Free The Shadow's Heir (The Risen Sun) by K. J. Taylor

speak to him the way she had. At least, not when they knew who he was. Laela was fearless. He liked that.
    He paused and winced, putting a hand to his chest. Gods, it still hurt. After so long, it still hurt. But, then, so many things did.
    Arenadd slumped into a chair by the fire. He knew he should probably sleep at least briefly . . . not that he needed to sleep much any more.
    Instead, he picked up the jug of wine he’d left on the table and poured some of its contents into a mug, which he drained in a few long swallows. He refilled the mug and drank more slowly, while the familiar, dizzy warmth embraced him like an old friend.
    Well, she could stay for a while. She had obviously had a hard life, and it wouldn’t hurt her to have some respite. He could give her some work in the Eyrie to justify her presence to everyone else. Yes. That would work.
    The wine did its work as he got closer to the bottom of the jug. Yes. She could be a servant, and would have a good enough life—certainly better than she could have expected elsewhere, and he could forget about her and worry about more important matters. Yes.
    He emptied the jug and made a good dent in a second one before he fell asleep in the chair. In his dreams, the Night God’s voice whispered to him, trying to make him listen. He ignored her.
    •   •   •
    L aela did sleep that night, and far more deeply than she would have expected. She was too exhausted, both emotionally and physically, to resist the lure of her new bed, and though she was still deeply frightened, she pushed her doubts aside and got into it.
    It was wonderfully soft and comfortable, and she drifted off very quickly.
    Next morning, she was woken up by a servant.
    “Get up an’ get dressed; the King wants t’see yer.”
    Laela sat up sharply, her drowsiness vanishing almost instantly as sick recollection came back. “The King?” she said stupidly.
    “Aye, so get a move on, girl—he doesn’t like t’be kept waitin’.”
    Laela dragged herself out of bed and struggled back into her travel-stained wool dress. She also put her sword-belt on, including the sword.
    The servant made no move to stop her and stood by impassively while she laced up her boots and dragged a comb through her hair. “Good, now come with me,” she said, the instant that was done.
    Laela thought briefly of arguing or trying to leave, but only briefly. She was in the Eyrie—probably right at the top, judging by all the stairs she’d had to climb. There would be guards everywhere. The chances of escaping were next to none. She was as good as imprisoned.
    Frightened, but a little angry, she followed the servant out of the room.
    Now she got a proper chance to see the inside of the Eyrie, she couldn’t help but be impressed. It was a stone building, of course, but the walls were lined with wood, and there were thick carpets on the floor. Tapestries hung on the walls here and there, too, between ornate silver lamps, and she realised she must be in the richest part of the Eyrie.
    Another thing she noticed was how
big
the place was. This corridor was easily wide enough for an ox—probably wider, she thought.
    She wondered about that as the servant hustled her on. They passed several doors along the way, and those were abnormally huge as well. When Laela noticed that, she finally realised why—they had to be that size so that griffins could use them.
    The thought only helped to increase her sense of dread.
    Eventually, her guide took her up a ramp and to a door that had a pair of armed guards standing on either side of it. They both glanced curiously at Laela but said nothing and stayed at their posts as the servant nudged her through the door. “In ye go.”
    Laela hesitated, but the servant had already departed, and the guards shut the door behind her.
    She found herself in a fair-sized room furnished with a fireplace and a large table and chairs. And seated at the far end of it was . . .
    Her heartbeat