Chapter Text
The Dellamorte guest house is a comfortable three-room cottage, separated from the main estate by a garden wall. Illario Dellamorte is the king of a very small, tastefully furnished castle, and he is taking every advantage of his not-quite-prison. Illario is a free man. He cares nothing for his public forgiveness and private oversight. He doesn’t have to do anything except tell his tale to his reluctant audience, and he can drink to his heart’s content while he narrates. Free men have few restrictions. Once Illario’s done his miniscule penance and confesses his sins, he will be free to do as he pleases. It is a better outcome than he could have planned.
Illario loves the sound of his own voice, and Viago de Riva hoped he’d have a few days of peace before he was inundated with every lurid detail of Illario’s betrayal. Illario wastes no time. After all, he will be a free man once he’s told all he knows. Every time Viago thinks he’s heard the worst, he’s unpleasantly thrown into another narrative wheel of Illario’s wrongs and crimes. Viago listens to the taunts, the insults, the obscene fantasies, and the near-endless horrors of Illario’s twisted path to power. There’s little else he can do. For three days after Illario’s humiliating defeat on the opera house’s stage, Viago learns more than he ever cared to know about Illario Dellamorte and his ambitious, petty little soul.
Illario tells Viago everything, and, worse, he smiles the entire time. Illario is in control of the conversation, the wine, and the flow of information. He is remorseless and doesn’t fear retribution. After all, he is a free man, and free men can say and do as they please. Once the doors are open and the streets are his to roam, Illario won’t worry about a Maker-damned thing.
Viago is Illario’s jailor only until the interrogation is over, and after that, well, after that, Viago will need to find a few trusted Crows to watch Illario’s every step. It will not be easy. Most of the Crows want to kill Illario, but they are not willing to cross the First Talon. Viago wonders how long that protection will last once the truth of Illario’s dealings comes out.
Illario admits to almost too much for one man. Under other circumstances, and with anyone else as his family, he’d already be a hanged man. Illario confesses to forging an alliance with the Venatori, and promised them an ample supply of blood from the Drowned District’s most vulnerable. The Venatori could have all the unwashed, undesirable lives they wanted, along with a few treasonous blades to reinforce their terror. There were more than a few Crows willing to follow Illario’s lead, happy to throw in their lot with the Venatori, at least until they were bled to grease the wheels of the cult’s power.
Viago is disappointed to learn about his fellow Crows. Infighting is not new, it is a way of life, but spilling Trevisan blood for Venatori? Perhaps it’s for the best that those Crows ended up spilling their own blood, but worse for them that some of it ended up in Zara Renata’s hands.
Illario boasts of how easily he seduced Zara Renata. Viago learns far too much about Illario’s preferred bedroom activities. He’s always suspected Illario was a sadist behind closed doors, but perhaps he found his perfect match in the Venatori witch. Illario gloats when he describes killing his lover to prevent her from talking about their ‘arrangements.’ “It was just Crow business, Viago,” Illario says, refilling his wine glass. “You understand.”
Viago doesn’t. He barely understands Illario, and the more he learns, the more he despises him. Illario seems to sense this, and he twists his verbal knives ever deeper.
Illario’s personal betrayals go beyond killing his lover and betraying his family. Illario planted seeds of doubt in everyone he knew, and cultivated those uncertainties through action and murder, delicate planning and careful framing. He is pleased with his manipulations. No one ever saw him coming, no one ever suspected ‘Master Dellamorte the Lesser.’
Viago learns that a few suspicious Crow deaths are on Illario's hands. Viago considered at least two of the dead to be personal friends, and forces his anger down. He cannot afford to give Illario any indication of how much damage he’s truly caused.
When asked, Illario admits that he doesn’t know or care how many Trevisans died for Zara Renta’s rituals or for the Venatori’s failed efforts. He doesn’t care about the uneasy alliance between the Venatori and the Antaam, and he doesn’t care about the number of people who died under the occupiers’ boots. Illario didn’t betray the city, he insists; he only betrayed the Crows. He does not care that his own family suffered for the Venatori’s bloody power. Illario has no remorse for betraying his family, not for imprisoning Caterina, and not for trying to kill Lucanis.
Illario has bargained with cultists, blood mages, and worshippers of ancient gods. He’s all but sold his soul, and at the end, with everything he’s done, Illario will walk away a free man. Illario Dellamorte no longer cares about consequences. He is untouchable. He’s outwitted the best, and though he lost the throne, he has his life and his freedom. In the end, he walks away holding every single card in the deck. The First Talon is his cousin, after all, and no one will dare cross him, not after Lucanis so clearly stated that Illario is family.
Family, as Illario reminds Viago during one of his more vicious and mean-spirited admissions, means everything to Lucanis. Lucanis values family above coin and material comforts, hence his forgiveness. Illario wears that absolution like a peacock displaying its feathers. “Killing me was never on the table, Viago,” Illario says smugly. “My cousin can kill a dozen mages without a second thought, but his own family? There isn’t enough Dellamorte blood left to justify spilling mine.”
Viago runs out of patience on the third day after Illario’s defeat. There is a de Riva House scribe in the guest house room, keeping a record of Illario’s confession. Viago suspects that Illario’s interrogation has almost run its course. Illario’s tongue is loose and his words flow like the wine, but even he can only tell the same story so many times.
Viago is not alone on the third day. Lucanis returned to Treviso to join him for a few hours, though Viago cannot understand why Lucanis wants to hear anything from his cousin. Illario has little left to say after three days. Plus, the wine is running out.
Illario has no objections to talking, and at first, Lucanis is engaged. The Dellamorte cousins are almost conversational for a little while, until Illario diverts the exchange back to his treasonous activities and bloody ambitions. After a few minutes of Illario’s wine-dipped recollections, a blank mask falls over Lucanis’s face. He might be listening or he might be wishing he were elsewhere.
Viago would prefer it if he didn’t have to listen to Illario. He doesn’t understand why Lucanis has willingly putting himself in this position, especially because having Lucanis in attendance has emboldened Illario. He grins while he talks, his lips stretching wider with each passing moment. He revels in his own cleverness, gleefully insulting the Crows who overlooked him, and every word drips with venom.
Illario spends an entire hour discussing the multiple opportunities he had to kill Lucanis before he went to the Venatori. He pours himself another glass of wine, drinks half the glass down, and shrugs. “The trouble is, cousin, I was fond of you,” Illario says, as if affection is a sickness to be cured. “Every time I thought I was ready I just could not overcome that flaw.”
Lucanis doesn’t respond. He stands near the wall, arms folded, staring at a point just over Illario’s shoulder. Viago wonders if Lucanis is reconsidering his decision to forgive his cousin.
Maybe Illario is wondering the same. There appears to be no end to his open loathing of Lucanis. “You know, cousin,” Illario says, “I sometimes wondered if that little nickname of yours was a curse. You came by it honestly, of course, but then it became this thing you just couldn’t escape.” Illario bares his teeth as he smiles. “Like a demon on your back.”
Viago watches Lucanis, but sees no reaction.
Viago’s scribe, on the other hand, looks up from her notes, glances nervously at Lucanis, then to Viago, who scowls at her. Instead of returning to her notes, she casts another uncomfortable look at Lucanis.
Viago clears his throat. House de Riva is not going to play Illario’s mind games, and certainly not with the First Talon present. If Lucanis is bothered by the scribe’s awkward glances or Illario’s endless insults, he doesn’t show it. His gaze never wavers from the point over Lucanis’s shoulder.
The scribe makes an uncomfortable noise when Illario mentions Lucanis’s entrance into the opera house. Illario grins while he recounts the sight of Lucanis with unnatural violet, crimson, and black wings extended behind him, manifestations of the demon residing beneath his skin. The scribe squirms in her chair.
Viago is irritated.
Illario, on the other hand, is amused.
“Look at you,” Illario snickers at the scribe. “Are you frightened of a little thing like a demon?”
Viago looks sharply at his scribe, who hunches in her chair. “Ignore him,” Viago says.
The scribe shivers. Her pen hovers over her notes, ink dripping freely.
Viago turns back to Illario. “Let’s get back to business, Illario.”
“’Business?’ Isn’t that what we’re discussing, Viago?” Illario sneers. “You think Lucanis is still in there? You think that’s really him? That’s a demon wearing my cousin’s skin. You saw it as clearly as I did.”
Lucanis says nothing.
Viago folds his arms. “Illario. Focus.”
“Oh, I am focused. I am. Are you, Viago? Are your people?” Illario chuckles. “I’m told demons can be verypersuasive. They love to make promises, and I already know that some of our Crows are easy prey.”
Viago ignores Illario’s goading.
“Like our Crow-mages,” Illario continues. “We train them to be very aware of the temptations in the darkness.” He looks pointedly at the de Riva scribe. “One of our little birds made an error in judgement, and was pushed out of the nest. The little thing fell into a very cold pond.” He chuckles again. “You know how little birds are. They cannot swim.”
“W-wait. You’re talking about one of our Crow-mages? A de Riva mage?” the scribe asks, before Viago can stop her.
Illario directs his hostile grin at Viago. “You don’t have too many Crow-mages, Viago. Imagine how tempting one might be, especially for a hungry demon.”
Viago says, “Ignore him,” but Illario leans forward, smiling.
“I wonder how deep those claws are sunk in,” Illario says, lowering his voice. He looks into his nearly-empty wine glass. “What do you think, Viago? Do you think there’s anything left inside that husk that looks like my cousin?”
Viago scowls.
Illario takes that as his cue. “Hm. How about inside your little mage? How long before that demon takes the last few bite of her soul and spits out what’s left at your feet?” He turns his gaze on Lucanis. “You’ve thought about it, haven’t you, cousin? You’ve thought about letting the demon have a taste.” Illario grins wider. “Or did you take the first bite, after all?”
Viago’s patience finally wears out. He takes a step towards Illario, but Lucanis gets in his way, braces his arm against Viago’s chest and forces him out of the room. Viago curses at him, but the First Talon doesn’t let go, pushing Viago back, face still blank. That expression infuriates Viago more than Illario’s taunting, even as he spots the sadistic smile on Illario’s face.
Illario calls after him: “Good luck, Viago! I can’t wait to see what’s left when the demon’s done with her!”
The de Riva House scribe follows Viago and Lucanis. Everyone hears Illario chuckling to himself when he shuts the heavy wooden door behind them. The scribe shivers, hugs her papers to her chest, looks between the two men, and awaits further orders. Viago is breathing heavily through his nose. He glares at the scribe, and hisses, “Not one word out of you. Go.”
The scribe looks at Lucanis, frightened. “Illario was talking about Rook. Viago, you know it, I know it. He was talking about her; he was talking about–”
“Not. One. Word,” Viago repeats. “Go home.”
The scribe doesn’t look away from Lucanis.
“Go. Home,” Viago orders.
The scribe scurries out of the guest house hallway, leaving the two men alone. Lucanis steps away from Viago, in front of the door. Viago almost calls him an idiot. What kind of fool is Lucanis, standing with his back to the only barrier between him and the man who wants to kill him? Viago stares at Lucanis, searches the other man’s face for some emotion, some echo of Viago’s own irritation and anger with Illario, anything, and he finds nothing except… exhaustion?
“Illario excels at getting under people’s skin. Nothing has changed. That was not a question, Lucanis, stop nodding like I’ve revealed some great mystery,” Viago says, not bothering to hide his frustration. He’s not sure which of the Dellamorte cousins irritates him more, the loudmouth in the other room, or this empty-eyed stranger who looks like an old friend.
“Just say what’s on your mind, Viago,” Lucanis says, and he sounds even more exhausted than he looks.
Viago closes his eyes, reins in his temper. “I am thinking before I speak.”
Lucanis smiles tightly. “I’ve spent enough time lately avoiding conversations that need to be had. Say what you want to say, Viago. I’m tired.”
Viago is a bit taken aback. The Lucanis he remembers isn’t quite so… direct. The way he speaks reminds Viago more of Rook’s way of talking, or the way she used to talk, back when they argued all the time, when she’d challenge Viago on the smallest detail, angry at the world and the Crows, and with no regard for consequences. Viago wishes he could channel some of that bluntness into an interrogation of the First Talon. Illario’s just laid some very unsettling things at Viago’s feet, some insinuations about Lucanis and his… circumstances… that could draw blood, and a few facts that no sane man can ignore.
There is a demon standing opposite me, Viago thinks. There is a demon and yet I do not see it. I see only a dead man who is not dead, who is more alive than I remember him being.
Viago cannot ignore or avoid this. The longer he pretends to be ignorant of reality, the worse things will be, because Treviso is still under occupation, and the Crows must be united if the Antaam’s hold on the city is to end. A unified alliance among the Crow Houses will not last long. Viago needs to do his part to maintain those fragile tethers, and Illario is not helping matters.
As much as Viago despises the traitor, Illario’s successfully wormed his way under Viago’s skin. All that talk of demons is directed at Lucanis, but it’s meant to disorient others. To Viago’s increasing fury, it’s worked on him. He straightens his cloak, adjusts his gloves. He suspects this is the only time he will ever be able to speak frankly and directly to the First Talon. He doesn’t waste the opportunity.
“Tell me you are still in there, Lucanis,” Viago says, barely keeping his temper in check. “Tell me that’s you standing in front of me, and not what I saw in the opera house three nights ago. I saw wings. I saw magic. I saw the impossible. Tell me that’s really you, and not something wearing your skin like a coat.”
Lucanis folds his arms. He sounds annoyed and exhausted. “You saw Illario use blood magic, too. I don’t hear you calling that impossible.”
“Blood magic is the least of his crimes,” Viago says with disgust. “Treason, consorting with Venatori, engineering the slaughter of civilians.” Viago glares. “And instead of making an example out of him for that, you gave him his life and his freedom.”
Lucanis half-shrugs. “I didn’t do him any favors.”
Viago scowls. “You didn’t do me any favors, either. Do you have any idea the filth I’ve had to listen to?”
“Let him walk, Viago,” Lucanis says dismissively. “I told you to keep him out of trouble. Do with that what you will.”
“And incur your wrath when someone else kills him?” Viago scoffs.
Lucanis looks at Viago. “That’s the ugly side of freedom, Viago. You never know who might take it away from you.”
Viago frowns. “Are you sure you’re still in there?” he asks carefully. “The Lucanis I remember wasn’t so…”
Lucanis’s mouth turns up in a grim half-smile. “Spiteful?”
“That is a word for it. Yes.” Viago sighs and shakes his head. “This… demon. It’s real?”
Lucanis nods.
Viago shakes his head. “I don’t like unknowns, Lucanis.”
“You know me.”
“I don’t, though. Not anymore. I haven’t spoken to you in more than a year. I barely recognized you when you first came back. You’ve changed, and I don’t know if I like it.” Viago looks at Lucanis. “Illario said mages are easy prey for demons. He was talking about Rook. This demon, if it’s a danger to her—"
“I love her, Viago,” Lucanis says.
“I didn’t hear that,” Viago says.
“You did.”
“No, I did not. Do not say that to me.” Viago stares at Lucanis, studying his face. “You cannot be serious,” he says.
Lucanis stares right now.
“You are serious.” Viago exhales heavily. “Illario knew?”
“I didn’t tell him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“He knew, though. Before I did. Before anyone. Illario knew you were courting Rook?”
Lucanis glares. “I wouldn’t call it courting—”
“I don’t care what you call it.” Viago scowls. “The least you could do is ask permission before you even considerpursuing a member of my House.”
“When was I going to do that?” Lucanis challenges. “Before or after we killed the gods? Before or after we followed the clues to save Caterina and stop Illario? When was I going to find the time to ask for your permission?”
“Rook belongs to my House,” Viago snaps.
“Be careful, Viago,” Lucanis warns.
“Oh, no,” Viago says, finally losing his temper. He doesn’t care if he oversteps. This is far too much. “You don’t tell me ‘careful,’ Lucanis. You, of all people, don’t tell me ‘careful,’ not after you forgave your cousin for his crimes.” Viago jabs his finger at the closed door. “Lucanis. Think about what he’s done. Think about what he’s done to you. You’ve been in there listening. You’ve heard him. And you’d tell me ‘careful?’” Viago lowers his voice. “You think he won’t do it again? He knows she’s with you. Do you think he won’t target her, too?”
Lucanis says, “Viago, I know.”
“I don’t think you do,” Viago hisses. “Illario’s free. Once we’ve finished this little interrogation, he can come and go as he pleases. He can do whatever he wants. How long before he’s looking for another way to kill you? How long before he goes after Rook to get to you?”
“That won’t happen.”
“You can’t promise that.”
Lucanis’s eyes appear to turn red. Viago steps back. For a moment, he thinks he’s imagined the shift in his old friend’s eyes, but, no, no it is there, a burst of crimson in the depths. Viago regains his composure, and keeps his voice calm. “Give me one reason to believe you,” he says, realizing he doesn’t know if he’s speaking to the man or the demon under his skin.
Lucanis closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, there is no red in his gaze. There is weariness, some regret, but also sincerity. Lucanis says, “Viago. Rook pulled me above water. You have no idea what it’s like to drown in your own head. She pulled me out.”
Viago doesn’t accept that. “Try again, Lucanis.”
Lucanis says, “She’s not afraid of anything, not even a demon.”
Viago puts his hands on his hips. “That sounds like her. Impulsive, reckless, looking at dangerous things head on, without sense or a speck of fear.”
“Careful, Viago,” Lucanis repeats, and this time, Viago believes him. There’s some bite behind the words. Still, Viago isn’t satisfied.
“Again, with the ‘careful,’” Viago says. “Do you think you know her better than I do?”
“Yes.”
Viago scowls. “You don’t know her at all. I’ve known her for years, far longer than you have.” His frustration fades. “Since she’s come back, since that ritual went so wrong, I haven’t seen what I remember. I haven’t seen the temper, the anger, the recklessness.” Viago sucks his lower lip. “You’re in love with Rook? Truly?”
Lucanis nods. “Yes.”
Viago sighs, because that single word holds more sincerity than any flowery declaration could. “And you couldn’t have said something before I had to hear it from fucking Illario?”
Lucanis folds his arms. “It slipped my mind.”
“That excuse won’t last long,” Viago says. “I hope you have a better one for why you’re so willing to forgive Illario. His freedom comes with a heavy price, Lucanis.”
“Of course it does,” Lucanis says. “That’s the idea.”
“Explain.”
Lucanis looks at the closed wooden door. His cousin is on the other side of it. Lucanis’s voice is steady when he speaks. “Didn’t you see him on his knees in front of every Crow House, Viago? Illario’s not free. There are a thousand knives at his back. Every breath he takes is a gift from me. He owes me his life. He will not thank me for it.” Lucanis smiles, and Viago sees a hint of hate within it. “I told you, Viago. Freedom has an ugly side. I won’t be the one to take it from Illario, but someone will. It doesn’t have to be me.”
Viago looks Lucanis up and down. “A year away changed you,” he says cautiously. “I’m not sure if I like it."
Lucanis shrugs. “You don’t have to like me. Rook does.”
Viago rolls his eyes. “And I’ll be talking with her about that soon enough.”
“Viago,” Lucanis says, his voice very serious.
Viago looks at the First Talon. “What?”
“She’s only part of your House until she isn’t.”
Viago scowls, but he can’t maintain his frustration. He shakes his head. “We’re going back to the Diamond. You’re telling Caterina.” He grimaces. “And Teia. Shit, she will be insufferable when she finds out.” He looks around the guest house hallway. “Is there a bottle of wine we can take? Something to ease Caterina’s sting when you tell her?”
Lucanis laughs softly. “Follow me. Assuming Illario hasn’t sold everything, I know where the house manager kept a crate of 9:05 Dragon Orlesian Bordeaux.”