The Bloodbound (37 page)

He made his way into the courtyard and from there to the rose garden, where he wended his way through the maze. When he came to the duck pond, he nearly bumped into a figure harvesting a rose with his dagger.

His good mood evaporated immediately. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Stealing your roses, Your Majesty,” the spy said. “But I assure you, it is for a good cause. I find myself unaccountably overlooked for an invitation to the upcoming nuptials, so I must content myself with a bouquet of flowers for the lovely bride-to-be.”

“How did you get in here?”

“By sneaking, but that is only because I have a reputation to maintain. Our mutual friend the captain has graciously accorded me free movement privileges throughout the grounds. She has uses for me yet, it seems.” He cut another stem, brought it to his nose, and breathed deeply. “You should be careful, Your Majesty, wandering about alone. It's not safe. The White Ravens may be spent, but there are others who would gladly see you fall.”

“You sound like Alix.”

“Or she sounds like me. Either way, it's sound advice.” He considered his rose, twirling it in his fingers. “I hear Onnan has declared war on Oridia.”

“They have. Our example served as a warning, it seems.” Erik tried not to sound bitter, just as he had when the Onnani ambassador had informed him of the Republicana's decision. It had taken Onnan far too long to reach the inevitable conclusion. But at least they had reached it—which was more than he could say for Harram.

“I'm sure the Trions are duly terrified. The two that remain, in any case.”

“Onnan may be small, but her people are fierce fighters. Just ask the old empire.”

“It has been centuries since their revolt, and they have not known war since. You will not find many battle-tested generals there, I fear.”

“They may surprise you.” Erik wanted to believe that.

The spy shrugged. “We'll see. In the meanwhile, I will ply my contacts in the Republicana. We must know what our ally's leaders are thinking.”

“
We
, is it? So I'm to suffer a spy in my midst?”

“A great many, I should think. Be thankful you know what this one looks like.”

He has me there.
“Very well. But if we're to make common cause, you should know that you're wasting your time infiltrating the Republicana. The speakers are just puppets; the real power lies with the secret societies. The Shield, especially. I have it on good authority that the first speaker himself is a member.”

“First Speaker Kar is with the Sons of the Revolution,” the spy said, “as is his second. Perhaps you are thinking of the chairman. He is a Shield.”

“You are well informed.”

“It is my trade, Your Majesty.”

“In that case, perhaps you'll find a way to put that knowledge to work for the good of your country, instead of just your coin purse.”

The spy smiled. “Perhaps.”

“Just so we're clear, this doesn't mean we're friends.” In fact, Erik would just as soon have nothing to do with him, but his country was at war, and even he could not deny that spies had their uses.

“I shall try to control my disappointment, Your Majesty.” He spoke the words with such masterful sincerity that Erik could not help smiling.
I'll bet he's a bloody good spy at that.

The man bowed low, and was gone.

Erik pulled his own dagger from his belt and cut a particularly splendid rose. This he laid at the foot of a jade obelisk, the newest monument to grace the royal gardens. It was beautifully crafted, its polished facets reflecting the fluid dance of the duck pond. But it was not here for decoration; it marked the place where Arran Green's bloodblade had been buried. It was all they could find of the commander general after the explosion, though perhaps that was a mercy. The mangled corpses of the Priest and his men had been terrible to look upon.

Erik cut another rose, and this he set at the foot of a second obelisk, the identical twin of Green's monument, save that it was made of quartz. Gwylim had no family name, nor a banner colour to guide them, so Alix had suggested they use the native crystal of the Blackland foothills, where Gwylim had been born. It made a beautiful pillar, flecked with cloudy swirls of white and silver, like a snowstorm frozen in time. It marked only a memory. Of Gwylim, they had found nothing at all.

Erik knelt between the obelisks commemorating the two heroes. One he had known all his life, the other he had only just met, but he owed them both more than he could say. “Thank you, my friends,” he whispered. “For everything.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head in a silent prayer. Then he rose, dusted his knees, and headed back to the palace with a brisk step.

There was still so much to do.

Erin Lindsey
is on a quest to write the perfect summer vacation novel, with just the right blend of action, heartbreak, and triumph.
The Bloodbound
is her first effort. She lives and works in Bujumbura, Burundi, with her husband and a pair of half-domesticated cats. Visit her online at erin-lindsey.com.