The Bloodsworn (34 page)

“Y
ou should try to eat something, brother.”

Liam started as if from a dream. He glanced out the window of the farmhouse and saw that it was still afternoon; sunlight glinted off Rig's armour as he paced back and forth in front of the window like a caged beast.

Erik held something out to him. A peach. Had they seen peach trees when they rode up to the farmhouse? Liam couldn't recall. He barely remembered anything about that ride. Alix's face, still and bloodless. Fields of wheat stretching out like a vast ocean, no shelter in sight. The pounding of the horses' hooves, and then the pounding on the door, Rig's gruff voice demanding entry in the name of the king . . .

And then there was only this dark little farmhouse. This scarred table, these rickety chairs, and
that door
—the silent sentry barring Liam from the bedchamber where his wife lay fighting for her life. Erik flitted in and out of his awareness, and Rig's shadow passed relentlessly by the window, but Liam's every sense bent toward
that door
, grasping for the slightest clue about what went on behind it.

“At least take some water,” Erik said. Dully, Liam complied.

Time passed. Liam sat numbly, watching the door. Until finally, when he could stand it no longer, he rose and started toward it.

A hand on his arm stopped him. Erik's. “Leave it, Liam. There's nothing you can do in there. The priestess knows her business.”

“I need to see her.”

“I know, but you must wait.” He was so calm. How was he so calm?

“It
can't
wait,” Liam said. “It might already be too late. If this is our last . . . if she . . .” He couldn't choke out the words. “I need to tell her—”

“Sit down, brother.”

Liam wrenched his arm free, almost grateful for the flash of anger that warmed his skin. At least it was
something
. “That's my wife in there, Erik. My
wife
. Do you understand?” He started to say more, but the look on Erik's face stole the words from his gods-cursed tongue.

“Don't you dare,” Erik said softly. “Don't you ever again ask me if I understand.”

He sounded so dispassionate as he said it, and yet Liam could sense that his brother was clinging to the tatters of his composure with every scrap of strength he had.

Shame flooded his breast. “Erik—”

“Never mind. Just please, stay here.”

Liam gripped his brother's arm. He didn't trust himself to speak, but maybe his eyes said it all, because Erik nodded and returned his grasp warmly. They stood like that for a long time, and when finally they turned back to the door, Liam felt a measure of peace come over him. Not
instead
of the grief and fear, but alongside it, in solidarity. And that was the thing about emotions, wasn't it? You could feel so many incompatible things at once. They didn't replace each other, just crowded together into something strange and maybe beautiful.

It was then, standing beside his brother staring at that door, that Liam figured it out. Erik's love for Alix, and hers for him, didn't come at the expense of their love for Liam. It was there alongside, in solidarity. Their bond was their own, different and wonderful and something to be cherished. Including by him.

If only he'd understood that sooner.

The sun slumped in the sky. Outside, Rig's muted footfalls beat out a steady toll, like the passing of time. Until at last the door opened and the priestess emerged.

The sight of her nearly brought Liam to his knees.

Her sleeves were soaked in blood, her face lined with exhaustion. And when she closed the door softly behind her, Liam was certain that it was over, and all his precious insights had come too late.

Called as if by instinct, Rig burst through the door. He too was brought up short by the sight of the priestess; he stood in the doorway trembling like a child.

“She is out of danger for now,” Vel said, and for a moment Liam heard nothing more, clutching at the back of a chair for support. He felt his brother's hand on his arm, steadying him. When the roar in his ears died away, he heard the priestess continuing, “. . . at least a few days. And the stitches will need constant treatment if the wound is not to become septic.”

Rig blew out something between an oath and a prayer and plunged back outside, shoving his hands through his hair in a gesture of violent relief.

It took Liam a moment to find his voice. “Can I see her?”

“She sleeps, but yes, you can stay by her bedside.”

Erik stepped back, but Liam said, “No, you should come. She'll want you there when she wakes up.”

Gratitude flashed through Erik's eyes. He nodded, and they went through the door together.

*   *   *

Alix drifted in and out of sleep. Every time she opened her eyes, she found a different set of faces: Liam and Erik, then Liam and Rig, then Vel . . . Each time she tried to speak, and each time she was gently hushed and left to slip away again. She had no notion of where she was or what had become of the battle, but she knew her loved ones were safe, and that was what mattered. So she slept peacefully, if fitfully, aided no doubt by a concoction of Vel's. And when finally she felt herself climbing back to consciousness, it was Liam's face, and his alone, she found leaning over her.

“Hi,” he said, his fingers drifting along her hairline.

“Hi.”

She expected a quip, some remark about how long she'd slept, but the customary spark of mischief was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his eyes were the dappled grey of the sea, soft hues of exhaustion and sorrow mingled with something else, something . . . still.

“What happened?”

“It's over. Sadik is dead. The Oridians are on the run.”

At first she was confused, but as Liam explained, small details began to come back to her: the sound of the Harrami horn, the brutal clash of steel as Rig fought the Warlord . . . “It really happened,” she whispered. “I thought it must have been a dream.”

“No dream. Alden is still free, and our allies are mopping up as we speak. The Oridians are caught between the Harrami in the west and the Onnani in the east. Those who don't surrender will run all the way back to Varadast with their tails between their legs.”

“And the Kingswords?”

A wave of grief swelled in his eyes. “As bad as Boswyck,” he said quietly. “Worse, maybe. But it's over.”

He climbed into bed beside her, wrapping her in his warmth.
It's over.
Alix knew that wasn't quite true, but she clung to it all the same, even as she clung to her husband. Outside, dawn was breaking over a free Alden, over the farmhouse filled with the people she loved most. A blessing beyond any she had dared to hope for.

For now, at least, that was enough.

*   *   *

Vel had come to him the night after she'd saved Alix's life. She'd found him sitting alone outside, hunkered down by a fire, honing his greatsword with numb, practiced movements. He'd looked in on his sister briefly, placed a kiss on Allie's forehead and a hand on Liam's shoulder, and then he'd gone out to the yard to be alone, having nothing to offer but the same bittersweet mix of relief and sorrow that already saturated the place. He hadn't known how to react when Vel came to him except to thank her for what she'd done. But she'd brushed that off, putting her arms around him and letting him
take
from her again,
offering freely the comfort he so desperately needed but would never ask for. And he'd let her, gods damn him, selfish to the last, basking in the soothing cadence of her voice and the soft touch of her fingers in his hair. He'd needed the priestess and she'd come to him, in spite of everything, and he had no doubt that if he'd needed his lover, she would have been that too. That, more than anything else, was the blade in his guts.

The intervening days had done nothing to dull the guilt, nor the conflicting emotions that still dogged him. Rig knew how he
should
feel, and also how he
did
feel, and the fact that he couldn't reconcile the two drove him to haunt the corridors of the royal palace like a restless spirit.

Thus did Vel find him on the day she came to say good-bye.

“I thought you might be here,” she said as she entered the Map Room. Glancing around, she added, “From the moment I first blundered into this room, I knew it must be a favourite of yours. Soldiers do love their maps.” She joined him where he stood, gazing up at a centuries-old rendering of the Blacklands. “You are thinking of home,” she said. “Missing it, no doubt. It must be very beautiful.”

Taking in her travelling clothes, Rig said gruffly, “I suppose you're heading home too?”

She shook her head. “Timra. It will be liberated soon. I must find my brother, if he yet lives. If Sadik uncovered my lies, or learned of my role in rescuing Rodrik . . . But that is unlikely. I choose to believe my brother is still alive and in those dungeons, in which case, I must go to him.”

Stay.

Rig wanted so badly to say it, but for once he restrained himself. He would not ask her to wait around while he sorted through the tangle of his heart. It wasn't fair. Besides, he knew instinctively that this was the one thing she would deny him. Her brother commanded her love and loyalty first and foremost, and the gods knew he must deserve it more than Rig.

“You could have told me, Vel.”

She looked away, her composure flickering. “I see that now. You cannot know how bitterly I regret it.” Sighing, she added, “Ironically, it was my feelings for you that prevented me. You were already unattainable. If I had told you, whatever slim chance I might have had would be lost. I wanted you too much
to risk it. So I followed Ardin instead of Eldora. A pattern, it seems.”

“For us both.”

“But it means rather more for me,” she said, wry and bitter. “When I find my brother and return to Onnan, I will relinquish the grey robes. Perhaps they will let me take the red.”

He turned to her in dismay. “Don't do that. Vel, that's the most impulsive decision of them all.” She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. “You told me once that faith is supposed to be hard. I might not be a priest, but even I know you can't expect to pass every test. You're only human.”

Dark eyes met his. As always, Rig felt as though he were swimming in their depths. “Perhaps,” she said. “I will think on it.”

Rig managed a weak grin. “Besides, if you change orders, what chance do I have? Eldora never fancied me until you came along.”

“May she watch over you all the same, General.” Standing on her toes, Vel kissed his forehead.

“Good-bye, Daughter, and good luck. I hope you find your brother.”

“Thank you.”

“Maybe you'll pass through here on your way home?”

But she denied him that too, shaking her head. “Perhaps you should come to Onnan City instead. Every man should see the sea at least once in his life.”

“I'd like that,” he said roughly.

Rig stared at the door long after she'd gone. Then he lifted his gaze once more to the map of the Blacklands before him, her mountains and pine forests slanting gracefully across the leather.
Blackhold
, it read in a suitably bold hand.

Time to go home
, Rig thought. To what life, he could not say.

*   *   *

“Beg your pardon, sire.”

Erik turned. A guardsman stood in the doorway of the study. Erik cast about for the man's name but came up empty-handed; virtually every guardsman he knew had fallen on the battlefield, and he had not yet had time to learn all the new faces.

“Visitors for you. They're with the, er . . .” The guardsman glanced behind him. “The
guest
contingent.”

“We have rather a lot of those at the moment. Could you be more specific?”

“Harrami, sire.” Then, in a whisper,
“Tribesmen.”

Stifling a smile, Erik said, “Please show them in.”

It was more than passing strange to watch his two former captors walk through the door of his study. And not just for him; Sakhr was as coiled as a suspicious cat, and Qhara's gaze roamed about the room as though she had never seen anything quite like it. Which, Erik supposed, she hadn't. Certainly there was nothing in their tiny mountain village that would prepare them for the gilt wood and marble of the royal palace of Alden. “Welcome,” Erik said in High Harrami, gesturing for them to join him at the window.

Brother and sister crossed the room in long strides. They were every bit as beautiful as he remembered, tall and graceful, dark of skin and hair. Only now they were clad in battle armour, impressive scale mail fashioned of horn and boiled leather. The only metal they wore was the curved blades strapped to their slender waists.