The Bloodbound (29 page)

“You've obviously never seen Erik fight.” Alix hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

Grey dove in, but his attempt at distraction hadn't worked; Alix batted him aside easily. He had a bloodblade, as befit his station, but even the enchantment wasn't enough to make a swordsman out of him. His feet were too close together, his hand too tight to the crossguard. His weapon might be lighter, his reflexes better, but he was still visibly unpractised. Alix tried a lunge of her own, testing him. He parried, but it was a sloppy, graceless thing.

“I've seen more of Erik White than I care to,” Grey said, “but that will be over soon enough. If my men don't kill him, I'll do it myself.”

“Is that what you think?” She laughed, sharp and mocking. “You should have run when you had the chance. You're as much of a fool as my brother says.”

His face darkened. He tried another swipe, this one even uglier than before.
It's working.
She'd seen how Grey reacted when her brother ridiculed him at the parley. That kind of pride could be turned against a man easily enough. She kept at him. “
This
is the best you can do, and you thought to beat Erik? He's been fighting a war while you hid behind your mother's skirts. Look at you—you can't even best a
girl
.”

That earned her a flurry of blows, each one better placed than the last. Alix wondered fleetingly if she'd miscalculated, but it was too late to back out now. Grey looked half a gargoyle, lips curled over his teeth like a wild beast, eyes glazed with rage.

Alix summoned her nastiest smile. “I've saved Erik from the Greys once already. Thanks to me, he won't have to marry your sister. I can't tell you how relieved he is. He'd rather face an army of thralls than become part of your family. Now that I've met you, I can understand why.”

Grey lunged at her with a wordless cry, bringing his weapon down in a savage cut. She twisted aside and slammed her blade into his side. The blow rang harmlessly off his armour, but it enraged him even further. He swung his sword two-handed, putting all his weight behind the slice. It was a mistake. He left himself completely open, unable to arrest his momentum. Alix stepped in, close enough to embrace him, and smashed the hilt of her sword into his face. His nose opened in a spray of blood. He staggered backward, and before he could regain his balance, Alix thrust her blade through his unprotected throat. Then she hooked her boot behind his heel and drove a shoulder into him, riding him to the floor. Roswald Grey died with blood on his lips and disbelief in his eyes.

Alix charged up the stone steps and shouldered her way through the door. Bodies littered the floor of the gatehouse, Kingswords and Greyswords both, but there was no sign of anyone living. She raced outside. For a moment, the sun was so bright that she had to shield her eyes. She scanned the bailey through a sheen of tears. Her heart leapt a little when she saw the portcullis was open, leapt a lot when she saw Erik standing behind a wall of Kingswords, his sword dangling idly at his side. There was no sign of Saxon. Shouts still sounded here and there, but the clamour of battle had largely died.
Is it over?

Her answer came a moment later as Arran Green burst through the doors of the keep, Rig and Liam in tow. They were tattered and bloody, but none of them looked hurt. Only then did Alix allow herself to feel relief.

She stayed where she was, vaguely aware that her knees were shaking, though whether from fear or the aftershock of battle, she wasn't sure. They'd nearly lost Erik in the oratorium. If it hadn't been for the Raven . . .

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” said a familiar voice, “but isn't a bodyguard supposed to keep the body she's guarding
away
from danger?”

She scowled. “Do you honestly think I'm in the mood for that?”

Liam lacked the good sense to cower before her fury. He just shrugged. “I have trouble gauging a woman's mood when she's covered in blood.”

Alix looked down at herself. The top of her breastplate was lacquered in a sticky layer of crimson. “Grey's,” she said, half to herself.

Liam's grin vanished. “
Roswald
Grey?”

“He tried to ambush Erik, but he botched that as badly as everything else. He's dead.”

Liam blew out a breath. “What a mess. The Raven insists he had nothing to do with it. Part of me believes him.”

“Me too. Tom is a master tactician. It's hard to imagine him planning something this half-hatched. Grey didn't even have the sense to know when he was beaten. He sacrificed a hundred of his men for nothing. He could have at least used the battle as cover to escape.”

“I guess the king will have to sort it out. For now, we've got the Raven under guard, and he'll be in irons within the hour.”

Alix knew she should be happy, but instead she felt strangely hollow. She could not even imagine how Erik must feel. “I should go to him,” she said, and she was almost too numb to feel guilty when the shutters closed over Liam's eyes. Almost.

She made her way across the bailey toward her king. Erik stood with his head bowed, oblivious to everyone around him. Already, she knew, he was thinking about what came next—for his brothers, for the war, for himself. He had terrible choices ahead of him, and very little time to make them. Alix wished she could do something to ease his burden, but she knew better. All she could do was stand beside him and try to lend him strength. That, and perhaps pray.

A
lix brushed her hair for the third time that morning. She twisted it around her fingers, smoothing it into loose ringlets. Then she swept it up at the sides and affixed it with pins. She considered her reflection in the mirror. It was a flattering hairstyle, framing her face in soft waves of copper. Such things had mattered to her once, though she couldn't recall when, or why. She wondered if they would ever matter to her again.

Yanking the pins free, she let her tresses tumble down onto her shoulders. She gathered her hair into a fist at the nape of her neck and began tugging it into an austere braid. Gradually, mercifully, the noblewoman in the mirror vanished, replaced by the practical image of the king's bodyguard. The captain of the royal guardsmen didn't need to worry about betrothals or Banner Houses or failed loves. All she needed to worry about was her duty.

Which would be much easier if Erik would actually let her do it. Instead, he'd sent her away, banished her from his side to occupy herself with gods-knew-what while he brooded alone in his study. She understood why he didn't want to see her, but that didn't make it any easier. He might not want her, but he
needed
her. Only he was too angry to see it, and she had herself to blame.

A knock at the door startled her. She wasn't eager for company, so she took her time opening it. By the time she did, her visitor was halfway down the corridor.

“Oh.” Liam sounded almost as surprised to see Alix as she was to see him. “I wasn't sure whether I should expect to find you here.”

“The king . . . er . . .”
Can't stand the sight of me right now.
“. . . gave me some time off from my duties. To rest up and everything.”

“Right. Good of him.” If Liam's breeches had had pockets, his hands would have been jammed in them. Instead, he raked his fingers through his dark hair, leaving it dishevelled.

Alix was immediately wary. Liam had been avoiding her for so long that she couldn't imagine he brought good news. “What's up?”

“Well, listen—maybe this isn't the best timing, but I was hoping I could ask a favour.”

“All right.”

“I need some advice. I've spent the last two days being poked and prodded at by the king's people, trying to make something vaguely royal out of me, and it's driving me mad. They're obsessed with status symbols, especially clothes.” A pensive look came over him. “I think I made the tailor cry this morning.”

“Nice.”

“Anyway, they've finally suggested something I actually sort of like, and I thought you could help me pick it out, since you've got experience with this sort of thing. It wouldn't take long—I've asked a merchant to come here to the palace.” Liam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He's waiting in the courtyard. What do you think?”

She frowned. “Why are you being so coy?”

“Why are
you
being so suspicious? I'm just asking for a little friendly advice. I promise it won't kill you.”

Alix didn't hesitate for long. It wasn't as though she had anything better to do, and besides, it would be good to get her mind off Erik. “I suppose I have time. Lead on.”

The bailey was a bustle of activity, with a steady stream of servants, pages, and guards flowing in and out of the Three Keeps. Normalcy had returned swiftly to the palace following the dramatic end to the parley. Now that it was clear who was in charge, there was plenty of work to be done, and Liam and Alix had to weave their way through a small crowd as they headed toward the stables. Amidst the din of voices, Alix gradually became aware of a sound that didn't belong, a strange chorus of yips and growls coming from the paddock just ahead.

“What kind of merchant is this, anyway?” she asked, her mind forming the answer even as she spoke.

The paddock teemed with small, bristling balls of fur with sagging ears and furiously wagging tails. They tumbled and tussled, chased and chewed, all tangled together in a writhing mass of play. There were almost a dozen of them in as many shades of brown and grey, each no bigger than a small cat.

Liam leaned over the rail. “Wolfhounds. Hard to believe these little bits of fluff will grow into fifteen-stone killers, isn't it?”

“You're getting a puppy?” Alix knew she was grinning like a fool, but she didn't care.

“It won't stay a puppy for long. It'll turn into one of those great grey monsters King Rendell was famous for. You've seen his portraits all over the keep, haven't you? Apparently, His Majesty was never seen without his dogs.”

“So they figure if you have one, people will immediately think of your grandfather.” The idea had Albern Highmount written all over it.

“Exactly. That way, no one will notice I'm a bastard.”

They shared a wry look.

“I need you to help me pick the foulest little beast we can find. We're going for maximum manliness, you understand. Something that won't hesitate to savage smaller, cuter creatures and drag their entrails over the expensive carpets.”

“Your Highness!” An eager-looking fellow was hurrying over. Liam didn't react at first, only belatedly realising he was the one being addressed.

“Oh, right, that's me. You must be the breeder.”

The man sketched a hasty bow. “This is the finest stock of wolfhounds in all of Alden, Your Highness . . .”

Alix wasn't the least bit interested in the man's sales pitch, so she left Liam to it. She propelled herself over the rail and waded into the throng. Immediately, the pups mobbed her, gazing up at her with wet, eager eyes, their tails thrashing. She squatted and ran her hands over coarse fur warmed by the sun. The pups heaved and flowed under her touch, unable to sit still even for the attention they so desperately craved. One of them set to gnawing at her boot, his needle-sharp teeth dragging ragged lines through the leather.

“There's a candidate.” Liam came up behind her, having somehow managed to extricate himself from the breeder. “Let's put him in the maybe pile.”

Alix spotted the runt of the group and dragged him out from under his brothers and sisters. He lapped at her fingers with the unbridled affection only puppies can manage, covering her hand in slobber.

“Nope,” said Liam, “that one won't do. He's soft.”

“He's adorable.” Alix tousled the puppy's ears.

“I thought I was clear. We don't want adorable, we want ruthless killer. I'm supposed to be acquiring a symbol of princely virility, remember?” So saying, he plopped himself down in the dirt. “All right, fleabags, do your worst!”

A man sitting prone on the ground was too tempting a target for a wolfhound pup to ignore. The pack broke away from Alix, rushing Liam in a tide of fur and tiny teeth. They clambered over his knees and chest until he was overwhelmed. He rolled onto his back, laughing, letting the pups swarm all over him.

Alix was laughing too. “You're going to get yourself killed.”

“Nonsense.” Liam's voice was muffled beneath the seething mass of fur. “I'm perfectly—
Ow!
You little
blighter
!”

Later, Alix and Liam sat with their backs against the rail, exhausted, filthy, and happy. Alix tugged at the ears of the pup in her lap. It dozed in the sunshine, its legs occasionally twitching as it chased some imaginary prey in its head.

“I thought we agreed that one was no good,” said Liam.

“What can I say? I've always had a soft spot for the defective ones. You should know.”

“Oh,
very
nice.”

“Sorry, couldn't resist.” She paused, smiling up at him. “Are you really getting a puppy, or did you just arrange this to cheer me up?”

“Saw through my elaborate ruse, eh? Well done, you.” He reached down to scratch the pup in Alix's lap. “I might do. I've never had a dog before. What about you—do you want to keep him?”

She considered, but only for a moment. “I couldn't possibly take care of one, not now. Everything's so uncertain . . .”

His smile faded. “I know what you mean.” Patting the pup one last time, he got to his feet and stretched. “I'd better go. I've got to track down the king.”

“You might consider bathing first.”

He pretended to sniff himself. “You think so? Nothing says
I'm sorry
like a heady perfume of dog.”

Alix dusted herself off, avoiding the unhappy stare of the breeder, who had apparently concluded that he wasn't going to make a sale today. “What do you have to apologise to Erik for?” It wasn't really any of her business, but that had never stopped her before.

Liam sighed. “I haven't exactly been overflowing with gratitude since he . . . er . . . acknowledged me.” He was still uncomfortable talking about it, and Alix had yet to hear him refer to Erik by his given name. “I know he's trying to do something nice for me, and I should just focus on that.”

“But?”

“I . . . don't know how to explain it.” Judging by the guarded look in his eyes, Alix thought it more likely that he didn't
want
to explain it.

“Anyway,” she said, smiling, “thank you for bringing me. I really needed that.” She stood on her toes and gave him a peck on the cheek.

He shifted awkwardly. “Yes, well . . . Your brother mentioned you were feeling down, so when Highmount started in about the dogs . . .”

Liam had always known just what she needed, but this time he was wrong. She wanted to tell him the truth—that it wasn't the puppies that had brought a smile back to her face. But no good could come of saying such a thing, so she touched her thumb to the empty space on her little finger and kept the thought to herself.

*   *   *

A ragged breeze
shivered through the rosebushes, dislodging delicate petals onto the sparkling white gravel of the pathway. The duck pond shied away from its touch, rippling frantically, and the loose rose petals collected in the shadowed corners of the hedgerows, as though hiding. The wind came from the south. From the thralls. It had grown stronger over the course of the day, and cooler too, carrying ominous tidings of an impending storm.

Ten days, the scouts reported. Ten days, and the Oridian army would reach Erroman.
Ten days
, Erik thought,
and the fate of my kingdom will be decided, one way or another.

The Kingswords could not prevail, not with twenty-five thousand thralls at their gates. The enchantment had to be broken if they had any hope of holding the city. Erik knew what he had to do, but how? The Priest was surrounded by an army of thousands, half of them his own creatures. Killing him would not be the work of a general, not even one as talented as Arran Green. They needed a hunter. An assassin. Erik did not know any assassins.
Perhaps I should ask my brother
, he thought bitterly.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Moping about the rose garden was surely not helping matters. He had just made up his mind to seek out Arran Green when a figure appeared around the corner of the hedge maze.

“Thank the gods!” Liam put a hand to his stomach in a parody of relief. “I've spent the last half hour blundering around those sinister roses of yours. I was beginning to think the war would be over by the time I found my way out.”

Erik mustered a smile. “That would be quite something to explain to General Green.”

“Wouldn't it, though. ‘Sorry about sticking you with the thralls, General, but I hope you'll accept this lovely bouquet of roses as a sign I was thinking of you.'”

Erik had heard much of Liam's wit, but had never actually seen any evidence of it until now. Not for the first time, he wondered how his brother managed with Arran Green. Aloud, he said, “I see my tailor has found you.”

Liam plopped down on the bench beside him. “What gave it away?”

“Your shirt. The man is unreasonably fond of purple. And did he try to fit you for a cape?”

“He did. Horribly distressing. I almost slammed the door in his face.”

Erik laughed. “It wouldn't be the first time. But he won't let it go, I promise you. I've learned that it's better to surrender peacefully.”

The subject of the tailor spent, an awkward stretch of silence ensued. They both gazed out over the duck pond. Liam shifted restlessly on the bench. He had something to say, but Erik was in no mood to pry it from him, so he waited.

“Listen,” Liam said eventually, “I wanted to apologise for the other day. What I said . . . It was unfair. I guess this whole . . . prince . . . thing will take some getting used to.”

Erik smiled inwardly. His brother said the word
prince
the way a finely dressed lady steps in a mud puddle.

“When I was younger, I thought I wanted to be a prince, but it was made clear to me that was never going to happen. I came to accept that, eventually. Maybe I was even grateful for it. But now . . . everything's been turned on its head. I guess I'll have to learn to cope.”

Erik did not reply straightaway. Part of him wanted to end the conversation here, at an awkward apology they could both pretend had cleared the air. But that would only defer the problem. Even now, there was a sullen tint to Liam's voice. The underlying implication of his words was obvious: He had been manoeuvred into this, even though he didn't really want it. Once again, Liam had done what he felt was obliged of him.

“What is it you
do
want, Liam?”

He shrugged. “You mean besides an inexhaustible supply of beautiful women and fine wine?”

Erik, of all people, knew a mask when he saw one. “Do you always deflect difficult questions with humour?”

Liam scowled and looked away. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to answer the question, if you can.”

“What's that supposed to mean? Since when has it mattered what I want, anyway?”