The Bloodforged (20 page)

“You should be proud of that. It means you're a good man.”

“That's a nice varnish to put on it.”

“It's not varnish.”

Something in her voice made Liam glance over. She actually looked a little hurt, though he couldn't imagine why. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“See, now, not everyone would believe you, but it turns out I'm incredibly gullible.”

That earned him a smile. She brushed the stray bit of hair off her face, looking suddenly shy. “It's just . . . I don't like it when you speak that way about yourself. I know this hasn't been easy for you, but you mustn't let it dent your confidence.”

“Easy for you to say. You know this world, how to live in it. You saw through the Shield's ruse quickly enough.”

“That's different. I was raised at court. You wouldn't pick up a paintbrush for the first time and instantly expect to be a master artist, would you?”

“I'll have you know I am a deft hand at painting. I have a whole collection of stick figures doing battle with vicious beasts that look suspiciously like my dog.”

She laughed. “I'd very much like to see those, Commander. But my point is, you have a lot of wonderful qualities, and if being a cold-blooded cynic isn't one of them, maybe you should consider that a blessing.”

Her eyes held his, as if waiting for a reply. Liam couldn't think of a damned thing to say except, “Thank you.”

He drained his cup and poured another. Rona did the same. “It really is wonderful out here,” she said wistfully.

“I haven't enjoyed much about being in Onnan City, but I have enjoyed being near the sea. There's something about the size of it. The . . . indifference, I suppose. It makes me feel better about feeling insignificant, like that's the only reasonable response.” He frowned. “If that makes sense.”

“It does.”

Liam had a feeling he could start bleating like a goat and she'd declare it the very soul of wisdom, but he didn't hold it against her. She was trying to cheer him up, and he appreciated
that. “What about you?” he asked. “Is the ocean everything you imagined?”

“I'm not sure. I didn't really think about it much until we were on our way here. I never expected to see it, I suppose.” She smiled and shook her head. “I certainly never expected to be here with you. And the others.” She took a quick sip of her wine.

“Yes, it did rather sneak up on us, didn't it?”

A companionable silence settled between them. Liam hadn't felt this relaxed in days.
You could have had this all along
, he thought,
if you hadn't shut yourself away from everyone.
It brought to mind something Alix had said about Erik once, about how he always felt the need to shoulder his burdens alone. Maybe Liam and his brother had something in common after all.

Well, he'd had enough of that. He drained his cup again. And again.

Later, when the flickering lights started to go out in the valley below, Liam said, “You lied to me, Rona Brown.”

“Never.”

“You did. This
is
the stuff that melts your brain and leaves you a drooling idiot.”

She leaned in close, pretending to peer at him. “No drool, but I do think there's a hint of insanity there.”

“Pay that no mind. It comes and goes.”

“Ide was right, you know.”

Liam flicked an eyebrow. “About?”

“You do giggle when you've been drinking.”

“Nonsense. My laugh is very manly.”

Rona thumped a fist against her chest in a sloppy salute. “Aye, Commander.”

Commander.
He'd almost managed to forget, just for a moment. Sighing, Liam swirled the dregs of the wine in the bottom of his cup.

“Oh, no.” Rona gave him a helpless look. “What did I say?”

“Nothing. It's . . .” He shook his head. “I've no idea what happens tomorrow, Rona. I'm completely lost.”

She stirred beside him; Liam felt a hand on his arm. He looked over to find her gazing up at him with warm eyes. “You're not lost,” she said. “Or at least, you're not alone.”

In the garden around them, crickets chirped rhythmically; below that, barely discernible, the distant rush of the sea. Liam was suddenly keenly aware of how light-headed he was. “I'd better turn in,” he said, rising.

She looked away, nodded. “Of course. Until tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow,” Liam said, and he showed her out.

As he lay on his bed, he tried to finish composing his letter to Alix, but he couldn't remember where he'd left off. In fact, he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

“W
ake up.” A boot nudged Alix's side. “It is time to go.”

Without waiting for a response, Sakhr moved on to rouse the others. Alix shuffled to her feet; as always, her gaze sought out Erik first. He was already up, looking out over the valley with an unreadable expression. She could almost hear the gears turning in his head, though she couldn't guess what he was thinking. He'd spoken even less than Sakhr these past two days. He was still, watchful, taking in everything and communicating only in long, reassuring glances. Though his insides must have been swirling with fear, he didn't show it. He wore the royal mask: cool, dignified, utterly inscrutable. Wore it so well, in fact, that if he wasn't careful, he'd give himself away as something other than ordinary. That could be disastrous; if the tribesmen had any notion of who Erik really was, they would more than likely execute him on the spot.

The tribesmen were occupied packing up the camp; judging that they were sufficiently distracted, Alix dared a few words with her king. “Still no sign of Frida?”

Erik's eyes tracked the movements of their captors, ever alert. “The woman, Qhara, is back. I suppose that means she either killed Frida or gave up looking for her.”

“Frida's good, but if these tribesmen are half the trackers they're meant to be . . .”

“Still, we shouldn't give up hope.”

Alix knew he was right, but that didn't make it easy to follow the advice. “We're still heading southeast.”

“I know.”

“We've lost days. At this rate . . .”

“I
know
, Alix. We must be patient. Our chance will come.”

“Maybe, but if we wait too long, we'll miss it. For all we know, we're only a few hours away from their village. Out here, there are four of us and four of them.”

Blue eyes slid to her, and an impatient breath clouded the chill air between them. “Four of them armed with bows and blades, and four of us with our wrists bound, armed with nothing but our wits. Be sensible, Alix. We must wait until the odds shift in our favour.”

“And if that doesn't happen?”

“Then we shift them ourselves.” So saying, he started across the camp. There was a newcomer, Alix realised, a black-haired woman she hadn't seen before.
Qhara
, Erik had called her. There was something familiar about her, a dark, solemn beauty Alix had seen somewhere before. It took her a moment to place it, but then she glanced over at Sakhr, and she understood.
Siblings.
She'd bet a crown on it.

“Did you find her?” Erik asked. “Our friend?”

The woman didn't answer at first; she regarded Erik impassively, as though weighing whether he merited a response.

“I am worried for her,” Erik said. “We already lost one friend to the panther.”

“She did not fall to the panther. Sakhr killed it before we caught you.”

Alix was relieved to be able to follow the conversation easily. Like most people trying to master a foreign language, she understood far more than she spoke, but she sometimes had trouble with Fahran and Dabir. Fortunately, Qhara spoke clearly, with a milder accent than her kinsmen.

Casually, Erik asked, “How far to the
pasha
?”

The question hadn't got him anywhere with Sakhr, and it didn't get him anywhere now. “You should eat something,” the woman said, stooping to pick up a pack.

“I can eat later, when we stop at midday. Or perhaps you will hunt something for supper.”

The woman smiled to herself as she stuffed a blanket into her pack. “You think you are clever, Imperial? I will tell you what I wish to tell you, and no more. You cannot trick it out of me.”

“My name is not Imperial. It is Erik.”

She shrugged indifferently.

“And you are Qhara.”

She shouldered the pack and stood. “Erik. What does it mean, this name?”

He hadn't anticipated the question; Alix could tell by the stiffening of his shoulders. The answer could hardly be worse under the circumstances. Telling someone who referred to their own king as
the oppressor
that your name meant
ruler of all
was probably not a good idea.

“It means me,” Erik said.

The woman's glanced flicked over him dismissively. She started to walk away.

“Do you know why we are going to Ost?” Erik asked her. He seemed to have decided she was the leader here, or at least the one to whom he should be pleading his case. It was the most talking he'd done in two days.

“I do not care, Imperial Erik.”

“You will.”

Her expression went cold, and she turned to face him. “And why is that?”

“Because a great danger threatens my land, and yours.”

“If you mean the red men, they are no concern of ours.”

The red men.
She had to be referring to the Trionate, their crimson tabards. They'd come through the mountains before, Alix recalled, on their way to the Blacklands. The tribes had let them pass. Left them to invade from the west, burning and pillaging, sacking Alix's childhood home. She had forgotten that until this moment; it made her blood boil in her veins.

“You are wrong,” Erik said. “By the time you realise it, it may be too late.”

“It is too late for you to eat,” Qhara said. “We will not be stopping.”

*   *   *

Damn.

He'd thought he sensed an opening, but apparently he had imagined it. The woman walked away from him as though he were nattering nonsense. Meanwhile, her brother—Erik assumed they were siblings, from the resemblance—was all but smirking at him from across the campsite, as if to say,
Nice try, fool.

He knew that he had a finite number of chances to get through to his captors. Only so many arrows in his quiver, and he had just wasted one. He would have to choose his openings more judiciously. That would be difficult enough on his own, but he had the others to contend with. He was not worried about Kerta; she was too dutiful to try anything without his leave. Alfred was an unknown quantity. And then there was Alix.

From the look on her face, Erik could tell she was thinking about Blackhold. About the fact that the Harrami tribes—perhaps this very tribe—had allowed the Oridians to pass unmolested through the mountains in order to invade her homeland. Alix was hotheaded at the best of times; with revenge on her mind, Erik worried that she would do something genuinely foolish. He could not afford that. Even if by some miracle they escaped, they would not make it far. Qhara's tribe would hunt them down. And this time, there would be no mercy.

They spent the morning working their way down into the valley. The tribesmen stayed off the main path, leading them through dense pine forest and over steep rocky slopes. The going was slow, at least for the Aldenians. They got caught up in wild rosebushes, slipped and stumbled on loose scree. The Harrami, meanwhile, picked their way over the landscape with the surefootedness of mountain goats, pausing every now and then to cast impatient looks over their shoulders, prompting Fahran, who brought up the rear, to shove the nearest laggard in the back.

Qhara was true to her word: They did not stop until dusk, at a clearing near a small lake. Sakhr went hunting, in spite of the dark. The other tribesmen busied themselves with camp
chores, leaving Qhara to stand guard. She lingered near Erik, watching him closely, her expression unreadable as always.

He decided to try again. “Have you ever been abroad?”

Her mouth twisted wryly. “You want to make meaningless talk with me, Imperial Erik?”

“Why not? There is nothing else to do. Unless you are afraid I will trick you after all.”

“Why do you care where I have been?”

“I have always wondered what it must be like for you. The tribes, I mean. Not going anywhere, not learning anything of the wider world. It must be very . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “Limiting.”

“You think we are barbarians, yes? That we know nothing of the world?”

“Have you even been to Ost?”

Irritation darkened her eyes.
Careful, Erik.
It was a delicate game he was playing, trying to nettle her enough to talk, but not so much that she would close down. There was a time he would have been confident of managing the balance deftly, but lately, he'd found balance strangely difficult to maintain.

“I have been to Ost,” Qhara said. “And I have been to the imperial lands.”

“Of course,” Alix put in bitterly. “You come to raid.”

Qhara fixed her with an icy stare. “I came to look. I raided nothing.”

“So you were curious,” Erik said, anxious to steer the conversation back on course.

“Even barbarians can be curious, Imperial Erik.”

“Just Erik, please. So you have been to Alden, and you have been to Ost. Where else? Oridia, perhaps?”

“I know of Oridia, but I have not been there.”

“You know of it.” Erik made a point of sounding surprised.

That annoyed her. “Do not imagine that just because we choose not to submit ourselves to the yoke of the
mustevi
, we are ignorant. We have maps. We have stories. I know my history.”

“Yes, I have noticed,” Erik said. “You seem to be rather fixated on history, in fact. Ancient history.” That earned him a wry smile, at least. He was making progress, however halting. It was like threading a needle with a trembling hand, only the stakes were life and death. If he could not win this woman's sympathy,
they were lost. “I was only surprised that you say you know Oridia, because earlier it seemed you did not. The red men, you called them. You said they were no concern of yours.”

“They are not.”

Erik shook his head. “I am confused. You say you know the Trionate, and that they are not a threat to you. And yet you say you know your history. One of these things cannot be true.”

“Mind your tongue, Imperial!” This from Fahran, who had been eavesdropping by the fire. He was on his feet now, but Qhara waved him off.

She dropped to her haunches in front of Erik. Even in the shadows, he could see the angry glint in her green-gold eyes. “You call me a liar?”

He was on thin ice now, but he forged ahead. “Do you know of Andithyri?”

“Of course. It is the land where the white-hairs fled when we crushed your empire. The leaders of the imperials, the so-called purebloods.”

“They are leaders of nothing. Not even their own land. The Trionate of Oridia took it from them. Invaded, two summers ago. There is no Andithyri now.”

“Swallowed by an empire? A fitting fate.”

“The third country the Trionate has swallowed in ten years,” Erik said.

Green-gold eyes narrowed. “And now they will swallow yours, yes? And so you would plead with the
mustevi
for help?” She shrugged. “You would not have got it, Imperial Erik. They are cowards, and they are weak. Had it not been for my people, your empire would still be standing.”

“Instead it is rubble!” Fahran crowed. “Shattered into three pieces, broken apart by the might of the
sukhadan
!” He burst into song, waving his arms about as though to rouse an invisible crowd. A battle song, by the sounds of it; Dabir joined in dutifully.

Qhara rose from her crouch. She said something to Fahran about bathing in the lake and headed up the rocky shore, tugging at her clothing as she went. Watching her go, Erik felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. He had failed again. He would not win her over today, and that meant one more day wasted, handed to the Trionate like a gift. How many more could he lose
before they were utterly spent?
Perhaps none
, he thought dully.
Perhaps they are spent already . . .

Fahran and Dabir continued to sing. One of them procured a leather flask, presumably containing some kind of spirit.

“Listen to them,” Alix growled under her breath. “You'd think they personally brought down the empire.”

“Don't see how the mountain men had much to do with it at all,” Alfred added resentfully. “The empire was dying long before these vultures showed up. Slave revolt saw to that. Anyone should be singing, it's the fishmen.”

The song subsided, but only long enough for the tribesmen to take a few generous slugs of drink. Then Fahran started up another verse, even more lustily than before. Alix and Alfred exchanged a dark look.

“Why do they hate us so much?” Kerta whispered. “It's not as if we were there.”

“I suppose they consider us heirs to the empire,” Erik said.

“But we aren't, not really. We inherited the capital, maybe, but the Andithyri were the true imperial race, and they fled Erroman centuries ago. We aren't even their descendants, unless you count a few mixed-bloods like Aldrich the White.”

Erik suppressed a bitter smile. His ancestor's dubious claims of Andithyri blood were what brought him the throne; it would be deeply ironic if it were now to bring about the end of his line. Aloud, he said, “I doubt that would persuade our friends. History is not truth, Kerta. It is a story shared.”

The singing grew louder. Erik closed his eyes, trying to block it out. There had to be a way to get through to Qhara. If he could just—

A shout sounded. Erik's eyes snapped open. A blur of shadow moved against the fire—Alfred. Somehow, he had managed to get his hands free; he threw himself at Fahran.

“No!”
Erik was on his feet now too, but Alfred was past hearing. He crashed into Fahran, sending them both tumbling onto the rocks. Dabir drew his sword, but Alix was there, smashing the heel of her boot into the back of his knee. He buckled, and she struck him in the temple with both hands. She snatched up his sword, but her wrists were still bound, and before she could do anything with it, Dabir had seized her ankles and dragged her down.