You may go,” he said, making a motion that came out somewhat less like a lordly dismissal and more like a shoo. He’d have to practice. In private.

Siraco took himself out, at least, leaving him trapped in a room with a valet who believed he was one wrong step away from incineration. It was surprisingly awkward. The goblin busied himself with the wardrobe. What was he supposed to be doing while he waited? The only mercy was that the valet didn’t know what he usually did, either.

He unbolted the shutters and threw them open. The hinges squealed, unaccustomed to the mistreatment. The warm rays of the setting sun poured in, making the décor look all the more tawdry.

The bedroom lay in the corner of a small castle. Not large, although he couldn’t bring the images of any others to mind for comparison. If it boasted towers, they lay behind him. From what he could see, it seemed to be a squat keep of dark gray stone, with a modest courtyard surrounded by a stout wall. The entire thing perched on a hill barely large enough to contain it, encircled by a stagnant moat. The narrow path wound down to a small, squalid village below. The houses had once been quaint enough but had clearly fallen on hard times. He found no people about, just a few stray goats. Farther out, he could see tiny figures bent over fields, working to beat the end of daylight.

He felt a stab of disappointment, which he knew was irrational. He was a wizard of enough power to control his own keep, and his own little town of serfs. But it was a somewhat pathetic town. Not much to be proud of. Still, couldn’t they at least try to keep the place neater? He supposed it was too much to wish for a really dramatic lair, with craggy mountains and caves, or a proper moat, at least. If he was going to fail at “ominous,” though, it might have been nice to at least achieve “picturesque.” Maybe he could terrorize them into a beautification project.

Still. He had information, a lot more information than an hour ago. He had a name! Dread Lord Gavrax. Surely that couldn’t be his original name, of course. No mother would name her baby Gavrax, would she? He winced. Of course someone who thought those bedposts were a good idea would choose the name Gavrax. He tried thinking of himself as a Gavrax, and just couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Gav, maybe? He could live with Gav. Not that he had anyone to call him Gav.

Grrribeetle presented him with a set of robes, not even trying to mumble this time, or make eye contact. Appropriately deferential, he supposed. What his former self would have wanted. He wasn’t sure he liked it. How did the goblin come to work here, he wondered suddenly. Did he have parents? Someone to regret the risk their precious child was exposed to? Someone to eagerly embrace the opportunity?

Did Gav himself have parents? The thought produced a faint throb of pain. Like probing a wound that had long since scarred over. Was he himself an orphan? How did someone decide to go down the path of darkness?

Thoughts for later. When he was wearing clothes.

*   *   *

The door to Princess Eliasha’s cell oozed menace. Another goblin, whose mismatched helmet allowed his fangs to poke through, stood at attention. There was a window one could look through, but there was a little shutter over it that locked from the outside. He debated opening it and peering in, but that somehow lacked dignity.

Siraco hung by his elbow, nearly salivating at whatever it was his master was contemplating doing to the helpless princess. “It’s a pleasure to watch you work, my lord. The way you have of targeting someone’s deepest insecurities and just… eviscerating them. Verbally. Before you eviscerate them. It’s masterful.”

What a delightful description. He must have been so popular at parties.

“Leave us,” he commanded.

Siraco bobbed his head and scuttled off, with only one longing glance over his shoulder. After a beat, the goblin scuttled after him.

Now then. He couldn’t just let her go. For one thing, at any moment, his memory might come back. He just needed to keep everything as stable as he could so that when he remembered whatever the hell it was he was doing, he wouldn’t have messed it all up. For another, it would be a major admission of weakness. Everyone from Siraco to the princess’s father would realize that he was vulnerable, and he certainly seemed to have given everyone adequate motivation to kill him. Fear is what kept them docile, he knew. And a little ball of fire in his hand was one thing. That didn’t mean he’d actually remember the greater combat magics in time.

So. He had a princess who had already been cowed into submission. He couldn’t let her realize his situation any more than he could the others. He couldn’t assume she was stupid, even if she acted stupid. If he were the captive of a Dark Wizard, he’d act stupid, too. Surely, she’d be doing her best to escape. He needed more than ever to hide any weaknesses.

Really, his best bet would be to leave her in that cell and just let the goblins feed her. That was the wisest course of action. But at the same time, something deep in his soul yearned to see her. A real live princess. The kind featured in the stories five-year-olds were told. The kind five-year-olds like him had known they would never get to meet. (Again, that irritating flash. Five-year-olds like him? What had he been like at five, and why had he been so certain no princess would give him the time of day?)

He took a deep breath, and before he could think better of it, he pushed open the door.

The figure in the corner drew back with a whimper, one hand held up before her eyes. The corridor was not that well-lit, but her cell was nearly dark. For a moment, he could see her while she could not yet see him.

She was lovely. Slim, with delicate bones. She even held her hand up to block the light gracefully. Pale skin, golden curls spilling over her shoulders. They had frizzed and flattened—he could only imagine the effect if she’d had a chance to primp the way he imagined she was used to. Fair skin and lightish hair were normal for the area, he suddenly realized, although that particular shade of gold was remarkable. What an odd thing to remember. It looked so different from his coloring, or from Siraco’s. Then again, there was no reason to think he was from around here originally. Who could inspire the appropriate levels of fear and mystery when people remembered your toddlerhood or your pimply years?

She lowered her hand, still blinking, and drew herself up proudly. She was wearing a flimsy nightdress. There was an aura about her he supposed must come with being a princess. Somehow, she seemed to glow even in the dinginess of the cell. A disappointing lack of tiaras, but she did at least have a thin gold collar around her neck to prove her nobility and a heavy ring that didn’t match at all. He wasn’t sure how he’d done it, but he must have snatched her from her sleep. She could have tugged the neckline higher, but she refused to do so, daring him with her eyes to look below her chin. She knew he could do anything to her. She was the first one to succeed in hiding her fear.

“Your Highness,” he said, sketching a bow. He didn’t truly know how to do a proper court bow, but then, he didn’t need to. Anything he did would be taken as mocking, he was sure.

“Come to gloat more?” she asked. “Or just to stare, like your pet viper?”

He had a pet viper? Oh, she meant Siraco.

“I think of him as more greasy than reptilian,” he said, without really meaning to.

She hadn’t expected that one. Her mouth opened and shut again as she tried to get back onto the script she’d clearly been working on while locked away. He’d need to give her something better to spend her time with.

“I was wondering if you might be hungry,” he continued.

She cast a disdainful look at the bowl of slop that was congealing in the corner. Back on script. “I would rather starve.”

“Anyone would rather starve than eat that,” he agreed easily. She looked startled again. “I was actually thinking you might prefer to eat somewhere outside your cell. Wearing actual clothing.”

She glanced down involuntarily at the rather dirty froth of lace.

“Would you care to join me for dinner?”

“Never!” That one was easy.

“Not in the cell. Actual clothes,” he reminded her.

“I will never eat with you.”

“All right. Would you like to starve with me, wearing actual clothes, while I eat dinner?”

The actual clothes part seemed to be getting her attention. She managed not to look down again, but her fingers worried at the fraying edge of the lace.

“It’s a lovely chance to gather intelligence for your inevitable and doomed escape attempt,” he dangled.

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“Right at this moment? Not to eat dinner with Siraco.” He shrugged. “Can you blame me?”

“And after that?”

“Come, Your Highness. You seem like an intelligent woman. What do you think I’m planning to do with you?”

She blinked a bit at the “intelligent” part. He wondered if that was something princesses often were called.

“Hold me for ransom, perhaps,” she said slowly. “Possibly marry me against my will.”

“Hmm,” he said. “The first one might be effective, for a bit. I suspect holding on to that ransom might prove troublesome, though. The second, tempting as it might be, also seems unlikely to stand.”

“Then what?”

“If I’d intended to tell you, it seems likely that I would have already done my gloating when you first arrived,” he pointed out. Never mind that he’d dearly love to know himself. Ah well, it had been too much to ask that he’d already revealed his evil plan. “But now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, perhaps we can have a more interesting dinner conversation. Or rather, a conversation while I eat dinner and you pointedly refuse to. I’m finding I’m rather hungry either way.”

She hadn’t said yes, but she was looking less resolute and more confused by the moment.

“Look, Your Highness. We both know you’re not going anywhere at the moment. But you can choose to starve alone in the dark in here. Or you can choose to take your chances at bedazzling or tricking or what-have-you the Dark Wizard, and getting a little fresh air while you’re at it. And while I appreciate your dignity despite the nightclothes, we both know you’d be more comfortable in something more opaque that holds heat better.”

She crossed her arms defensively. “Very well.”

“Excellent. Thank you for seeing reason.” He smiled, magnanimous in his victory. “I’ll have something sent along shortly.”

*   *   *

“Just, well, make something nice. That a princess might want to eat.”

The goblin blinked slowly at him. The kitchens were terribly dim, lit mostly by the enormous fires roaring in the hearth. He wasn’t sure if it was a mercy. The firelight outlined a face that seemed to be composed mostly of nose, with two tiny little black eyes, shining like beetles from the greenish folds of the face. The little valet had looked almost cute compared to this one. He wasn’t even sure of the gender of the creature staring up at him.

“And that you would want to eat, master?”

It had taken him less time to find the kitchen than he’d feared. There just wasn’t that much castle, and it turned out the kitchen occupied a large chunk of it. Everyone scurried out of his way when they saw him coming, rather than asking if he were lost in his own house. Because that would be ridiculous.

He blew out a breath, struggling not to sound frustrated. “Yes. Something that both a princess and I might want to eat.”

It continued to blink at him. A female, perhaps? The sack-like dress covered most of its, or her, upper body, and some of her fellows seemed to be wearing loincloths alone. The dress did not seem to have been washed in a long time, however. If ever.

He couldn’t bear it. It was horribly out of character, he knew, but he also knew he’d be picturing the filthy rags the entire time he was trying to eat. “And I don’t suppose you might have something cleaner to wear? An apron, even?”

Slowly, her little eyes widened. “An apron?”

“Or… not…” he said, backing away like the coward he was afraid he might be. He had no idea why mention of an apron might bring on some emotional upheaval, but it was more than he’d bargained for. “Whatever you’d like, really. Just make sure that dinner is nice. Please. Uh. I command.”

He fled back upstairs.

He shouldn’t let the goblins unnerve him, he knew. He’d chosen them for his primary staff, so they must be competent enough. Or maybe not. Maybe they were just less likely to poison him than human cooks would be.

He was starting to regret this entire idea.

Siraco stood waiting for him at the top of the stairs and he nearly groaned aloud.

“I brought the princess a dress we had in the stores,” the steward reported. “A little moth-eaten near the bottom, but I think it should do nicely.”

Gav wondered if he should have looked himself. He feared what Siraco would think would “do nicely.” But since he had no idea where the stores were, exactly, he’d had to delegate.

“If I may be so bold, my lord…”

Gav closed his eyes and wished for patience. “What is it, Siraco?”

“Perhaps tonight is not the best night?” Siraco’s eyes flicked everywhere—the ceiling, the floors, the corners—everywhere but Gav. “It’s just…”

“Spit it out, Siraco.” He put a little growl into his tone.

The steward shrank into himself. “You are not always in the best of moods after your calls with Lord Zarconar.”

Gav froze.

Siraco continued on more rapidly. “And you said, after the last one, that you wanted me to remind you not to schedule anything after one, since you didn’t have that many crystals available to shatter.”

He tried to still his racing heart. Who was Zarconar? And why was the name alone enough to make his mouth dry up? “Siraco, remind me,” he said slowly. “I appear to have lost track of the time. How long do I have before this call?”

Siraco consulted a small sand timer around his neck. It had to be enchanted, there was no way it could have been accurate otherwise, bumping his belly like that. “About fifteen minutes, my lord.”

“I see.” He forced a confident smile. “Well, then. I have plenty of time to get set up, don’t I?”

He walked up the stairs to his workshop numbly, trying to figure out how to hide his missing memories from someone who apparently scared him all the way through the amnesia.

2

Now that he suspected what to look for, the mirror’s purpose felt more obvious. Of course he’d want to block anyone from looking in. He threw the cloth back with some reluctance and took a deep breath. The words tickled the back of his teeth. When he tried to think about them, they skittered away. He closed his eyes, forced himself to relax, and let them flow out.

Lightning chased across the mirror for a moment before it settled to a dim glow. Now what? Zarconar apparently outranked him. The other wizard would make him wait, he realized. How petty. Effective, though.

He couldn’t go do something else. Or maybe he should. Hoping he could get settled in time, he grabbed a sheaf of papers and dragged the chair across the floor. It shrieked horrifyingly as the heavy wood skidded across the stone. He hoped he hadn’t left scratches, but he couldn’t check now. He threw himself into the chair, studiously casual. One leg over the armrest? He tried it. No, too casual. He straightened up just enough to look dignified. Preoccupied, not bored. The words on the paper swam before his eyes. He tried to focus, failed. Instead, he just flipped idly through the papers, over and over again.

The mirror flashed. He tried not to jump. Instead, he made sure to finish pretending to read the sentence, and then set the paper down very deliberately, a small and pleasant smile on his lips.

Zarconar’s skin smoldered, a red so dark it was almost black. Not the color of darker skin, like (it came to him on one of those useless flashes he was quickly becoming accustomed to) was common among the southern traders. Actual red and black, as if he’d mixed dried blood with a touch of ink and painted it on. Or maybe he’d spelled it to that color. It looked like nothing human. A stiffened collar of black velvet rose from his shoulders to above his ears, framing his gleaming bald head. The cloak clasped with a small skull, seemingly human but smaller than a baby’s. Fetus? Monkey? Shrunken? Disgusting, whatever the origin.

The whole effect was ridiculous.

But Zarconar’s eyes burned with a menace that killed the laughter in Gav’s throat.

“You have the princess?” Zarconar’s voice rumbled deep from his chest. Gav felt a burst of envy. His own tenor could never convey that level of malevolence.

Gav swallowed, his mouth gone suddenly dry. “I do.”

“Good.” The other wizard’s eyes narrowed. “Any resistance?”

“The… the king is attempting a ransom,” Gav offered after a pause. He had no idea what the other wizard expected, and the small frightened mammal part of his brain was insisting that he meet those expectations. Right now. He didn’t know what Zarconar would do if he didn’t. He didn’t want to find out.

That seemed to amuse the other wizard. One lip curled up in a smile. “Anything appealing?”

“A small fortune? No land, though.” He forced a smile of his own. “A little insulting, really. You’d think he barely cared for the girl.”

Zarconar’s laughter boomed. It didn’t make Gav feel particularly reassured. “Feeling bold today, are you?”

Gav could feel the blood rush out of his face, leaving him dizzy. Zarconar could tell something was wrong. How should he behave? Obsequious? Terrified? No, he’d made his choice and had to bluff it out.

“I did my part.”

The gleaming eyes narrowed. “The first part, at least. Now we must wait for Valevna and Xaxus to complete theirs.”

Without any other ideas, Gav nodded.

Another smile played around Zarconar’s lips. It promised things, things Gav did not want to see delivered. “For the moment, you need merely hold her. And not get any foolish ideas. You can do that much, can’t you, Gavrax?”

“No foolish ideas,” Gav repeated faintly.

“Excellent,” said Zarconar. “We’ll speak again in three days.”

Gav nodded, still dizzy.

The mirror winked out.

He collapsed back into the chair. Then he sat bolt upright again, speaking the words that would close his side of the connection. He pulled the cloth back over.

Then he collapsed back into the chair again.

So the plan in question hadn’t started with him. Not good. No, it was being masterminded by a man with ensorcelled skin who should have been ridiculous but instead turned his bowels to water. Even now, his insides were spasming, demanding that he find himself a privy and soon. Worse and worse. And there were at least two more parties involved, probably also Dark Wizards, going by those ridiculous names. They couldn’t be named normal things, like Bo or Trevan. They had to have named themselves that. He wondered what monstrosity Zarconar slept in at night. Probably a bed carved to look like a dragon’s mouth. Or maybe on the backs of a dozen weeping virgins.

What was he going to do? Any thoughts of releasing Princess Eliasha fled out the window. Definitely not an option. He felt bad; he didn’t actually wish harm on the girl, but a quick consideration revealed he was not going to risk Zarconar’s wrath for some stranger, no matter how pretty. He’d have to do more research, he realized. This was just the first part of Zarconar’s plan, and he could not afford to disappoint him in parts two through whatever. What he was not going to do was admit to Zarconar that he couldn’t remember the rest. Zarconar seemed like the type who only valued people as long as they remained useful. The last thing Gav wanted was to become a liability. Liabilities got eliminated.

And Gav very much wanted to survive.

*   *   *

He’d been relieved to discover that he did, in fact, have a dining room. Well, more like a Great Hall that wasn’t quite all the way Great. A long table, at least. It could have held ten, maybe twelve people. Not exactly a full court. The banners hanging from the rafters looked less like trophies captured from his enemies than not-particularly-well-stitched banners of suspiciously similar ages. It had all been rather dusty until he’d summoned a goblin to clean. She’d done a surprisingly good job in a short amount of time, at least.

He drummed his fingers, and then made himself stop. He glanced at Grrribeetle, who he’d stationed near the sideboard in what he had to admit to himself was a pathetic grasp at familiarity. Dark Wizards did not worry if they were about to be stood up. If they were impatient, everyone scrambled to appease them. No one was on fire, therefore he must not be impatient.

Where was she?

When she appeared at the doorway, he nearly knocked over his chair. Grrribeetle grabbed it before it could hit the floor, replacing it silently. He’d have said something, but his words had deserted him.

He’d feared Siraco’s dress would be red and plunging. Instead, the princess floated in a blue cloud. The bottom could have been disintegrating and he would never have noticed. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the graceful scoop of the neckline, hinting without revealing, and the gold belt that hugged the gentle flare of her hip. The gold collar went well (the ring slightly less so), almost as if it had been intended to match the belt. Siraco had surprisingly good taste, it seemed. Her hair hung in a simple braid over her shoulder, echoing the fall of the ends of the belt. The dress could hardly have been in style—who knew how long it had lain in storage—but it suited her ethereal beauty perfectly.

He forced himself to take a breath.

She held her head up proudly, once again meeting his eyes. One of the goblin guards accompanying her gave her a little nudge in the small of her back, fortunately with the empty hand instead of the one holding the halberd. She took an unwilling step forward.

He came back to his senses and forced himself to keep a measured pace as he walked the length of the not-actually-that-long hall. Did he know any courtly graces at all? He didn’t really think so. Should he offer his arm? He had enough time to imagine her looking at it with disdain before he reached her side. He opted to pull back her chair instead.

“Do sit,” he said, trying for a gently mocking tone. She would never accept sincerity, and he didn’t want to order.

She sat stiffly, her gaze roaming the room. He saw her lip curl slightly as she glanced at the banners, and tried to hide his own wince. He tried not to take it personally. A keep this size could hardly impress a princess. She’d probably had dancing lessons in a room larger than this.

“Not a suitable setting,” he said, trying to cover his wounded pride with snideness, “but we are not often graced with visitors of your loveliness.”

She was too ladylike to sniff, but he suspected she wanted to. Why had he said that? It was true, of course, but he’d said it in the nastiest way possible, reflexively. Was that how he always treated pretty girls? He wondered which had come first, the conviction that women would treat him with disdain or his apparent determination to treat them like they would before they could get that far.

He made his way to the head of the table opposite her, trying to feign a nonchalance he did not feel. A goblin poked its head in and he gave it a wave. The wave came out much better this time. He had practiced.

More goblins trooped in, silver dishes clutched in claws that looked quite a bit cleaner than he’d seen in the kitchens. Their sackcloth clothes looked several shades lighter in color and appeared, at closer inspection, to still be damp. Several of them had added some kind of decorative tartan sash, some of them matching, which started him down a mental trail about goblin clan lineages he promptly abandoned. The stronger light did them no other favors, though. Nothing could disguise the enormous noses, or the sickeningly green skin. One of the servers surreptitiously wiped its drippy nose on the back of its hand. Its partner kicked it. Gav pretended not to notice. But they kept their heads high, nearly tall enough to see over the table, as they deposited a lidded dish in front of him. The goblin at his elbow whipped the lid off, staring anxiously at his face to catch his reaction.

He had been unsure of what to expect, from the state of the kitchen. Some kind of gruel, perhaps? A whole small animal that would need to be deboned? Instead, he merely found a rather excellent-looking steak, if a bit on the rare side. He gave the creature a tiny nod of approval, and it (he?) nearly collapsed with relief. Another goblin filled his goblet with a heavy red wine before the lot of them scampered back the way they’d come.

His mouth filled with saliva and he tried not to saw at the meat too eagerly. His stomach nearly cramped with hunger. It took effort not to allow his eyes to roll back with pleasure as the hot juices hit his tongue. He’d eaten two or three bites with indecorous haste before he looked up to see how his guest fared.

The princess sat with great dignity, her hands folded in her lap, her plate untouched.