The Bloodbound (19 page)

Clever touch, old man, bringing my father into this.
He did not doubt Highmount's sincerity, but that did not make him any less manipulative. He was a good man, but a classic creature of court. He saw all the angles, spied every risk and every opportunity. Erik admired the man's savvy, even as he despised it. Part of him wanted to learn those skills, and part of him was afraid he already had.

But I need him, now more than ever. He's right about that, and a lot else besides.
In truth, Erik had known all along that he had been wrong to dismiss his first counsel. It was done out of anger, left unresolved out of pride. Erik did not have the luxury of such rashness now. “Let us speak no further of this,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “You are weary from your journey. Take some rest. Tomorrow, we can discuss next steps.”

“Then you will permit me to remain?”

Swallow your pride, Your Majesty.
“If you would do me the honour of being my first counsel again, I should be very pleased.” The words did not taste quite as bitter as he had feared.

Highmount rose and bowed. “The honour is mine, Your Majesty,” he said without a hint of smugness. “And you are right—I am exhausted. I daresay I shall sleep very well tonight.” He turned to go. Then he paused at the tent flap, casting a final glance around him. “You have changed, I think.”

“Betrayal and disappointment will do that to a man.”

“So it is that we grow wise,” Highmount said, and for the briefest moment, Erik glimpsed a lifetime of hard lessons in his eyes. Then he turned away and was gone.

*   *   *

A chill mist
clung to the camp, draping over the shoulders of the tents like a rain-sodden cloak. It was strangely cool for the season. It was as though nature itself were nervous before the battle, dew collecting like beads of sweat on the pale brow of dawn. Men stumbled over tent posts hidden in the fog, slipped on grass slick with damp. If Erik had been a superstitious man, he might have considered it an ill omen.

Alix stood at his side, as always, copper hair curling gently in the humidity. Erik longed to reach out and touch those shining waves, beautiful and slightly wild. His thoughts returned, as they had so often, to that night at Greenhold. The softness of her hair, the sweet sigh of her voice in his ear . . . He could almost bring to mind the faint scent of lavender as his lips brushed the perfect white skin of her neck.

She gazed out over the camp, unaware of Erik's eyes on her. Would she think him weak, if she could hear his thoughts? Would she question the worth of a king who allowed himself to be so distracted on the morning of battle?

She looked over at him and smiled. Erik smiled back, but a part of him felt uneasy. There was something surreal about this moment, something portentous. It felt a little like a dream, as though his mind wanted him to remember. Erik shivered. He was not normally given to anxiety before a battle. Perhaps he had not slept properly.

Highmount was up and about, though he did not bother with the pretence of armour. He was too old to fight, and had probably never been much of a knight to begin with. He would remain at the camp, along with the healers, smiths and sundry others whose efforts were the backbone of the army. Surprisingly, he had not attempted to persuade Erik not to fight. Perhaps Highmount was beginning to take his young king seriously at last.

Erik struck out into the fog, Highmount at his side, Alix trailing just behind. He always walked among the men before battle. He had read somewhere that a good general avoids fraternising with his troops, so as not to compromise his ability to take difficult life-and-death decisions. It was important to see one's men as weapons, rather than people, or so the theory went, lest one hesitate to sacrifice them to military necessity.

Erik had a different theory. It was good for his soldiers to see their king up close. Let them put a face to the man who would lead them into battle, and draw strength from his confidence. It was important to show them that he cared to know their names, what village they came from. A king who cares for his people is one who will do what is necessary to protect them.

“Victory, Your Majesty!” one of the men called.

“Let Rahl be your sign today, sire,” said another.

Erik approached a young soldier polishing his weapon. It was a massive two-handed greatsword with an elaborately carved hilt, most likely a family heirloom. The man froze when Erik drew near, then leapt to his feet and bowed, the tip of his blade sinking into the dirt. Even with a few inches of it buried, the sword was nearly as tall as the young man himself.

“That's quite a weapon,” Erik said. “Was it your father's?”

The young man flushed at being thus singled out. “Aye, sire, and his father's before.”

“Was your father a giant, by any chance? Or perhaps a little Harrami blood?” A ripple of laughter went through the gathering crowd of soldiers. “Honestly, man, how do you even lift that thing?”

The young soldier tilted his chin proudly. “I'm stronger than I look, Your Majesty.”

“You must be.” Gesturing at the surrounding crowd, Erik added, “But if I were you lot, I'd give this man plenty of space when he winds up.” More laughter. Erik continued on.

He stopped to speak to several others before heading back, and gradually, his mood began to clear. He had long since realised that these walks were as good for him as they were for his men. Just as the soldiers drew strength from his confidence, he drew resolve from their trust. These ordinary men and women reminded Erik why he was here, and what they were defending.

A soldier walked toward him, smiling broadly. “Good hunting today, Your Majesty,” the man said as he approached, reaching out to clasp Erik's arm. He was a stocky fellow, with thick arms and beefy hands. The one that reached for Erik bore a tattoo of a snake. And something else . . .

A blade flashed. Someone cried out. Erik was seized from behind and spun around, his body wrapped in another as he turned. He felt an impact against his back, heard a grunt. The arms around him went slack. Erik whirled to find Alix staring at him. There was a great commotion behind her, men surging and grabbing and shouting. Alix stood perfectly still, her face strangely expressionless.

She buckled. Erik lunged and caught her under the arms. Over her shoulder, he saw the hilt of a dagger. She had shielded him with her own body, and the blow aimed for Erik's heart had instead found her back. It was an armour-piercing blade. An assassin's blade. Alix opened her mouth to say something, but she only managed a cough, wet and wheezing.

Erik eased her down onto her side. Highmount was shouting for a healer. Erik sank to his knees in the grass, momentarily paralysed with fear. Alix's breath rattled in her throat, and a pink froth appeared on her lips. Her eyes glazed over. He grabbed her shoulder and leaned in close. Her eyelids started to flutter. “Don't you dare,” he hissed. “I forbid it, Alix.”

She focused on him for a moment, nearly managed a smile. Then her eyes closed, and she went limp.

A
lix woke to darkness. She lay on her stomach, her back exposed to the open air. A knife was embedded in her flesh, just to the right of her spine. At least that was what it felt like. Alix had never been stabbed before, not even in battle, but if she'd had to guess what lacerated muscle felt like, it would have been this. The sensation of being
torn
was unmistakable. And excruciating.

She tilted her head, scanning the shadows. She recognised the vague outline of her own tent. She shifted, her elbow bumping the small bedside table and nearly knocking over a cup of water that had been placed there. The sight of it awakened a powerful thirst. Gingerly, Alix propped herself on her elbows. A jolt of pain lanced through her back, but her thirst would not be denied. She grabbed the cup.

“Hey,” a voice said irritably, “I could have got that for you.”

Alix craned her neck to locate the source, and found Erik sitting vigil near her bedside. She was too busy gulping water to respond right away. “I didn't know you were there,” she said between swallows. She could barely see him, it was so dark. It must have been late.

“I shouldn't be, but I just had to see for myself that you were all right. I'll go . . . in a moment.” He spoke in a low voice, not wanting to draw attention to his presence.

Alix peered at him through the shadows. She could only see the outline of his face against the pale backdrop of the canvas. “Are you all right?”

He shrugged. “A few scrapes and bruises, but nothing to worry about.”

Scrapes and bruises?
He must have fought the assassin after she passed out. She would have assumed the soldiers had killed him by then. “That was close,” she said. “I hope Saxon was right, and the guild sent their best this time. Any better, and he'd have had us.”

She sensed his frown. “Saxon?”

“The spy. That's his name.” She wondered if she was wrong to repeat it.

“You should rest,” Erik said, rising. “If they find me here, I'm liable to be flogged.” He sounded sullen, and his voice was deeper than usual. Alix wondered if he was unwell. He paused at the tent flap. “Good night, Allie.”

She gasped, twisting all the way around before she realised what she was doing. Her gasp turned into a cry as pain flared through her body.

“Are you insane, woman?” Strong hands eased her back onto her stomach. “You do remember about the knife and the almost dying, don't you?”

“Liam,” she whispered through a haze of pain.

He lowered himself to a crouch by her bedside. Even in the darkness, she could see the concern in his eyes. “What do you need? How can I help?”

Alix reached out and ran her fingers through his short-cropped hair. “It's really you.” The familiar contours of his face were brushed in moonlight. Gods, he was beautiful.

“You thought maybe it was a bad dream?” A ghost of his roguish grin appeared, only to dissolve into a pained look. Alix realised that she was stroking his hair with the tips of her fingers. Liam closed his eyes and turned his face into her hand. His breath flitted along her wrist like a shiver. She started to pull him near, but he rose swiftly out of reach. When he spoke again, his voice sounded rusty. “If you want, I'll have Gwylim come by tomorrow. He's got this wonder poultice, better than any of the stuff the healers use. It smells like something died in that jar, but it's worth it.”

“Please stay.”

“I'd better not. Angry healers are up there with skunks, bears, and Oridian thralls on my list of dangerous fauna. Besides, it's late, and you should rest.”

“Liam, wait. How long will you be in camp?” If he said he was leaving at dawn, Alix was getting up out of this cot, knife wound be damned.

“We're back for good,” he said, “all of us. We defeated the enemy at the Scions. They've scattered, probably heading south to regroup with the main force. Green says we've done all we can. We meet up with your brother tomorrow, and I guess I don't really know what happens after that.” A slice of moonlight appeared as he pulled back the tent flap. “I'll see you around,” he said, and was gone.

*   *   *

Alix nearly gagged
when he opened the jar.

“Sweet Farika, goddess of grace!” She twisted to look back over her shoulder, just far enough to see Gwylim smirk.

“You were warned.”

It was true, she
had
been warned, but she had never imagined a stench like this. “What is
in
that stuff?”

“You don't want to know. Hold still, please, your bandage is stuck.” Alix hissed in pain as Gwylim tugged at the dried blood caking her stitches. “You bled through last night. Here, let me soak it off.” He dipped a rag in water and gently dabbed at the wound.

“Thanks.”

“Don't thank me yet. If you think this stuff smells bad now, wait until you've sweated in it awhile.” He patted her dry and took up the clay jar. Alix buried her face in her pillow and breathed deeply of goose down. “This is going to sting a little,” Gwylim said.

It stung a
lot
, as if he had squeezed a lemon over the wound. Alix screwed up her face and gritted her teeth. “This had better be worth it,” she growled, a little ungratefully.

“It will be.” His hands were gentle and steady, and after a moment, the burning wore off, replaced by an almost icy feeling. “They think the dagger nicked your lung.”

“I guess that explains why I couldn't breathe.” Alix shuddered at the memory.

Gwylim's hands left her; Alix could hear him putting the stopper back in the jar. “I passed His Majesty on the way in,” he said as he pressed a fresh bandage to her back.

“He was here when I woke up.”

“Mmm,” said Gwylim.

Alix frowned at her pillow. “What?”

“He almost didn't let me in. Blocked me bodily at the tent flap until I explained myself. Almost as if he were your bodyguard, and not the other way around.”

Alix was glad her face was half hidden by the pillow.
I wonder if my neck blushes
, she thought sourly. Aloud, she said, “He doesn't know you, that's all.”

“Mmm,” said Gwylim.

Alix hastened to change the subject. “Where did you learn how to make this stuff, anyway?” She raised herself up on her arms as he wound the dressing around her ribs, just under her breast band. If it had been anyone else, she would have worried about her modesty, but for some reason, it never occurred to her to fret about Gwylim.

“You learn lots of things when you're studying to become a priest,” he said. “Herbology especially. Herbs and potions let you commune with the Virtues.”

“Oh?”

She could hear the smile in his voice. “That's what they say.”

“Doesn't sound like you believe it.”

He tied off the dressing with a clever knot. “I've had a vision or two thanks to a leaf or a mushroom, but I can't say I've ever felt holier for it.”

Alix snorted into her pillow. “You don't paint a very flattering portrait of religious life.”

“I give credit where it's due. The priestly orders have contributed their share to society. Longlenses and fireworks, literature and poetry, and of course medicines like this one.”

“Hopefully they don't all smell like death washed through a sewer.”

Gwylim laughed. “You won't mind so much by tomorrow,” he promised.

Alix fell asleep after that, and by the time she woke up, it was late afternoon, and her brother was at her bedside. He stayed all through the night, was still there the following morning when Erik appeared with breakfast. Later, Gwylim arrived to change her bandages, and Kerta and Ide came too. Albern Highmount sent his regards through the king, and even Arran Green dropped by to wish her well.

Liam, though, did not return.

He didn't come the next day, or the day after that. He didn't even send word. That hurt more than any knife wound, for it confirmed Alix's fears. Not only was he no longer her lover, he was no longer even her friend. She'd lost him completely.

After four days, Alix could finally stand without assistance, and Erik ordered the camp struck. The march to Erroman had begun at last. They'd waited so long for this moment, it seemed to Alix that it ought to feel somehow momentous, but it didn't. It felt like any other march on any other day, with weary soldiers and bad weather and many miles ahead. Alix bounced along in the back of a supply wagon, wincing at every bump in the road and wishing fervently that she could walk.
So this is how Erik felt after the Battle of Boswyck.
She'd known he was uncomfortable, but the humiliation of it, the sense of being utterly powerless, was something she hadn't fully understood. He'd borne it with more dignity than she could ever hope to.

The sky opened up that afternoon. Rain cleaved through the fog in frigid sheets, clattering against armour and beating the road into muck. The men swore and grumbled. Alix managed to hunker down under some canvas, but even so, she was soaked to her smalls. From under her makeshift tent, she glimpsed Liam and Kerta following along behind the wagon. Kerta had her arms looped through Liam's, and they were laughing. Kerta wore a helm that kept the rain off her perfect blond curls, but Liam's hair was plastered to his forehead, streaming with wet. Kerta reached up and slicked it back for him. Liam grinned down at her, making some remark that had Kerta giggling and simpering like a little girl. Then Ide trotted up and handed them each a corner of a blanket, and they opened it out above their heads and huddled under it together. Alix thought about calling to them, but they would never hear her above the rush of the rain, and anyway, she didn't want to intrude. They'd been on the road together for months, had tasted battle and blood together. Alix wasn't a part of that, not anymore.

The rain finally let up when evening came, and the sky filled with stars. The air smelled fresh and new, perfumed with wet clay and tree bark. Alix breathed deeply of the scent as she walked through the camp. She'd grown fond of living outdoors, despite the inconveniences. There was something so alive about it, so primal and true. Out here on the road, one didn't need to be refined—not that she'd ever been very refined to begin with. How often had her mother despaired of ever making her a proper lady? And that was before Rig's dubious tutelage. Alix smiled ruefully at the thought.
Oh, Mother—what would you think of me now?

She spied Erik standing near his tent, on a bluff overlooking the river, and she made her way over. At Alix's suggestion, the men had erected Erik's pavilion on elevated ground in order to afford the royal guardsmen a better view of the surrounding camp. Everyone was on edge following the assassination attempt, Alix most of all. She was herself useless until she recovered from her wound, so she compensated by doubling the king's detail. Erik now had eight men with him at all times, a situation he plainly disliked. Even so, he didn't try to talk her out of it.

The king gazed out over the water, hands folded at his back. He seemed deep in thought. Alix hesitated, but he'd heard her approach, and he turned. “Ah, Captain.” He addressed her formally for the benefit of the guards. “I'm pleased to see you up and about. Join me, won't you?”

She stepped to his side, following his gaze out to the river. The waters coiled silver and silent in the moonlight.

“How do you feel?” Erik asked, keeping his voice low. He was more discreet in public lately. Alix suspected it had something to do with Lord Highmount's presence.

“It's improving. Hurts like a bitch, though, begging His Majesty's pardon.”

He smiled. “It doesn't seem to have dampened your spirits any.” He paused for a long moment. When he spoke again, his smile was gone. “I don't think I can do this anymore, Alix.”

“Do what?”

“Let you put yourself in harm's way on my account.”

She gave an incredulous laugh. “Erik—”

“I know what you're going to say,” he interrupted with a scowl, “and of course you're right. Which is why I've decided that I no longer want you to be my bodyguard. We need a new arrangement.”

Alix stared. “You can't be serious.”

“I'm perfectly serious.” He dropped his voice still lower. “You know how I feel, Alix. Last week I held you in my arms and watched the light go out of your eyes, and I didn't know if it would ever return. Can you imagine what that was like?”

Silence descended between them. Alix was grateful for the dark, for the guards couldn't see the flush of her skin. Neither could they see the look in Erik's eyes, a fiery mixture of fear and want.

“I don't know what to say to that.”

His gaze drifted to her mouth, where it lingered. “How I resent these guards. I would give anything to be alone with you right now. Then again, perhaps it doesn't matter anymore.”

Alix's breath quickened. Erik stirred.

“Your Majesty!”

Alix nearly jumped out of her skin. Turning, she saw her brother standing at the base of the hill.

“The war council is ready,” Rig called.

“Good.” Erik started for the tent.

Alix grabbed his hand, heedless of the eyes upon them. “Please, Erik, don't do anything rash. We'll deal with your brother soon, and then things will be different. Until then, you need me. Let me do my duty.”

He regarded her silently for a moment. Then he sighed. “We'll discuss it later. That is all I can agree to for now.” He turned away.

Alix hung back, struggling to compose herself. She watched Erik disappear into the tent. Taking a deep breath, she followed. Rig waited for her outside. She could feel his gaze, in spite of the dark. “Don't say a
word
,” she growled as she passed.

Rig only shook his head and lifted the tent flap.