The Bloodsworn (12 page)

Liam dismissed the messenger before the man collapsed on Erik's pretty rug. Then he sliced open the seal, dread pooling in his stomach. He skimmed the handwriting, seeking out only one word, and when he found it his pulse skipped a few beats. He scoured the paragraph with his wife's name in it, looking for words like
dead
,
hurt
,
missing
 . . . But by the time he reached the last line, it was clear that there was no fresh news of Alix and the Wolves since she'd crossed the border a week ago. Not exactly a comfort, but better than he'd feared. Liam paused long enough to take a steadying breath. Then he started reading from the beginning.

*   *   *

“Well?” Rona asked when he'd done. “What does it say?”

Liam shook his head grimly. “Nothing good. Rig still
hasn't rooted out the spy in his ranks, and he's feeling more vulnerable than ever now that the Warlord knows the location of the fort. He says the enemy is still massing at the border, someplace called Ennersvale.” Liam read the next bit aloud. “‘I can't tell you exactly when Sadik will strike, but I'd make it a week or two at most. And this time, the fort will fall. The enemy knows where to find us, and he's had a good long look at our defences. You should prepare yourself for the worst, Your Highness, and start preparing the city too. The Warlord is coming, and once he breaches my lines, there will be nothing standing in his way. You will have very little warning, so my advice is to activate our contingency plans as soon as you read this letter.'”

“Gods preserve us.” Rona had gone quite pale. “This is really happening, isn't it?”

“Looks like.”

She swallowed, eyes round and fearful. “Erroman can't survive another siege.”

Liam would have liked to reassure her, but he couldn't. Even if he were willing to lie, there would be no point. Rona was a soldier. She saw the military reality as clearly as he. And it was bloody
terrifying
.

“A week . . .” Her gaze fell to her lap. “You always think you'll have more time, don't you? To say and do all the things you meant to.”

“Yeah, I guess you do.” He thought of the way he'd left things with Alix, how he'd let her ride off in silent misery, wondering if their love could survive. The last words they'd spoken had been in anger. “You tell yourself you'll get another chance, at least one more . . .”

Rona looked up, meeting his gaze. “And then the next thing you know, a week is all you have left . . .”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Something uncomfortable stirred at the edge of Liam's awareness. “Rona . . .”

And then something entirely different occurred to him, obliterating every other thought in his mind. “We have less time than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'll have to share this news with the council.”

“Of course.” Her brows came together. She wasn't following—yet.

“News like this . . . It's a matter of the gravest importance. A matter for the
king
. They're going to insist on it.” Liam's hand clenched spasmodically, crumpling the letter. “The moment this gets out, the council is going to demand that Erik resume his duties, and no excuse in the world is going to placate them, least of all some yarn about his delicate health.”

The colour drained from Rona's face. “You're right. Oh gods . . .”

“If we let them see Erik, it's over. If we don't, they'll know something is wrong, and it's over.” He stared at the treacherous piece of parchment in his hand. “This letter is my death warrant, Rona,” he said numbly.

“No.” She was on her feet. “We'll just keep the news to ourselves, that's all. No one will know this letter ever existed. Give it to me.” She held out a trembling hand, shot a look over her shoulder at the hearth. “Give it here.”

He shook his head. “You heard what it says. We need to start preparing the city. Evacuations. Mobilisations. Even if we keep the letter secret, the council will never authorise actions like that without Erik's say-so. They'll want to hear it from
him
.”

“Well, that's too bad,” Rona snapped. “They'll be hearing it from the prince.”

“What will that buy us? A few days, maybe a week? And even if by some miracle Sirin Grey is willing to accept that line, what happens when Sadik actually does attack?”

“By then it will be too late. We'll have bigger concerns than treason.”

Liam wanted very badly to believe that, but he knew better. “Erik executed the Raven a matter of days before the Siege of Erroman.”

“So what do you suggest, Liam?”

She spoke so sharply that it brought Rudi to his feet, barking. Liam waved the wolfhound down, eyeing Rona in mild astonishment. He wasn't sure what surprised him more—that she'd called him by his given name, or that she'd come so thoroughly undone. He'd never seen her like this, not even during that horrible business with the fleet. He gestured for
her to sit. “You needn't glare at me as though I'm enjoying myself,” he said. “It's my neck, you know.”

She scowled at her lap. “What are you going to do?”

“What can I do? Try to stay alive.” He smoothed out the letter on Erik's desk. “Now . . . we'd better call for Highmount.”

“N
ot much to look at, is it?” Ide said, leaning out the back of the wagon. According to the map, the cluster of wattle and daub up ahead was Indrask, the village where Rodrik had been taken as a baby. Ide was right, though—it didn't look like much. A dozen buildings or so, the kind of village where the only stone structure would be the temple. So small, indeed, that it would have taken much longer to find it without Wraith's help, map or no. They'd turned off anything resembling a proper road ages ago, and asking for directions would have been tricky, Andithyrians being understandably suspicious of foreigners these days.
At least Arkenn wasn't for nothing
, she reasoned. The thought was some comfort, at least.

The letters Highmount had given her, the ones from the royal guardsman called Terrell, indicated that Rodrik had remained here until at least age twenty. That was when the letters had dried up, as Highmount had known they would one day, when their author passed away. What happened to Rodrik after that was anyone's guess, an uncertainty that wound itself into a hard knot in the pit of Alix's stomach. She could only hope that in a village this small, people kept track of one
another, and that if Rodrik had moved away, someone would at least know where. “How many live here?” she asked.

Asvin shrugged, swaying with the rhythm of the oxcart. “No idea. None of us had ever heard of this place before you turned up. Had a time finding a map that even mentions it. The town will be more than what you see here, though. Most people probably live scattered across these farmsteads, come into the village when they need something.”

“An ideal arrangement for someone who wishes to remain anonymous,” Vel said, echoing Alix's thoughts.

The road stood empty as the cart pulled into the village, and no one emerged to greet them. At first Alix took the place for deserted, but no—smoke curled from a nearby chimney. Someone was home.

“They're afraid,” Dain said.

“Hiding from the roaches.” Wraith swung down from the driver's seat. “These days, folk hear hoofbeats, it's time to disappear.”

Asvin pulled off his hood, revealing his shock of white hair. “Come out, come out! No roaches here!”

They waited, but no one appeared. All was silent but for the clucking of chickens, the bleating of a single goat. Wraith squinted at the buildings. Pitching his voice to carry, he said, “Look at that, lads. The place is deserted. Villagers must have fled.”

“Guess they won't be needing this goat, then,” Asvin said. “Or those chickens.”

Wraith spread his arms wide, feigning triumph. “We feast tonight, lads!”

An obvious ploy, but an effective one. Grudgingly, a voice called, “What do you want?”

It took Alix a moment to locate the source: an older man with a pitchfork and a fresh scar down the left side of his face, standing half concealed behind the corner of a house.

“Just want to talk, elder,” said Wraith.

“We're friends,” Asvin added.

“You're no friends of mine.” The man's eyes had a dull, hard cast to them, like battered iron.

“We're the Resistance,” Asvin said.

“I know who you are.”

“In that case, a little gratitude would be in order.”

“Gratitude.” The man leaned out and spat, slowly, deliberately, on the ground. “There's your gratitude. Take what you came for and be gone.”

“Haven't come to take anything,” Wraith said. “I told you, we just want to talk.”

The villager didn't look convinced, and Alix couldn't blame him. Wraith was hardly a reassuring figure, with his bulky frame and grizzled features. She, on the other hand . . . Stepping forward, she said, “We mean you no harm.”

The iron gaze shifted to her. “Doesn't much matter what you
mean
. Every time your kind come through here, we pay the price.” He gestured with the pitchfork, and for the first time Alix noticed the burnt-out husk set back from the main road. The temple, she guessed, judging by what was left of the foundations.

She threw an uncomfortable glance at Wraith. “Who did this? Not the Resistance?”

“They weren't the ones lit the fire,” the old man said, “but they might as well have.”

“The roaches,” Asvin said. “Villages that are branded as sympathetic to the Resistance are punished.”

“Sympathisers, aye,” the old man echoed with a sneer. “That's what they called us. Feeding the rebels, they said. As though we had any bleeding choice. Not bad enough you carry off our livestock, you bring the soldiers down on us too.”

“We've brought nothing down on you, old man,” Wraith said. “Whoever took your livestock had nothing to do with us.”

The villager just shrugged resentfully.

Alix could see others now, watching from the shadows, peering around doorways and through windows. None of the gazes were friendly. She had assumed Wraith and his men would be welcomed with open arms in every village and town in Andithyri, but she saw now that was naïve. To these people, the Resistance weren't heroes; they were dangerous men who brought nothing but trouble.

She took another step forward, removing her hood. Perhaps if the villagers saw she wasn't one of them . . . “I'm very sorry for your troubles, and I swear we'll do our best not to add to them. We're not here on Resistance business. These men”—she
gestured at Wraith and Asvin—“are helping me to look for someone, a farmer who grew up here. His name is Rodrik—do you know him?”

The man's eyes narrowed sharply, and the knuckles on the haft of the pitchfork went white.
I'd say that's a yes.
Aloud, Alix said, “He was taken, wasn't he? By the enemy?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Alix. I'm . . . well, I'm from Alden.” There was no point in lying about it. If her hair didn't give her away, her accent would.

A look of genuine confusion crossed the man's face. “Alden? What's Rodrik to do with you?”

“I can help him,” she said, evading the question. “Tell me what happened, and I promise I'll do everything I can to find Rodrik and see that he's freed.” She risked another step toward him, palms spread. “We're on the same side, elder. Let me help him.”

“Not good enough,” said a new voice, and a woman stepped out of one of the houses. She didn't look much younger than the man with the pitchfork, though it was always hard to tell with Andithyrians and their white hair. Young or old, she had a fierce way about her, a glint her in eye like that of a mother bear protecting her cubs. “Rodrik never set foot outside Indrask,” the woman said. “Not from a babe, leastways not until the soldiers came for him. How does an Aldenian even know of him?”

Alix could feel Wraith's gaze on her, and Asvin's too. Even Vel was looking at her strangely, a small crease between her eyebrows. This was new information, and it didn't fit with what Alix had told them. There would be questions, she knew. She'd anticipated that, and she would have to deal with it—in due course. One problem at a time. “It's a very long story,” she said, “and there isn't time. I'm not asking you to trust me—that would be too much, I know. All I'm asking is that you tell me what you can about Rodrik's arrest.”

The woman scowled. “Why should we? You say you want to help Rodrik, but you could be lying. We got no way of knowing, do we?”

“I suppose not. But here's what you
do
know: He's in enemy hands right now. The Oridians came and they took him, against
his will. I'm betting he put up a fight. Maybe some of his loved ones got hurt trying to protect him.” She paused, and the pained look that came into the other woman's eyes told her she'd guessed right. “Wherever he is, he's in danger. So what is there to lose? If there's even a chance I'm telling the truth, and I really can help him, isn't it worth taking?”

The woman's hands twitched, the muscles in her jaw working.
Come on
, Alix willed her silently.
See reason.
A tall order given what these people had been through, but without their help it would be all but impossible to find Rodrik. Alix needed some scrap of information, however small, to guide her, or she'd be fumbling in the dark.

Surprisingly, it was the man with the pitchfork who came to Alix's rescue. “Lady's got a point, Marelda. Can't get much worse for Rodrik, now can it?”

A shimmer of tears came into the woman's eyes. “And what about the little one?” She was looking at Alix, but her words were for the old man. “She's the only one who saw what happened. You really want to put her through it all again? Make her remember?”

“Not as if she's like to forget,” the man said gently.

The woman hesitated a moment longer. Then she blinked back her tears and straightened, the fierce she-bear again. “Come on, then.” She levelled a finger at Alix. “But take my warning, stranger: If you harm a hair on that girl's head, any of you, I'll kill you myself.”

Alix nodded gravely. “Fair enough.”

*   *   *

The girl's name was Ana, and when Alix saw her face, she wanted to hurt someone very, very badly.

It wasn't just the yellowish-green shadows along her temple and cheekbone, lingering vestiges of an impact so brutal that it left its mark even now. It was the other ways she was marked: the hunted look, the flinching manner, and worst of all, the way she started shaking the moment the two strangers entered her home. Even though Alix and Vel had come with the woman Marelda, whom the child clearly knew, Ana stood with the table between her and the newcomers, eyes darting to the corners as if looking for an escape route.

“Dear child,” the priestess murmured, “what have they done to you?” She might as well have been speaking a foreign tongue for all the comprehension that touched the girl's features. She looked to be about twelve, though perhaps her vulnerability made her seem younger. Certainly, she was too old to be Rodrik's daughter. His sister, perhaps—though obviously not by blood.

“Ana, dear.” Slowly, Marelda made her way around the table, taking the girl's hands gently. “These women aren't here to hurt you. They're friends.” She shot a severe look at Alix and Vel, as if to say,
You'd better be, or you'll be sorry
. “They want to help find Rodrik. Isn't that wonderful?”

Ana nodded dutifully, but her gaze remained flat, untouched by hope or even surprise.
By the Virtues, when I find the whoreson that did this . . .
Alix left the threat unfinished, even in her head. The odds of her singling out the one responsible were vanishingly small.

“They just want to ask you a few questions,” Marelda said.

The girl threw a fearful glance at the strangers. “I don't want to,” she whispered.

“Just a few.” Marelda squeezed her hands. “Please, sweet one. For your brother. For Rodrik.”

Ana seemed to process that; she nodded slowly. “And Mama.”

Marelda bit her lip. “Yes, sweet one. Your mother too.”

“They took the child's mother as well?” Vel asked, but Marelda shook her head.

Alix started to ask a question, but thought better of it. She was already intruding on Ana's tragedy. There was no point prodding where it was not absolutely necessary.

Marelda drew the girl out from behind the table and stood her before Alix and Vel. “Ana,” Alix said, “can you tell us what happened?”

The girl stared at her in silence.

Vel lowered herself down to the girl's eye level. “Ana,” she said, “my name is Vel. I am a priestess. You probably haven't heard that word before, but it just means that I am a priest who is also a woman. You know what a priest is, don't you?”

Ana nodded mutely.

“Good girl. And this”—she gestured behind her—“is my friend Alix.”

The girl's gaze drifted over Alix's armour, settling on the sword at her hip. Alix kicked herself; she should have left the weapon outside. “She's not a priest,” Ana said.

“No, child. She is a guardian. She protects people.” The priestess's voice was low and soothing, almost musical, as if she were intoning a prayer. The fear receded a little from the girl's eyes. “We want to protect your brother, child, but first we need to find him. Do you understand?” When the girl nodded, Vel glanced over her shoulder.
Your turn.

Following the priestess's lead, Alix knelt. “When the men came for Rodrik, did you recognise any of them? Had you seen them before?” A long shot, but she had to start somewhere.

Incredibly, the girl nodded. “They were the same ones who came before, to take the sheep. The big one and . . .” Her voice broke, fear sweeping back into her eyes.

“Tell us, child,” Vel cooed. “It's all right. He's not here now.”

Ana swallowed. “The one with the yellow hair.”

Is that who gave you those bruises?
Alix's instincts said yes. Maybe she would get a chance to repay the cur after all. “You said they came before, to take the sheep. When did this happen?”