Hallowed Bond (Chronicles of Ylandre Book 2) (29 page)

With the arrival of reinforcements, the tide swiftly turned. The ambush turned into a rout for its initiators save that there was no disorderly retreat for them. The would-be assassins fought tooth and nail to escape or die in the trying. Talvas obliged them and led his people in their slaughter. By the time the fighting ended, only one assassin remained to tell the tale of his people’s defeat. He was subdued and taken aside to await questioning.

*

Before too long, the royal physician arrived with his assistants. Dylen helped Laral to one of the benches and made him sit down. He summoned the physician and waited while the Deir examined and then bound the prince’s wound.

“Your tardiness saved the day,” Laral told him with a pinched smile when the physician was done. “Had you arrived on time, you would have been caught in the ambush.”

“Yet it astounds me that they didn’t realize you were waiting for others. It was quite obvious that you had guests.” Dylen gestured toward the dining table and the shambles of what had been place settings for three Deira.

Laral gingerly shifted his position to a more comfortable one. “Let’s just be grateful for their limited powers of observation.”

Dylen nodded then looked about the pavilion for Riodan. He saw him several paces away helping check for survivors from the first attack. Judging from his expression, there were not that many, especially among the defenseless servants. His mouth tightening in anger, Dylen did not wait for permission from Laral but stalked up to the sole prisoner and grabbed him by the collar. He slammed the Deir against one of the wrought iron posts from which lanterns hung.

“You’re not Ylandrin,” he growled. “Speak! Who do you serve, dog?”

The Deir struggled at first, clawing at the hand at his throat. But, after several seconds, he began to breathe harshly. His eyes bulged with terror, and a ragged whimper soon escalated into a strangled wail.

“Get out of my head!” he shrieked. “Ah, save me!”

“Who sent you?” Dylen’s voice, low but commanding, overrode the prisoner’s cries.

“Who is your master? Tell me or I swear by all the saints, I’ll leave you a gibbering wreck!”

The Deir closed his eyes in an apparent attempt to fight Dylen’s incursion into his thoughts. But there was no ejecting Dylen’s presence from his mind, and after an agonizing while in which he wheezed and wept, the Deir broke down.

Slumping against the post, he blubbered, “His M-Majesty… J-Jubal Ferrenda.”

*

Hearing the Deir’s confession, Riodan felt a surge of elation at this first solid evidence of Ferrenda treachery. He started to walk toward Dylen when, through the corner of his eye, he spotted someone just outside a narrow side entryway a short distance

from where Laral was seated. The stranger was hefting something in his hand.

It was a bottle filled with a liquid that gleamed with a reddish hue. A burning cloth wick protruded from the stopper in the bottle’s narrow mouth.

For an instant, Riodan froze, shocked that anyone would use an incendiary weapon within the palace grounds. Such devices were forbidden in all Aisen for they were indiscriminate in the damage they caused. Innocent bystanders were injured or killed alongside intended targets.

The Deir flung the explosive at Laral. Racing forward, Riodan called out a warning to Talvas who stood nearby. The captain lunged forward and instinctively used his arm to bat the bottle away from the prince. The bottle’s trajectory changed. As if in a nightmare, Riodan watched it tumble through the air. It would land on the floor near Dylen.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Riodan swerved toward his lover and threw himself at Dylen, bringing him down beneath him just as the bottle smashed on the floor.

Riodan cried out as searing heat suffused his back. He dimly heard Dylen’s savage imprecations as the latter scrambled out from under him. Riodan blacked out momentarily. When he became aware of his surroundings once more, all he could make out was a confusing welter of noise and motion. Someone was screaming in agony.

Another was shouting for help.

A length of cloth had been thrown over him and hands beat down on it. In the midst of his pain, he realized his back from his nape and shoulders to his thighs were aflame.

The smell of singed hair added to his fear when he thought for a moment that his head had also been set on fire. The blistering heat diminished somewhat as the flames were put out, but the pain did not, and his breath came in agonized gasps.

There was the sound of running feet and then someone dropped down beside Dylen.

He cried out once more as the charred ruins of his tunic were hurriedly peeled from his burnt flesh. A cool hand touched his cheek, and he turned his head and looked blearily into Dylen’s anxious eyes.

“Hold on, Rio,” Dylen whispered. “The physician is here.”

Something was smeared on his back, and he moaned from the initial contact with his overly tender skin. But very quickly, the pain receded to something more bearable, and he sighed with a little relief. He could feel the physician’s hands on his back, slowly and thoroughly stroking the damaged flesh. Wherever his fingers lightly pressed down, there was a tingling sensation followed by sparks of feeling alike to the maddening jabs of a needle. But in their wake was a further lessening of pain.

“Why, Rio?” Dylen said, his voice catching. “You would have avoided the worst of it had you stayed where you were. Yet you—” He paused and let out a frustrated exhalation. “Why did you do it?”

Riodan managed a small, tired smile. “Why else?” he murmured. At Dylen’s stricken expression, he reached for his hand and squeezed. “Don’t worry about me, Dy. You’re alive and well; that’s all that matters.”

“Deity’s blood, Rio…”

Riodan did not hear the rest of Dylen’s anguished response for he finally slipped into blessed oblivion.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Inquiry

The physician’s healing touch brought him some relief. But in between visits he endured the incessant aches and relentless discomfort of mending flesh and knitting bones. Only after they had seen to his burnt flesh did the healers discover that one shoulder had been dislocated and an ankle broken. Small wonder it felt like pain would be his constant companion from now on.

Riodan turned his head from the stifling softness of his pillow seeking one thing alone. He exhaled in relief when he found Dylen seated beside his bed, watching with concern and not a little fear. He reached out a shaky hand and feebly smiled when it was immediately caught in a strong, comforting grip.

“Don’t leave me alone,” he whispered, forgetting that he had pleaded thusly a number of times since regaining consciousness in the palace infirmary.

Dylen quietly said, “I’ll be here, I promise.”

Riodan slid back into slumber, keeping his face turned toward Dylen that the first thing he would see when he awakened would be his beloved face.

It was only on the fourth day since the incident that Dylen deemed it permissible to leave Riodan’s side. The ambassador had finally fallen into a deep, restful sleep unlike the previous days when the slightest movements or faintest sounds disturbed his fragile slumber.

Dylen gazed long at him, relieved that Riodan would have some respite from the almost interminable pain of his injuries. He grimaced as he recalled the prior evening’s ghastly proceedings and Riodan’s suffering. True, Amir’s physicians had prevented more serious damage. But even they could not alleviate the excruciating discomfort wrought by the process of healing from severe burns.

Last night, the healers had tended to an infection in Riodan’s lower back, perforce cutting away flesh that threatened to turn gangrenous. They gave him a sleeping draught beforehand. But even the strongest dose could not completely render him oblivious to the pain of the procedure, and he’d awakened several times before the physicians were done.

Dylen flexed his fingers in involuntarily response to the memory of how tightly Riodan had held on to his hand, gripping his fingers so hard that Dylen thought his bones would break. Yet despite the pain, Riodan had not cried out.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, and at one point, he’d been reduced to gasping sobs and whispered imprecations. But he did not shout or bawl as might be expected of a Deir in his situation. And all the while he stared at Dylen, as if drawing strength and courage from him. It was all Dylen could do to keep from lashing out at the physicians for doing what they had to do.

He ran his fingers through Riodan’s hair. The bronze locks were lank from oil and sweat and the strands at Riodan’s nape were dark and uneven where the singed ends had

broken off. Dylen stroked Riodan’s cheek. Thank Veres the burns went no further and the ambassador’s face was unmarred.

Not that Dylen would have found him less beautiful had his face been burned. If anything, Riodan seemed more exquisite in Dylen’s eyes, even to his ruined back.

Dylen sighed. Riodan had saved his life and deemed the consequences of that act worth it. Dylen would never forget their conversation after the healers had finished their task.

“I wish I could take your pain away, Rio,” Dylen said, guilt underlining his voice.

Riodan weakly smiled and murmured, “You already did.” He briefly placed his hand on Dylen’s chest. “It’s gone—the ache I’ve borne these many years. When you let me in again, you took away my pain, Dy.”

“Oh, Veres…” was all Dylen could say. He pulled Riodan’s hand to his lips and reverently kissed the knuckles. Riodan’s smile turned even more luminous before he slid into exhausted slumber.

Dylen bent and dropped a kiss on Riodan’s cheek. Then, after getting the reassurance of the physician on duty all over again, he left the room and went to keep his appointment with Laral Halvan.

He met Laral in the sitting room of the latter’s apartment. The prince was almost recovered from his injury. The only indication of it was the occasional wince when a sudden movement pulled at the wound.

Laral ordered everyone out of the apartment and took it upon himself to pour Dylen some wine and serve him salty roasted nuts and crisp cracklings dipped in spiced vinegar, a snack of which the Asmarans were inordinately fond.

“I hear Leyhar-
tyar
is mending well,” Laral said as he sipped his wine.

“He is mending but not without suffering for it,” Dylen replied a little bitterly.

“Yes, that’s to be expected.” Laral shook his head. “He highly esteems you to have exposed himself to such peril.”

Dylen looked away, eyes suddenly veiled. Laral sighed.

“And you feel the same way though you deny it to yourself. Ah well, that is none of my business, as you undoubtedly would say.” He helped himself to a handful of nuts.

“Still, I do hope you resolve whatever it is that divides you. You work so well together, and it would be a pity were such an enviable partnership be riven by past grievances.”

After a moment, Dylen returned his gaze to Laral. “It will be resolved,” he said.

Laral smiled faintly. “Good. Now, on to more urgent matters.” Laral’s mouth tightened. “Malkon.”

Dylen sat up, immediately alert.

“Talvas’ people caught him outside the pavilion,” Laral told him.

“Did he throw the explosive?”

“There was no one else around.”

“Then he must have arranged for the ambush as well.”

“Probably. Though it must have been an impulse on his part. Set off most likely by our confrontation earlier that day.”

“About that—” Dylen regarded the prince wonderingly. “What did you confront him about,
Dyhar
?”

Laral refilled their cups. “It seems your ambassador succeeded in convincing Dimas to do his duty,” he said. “Dimas admitted the extent of his gaming debts in his letter to me as well as his inability to repay them. He named Malkon as his creditor.”

Dylen caught his breath. “Did he mention what Malkon had demanded of him in lieu of coin?”

Laral shook his head. “Unfortunately, he only said Malkon had threatened his family with harm, his children in particular, if Dimas did not do as he bid.”

“And that’s what you argued about?”

“Yes. It’s one thing to threaten someone with exposure or debtor’s prison in order to force him to pay what he owes. That is but right and lawful. But to endanger the lives of his family—” Laral’s eyes narrowed in anger. “That is beyond the pale. None of Dimas’

children have reached their majority yet. I know what you’re thinking—that he demanded Dimas reject as many of those contract approvals as possible. Well, I have had my suspicions as well. But Dimas didn’t outright say what it was Malkon had asked in repayment and so I can hardly accuse him of that.”

“But he tried to have you killed,” Dylen pointed out. “You believe that he did even if he hasn’t confessed to it.”

“Yes and yes,” Laral agreed. “And that is telling. Methinks he feared I knew the full truth and would expose him to my uncle as soon as I had more evidence of it.”

“Then you are aware of his ambitions and how he had to revise his plans to fulfill them.”

“That Sivar is my heir and therefore will come to the throne if I am removed?” Laral smiled mirthlessly. “Oh yes, I have long suspected. Ever since Uncle Arfen and then Gavan died so conveniently. And with Malkon always on the spot. But there was no proof, you understand?”

“Completely. But that last assassin named Jubal as the instigator of the plot against you,” Dylen reminded him.

Laral softly said, “Malkon denies he knew what his sire planned.”

Dylen scoffed. “A likely claim!”

“But there is no concrete evidence linking him to Jubal’s scheme beyond their kinship,” Laral said. “And the one Deir who might have been able to reveal the truth is dead. Killed by an explosive Malkon may or may not have thrown.” Laral huffed in exasperation. “He denied he threw that device by the way, and once again, the evidence against him is circumstantial. He was the only Deir in sight, but no one actually saw him do the deed. Even Ambassador Leyhar only glimpsed the figure of someone, but he won’t be able to identify Malkon as the culprit, will he?”