The Bloodsworn (7 page)

“After he's crafted a few weapons for us, I would hope,” said Asvin. “A nice bloodforged dagger like yours would come in handy. A knife that can't miss, quick and quiet . . .” He mimed a throw, smiling unsettlingly.

“I'm sure that can be arranged,” Alix said.

Wraith eyed her for a long time, as though trying to wait the truth out of her. Alix did her best to meet that gaze unflinchingly, though her heart was hammering in her ears. “Something I don't understand,” the big man said. “Why all the fuss a moment ago? Why not just tell us?”

“It's like Asvin said. Trust is death in occupied Andithyri.” A weak answer, but it was the best she could come up with under the pressure of that stare.

Wraith rose and went to the falcon. He stroked its head meditatively, the bird closing its eyes in bliss. Then he said, “No.”

The air went out of Alix. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“I don't understand,” she said, hating how desperate she sounded.

“Then I'll make it simple. If I help you, the most I get out of it is a couple of enchanted weapons. Fine so far as it goes, but a bloodforged weapon can only be wielded by the man whose blood went into the making. Once he's dead, that weapon is useless. Most we could do with it would be to melt it down for the steel. I'll not risk the life of one man so another can have a better weapon for a few months, and that's the longest most of us can expect to live.”

A crude, pecuniary calculus, yet Alix couldn't deny its logic.

“I told you not to expect charity,” Vel said sourly.

“Gold, then,” Alix said. “I brought some with me, and I can get more . . .”

Wraith was already shaking his head. “We're not sellswords.”

“Every army needs gold, even an underground one.”

“True, but you won't have enough with you to make it worth my while, and as for what you can get . . .” He shrugged. “We're not moneylenders, either.”

“But what else could we possibly offer?”

At that, the big man smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “Now we're getting somewhere.”

A prickle of dread crept down Alix's spine.

“Way I heard it told,” he said, “you're the one managed to sneak those barrels of black powder into the Elders' Gate, right under the Priest's arse. Quite the explosion, they say. Probably still picking bits of him off the walls of the Nine Heavens.”

Asvin laughed through his nose.

“Skills like that are rare,” Wraith went on. “Skills like that I can use.”

Alix and her companions exchanged uneasy glances. “What would you have of me?”

“Arkenn,” said Wraith, throwing a meaningful look at Asvin. The smaller man's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“Arkenn.” Alix had heard the name, but for a moment, she couldn't place it.

“The governor?” Vel said.

“Governor of the Oridian Protectorate of Andithyri.” In case anyone had missed the tone, Wraith spat on the floor. “A parasite, sucking the blood of Andithyri for his Oridian masters. He's holed up in the royal palace in Timra. Too much of a coward to set foot on the streets, so he has his thugs
keep the peace
.” His lip curled into a snarl. “He mostly
keeps the peace
through hangings, though I hear he's taken an interest in the old imperial cages.”

Alix shuddered. She'd seen drawings. Of all the torture devices employed by the Erromanians—and there had been many—the cages were surely among the worst. They hung in the squares, usually, or the village green, bars just far enough apart to admit the crows. By the time the prisoner died of dehydration, the birds would have long since plucked out his eyes.

Vel whispered something in Onnani and drew a sign against evil. Thousands of her ancestors, and Dain's, had met their ends in those cages.

“It sounds horrible,” Alix said, “but I don't know what you want from me.”

That was a lie. She knew what Wraith was going to say; already, the bile was rising at the back of her throat.

“You're going to help me kill him.”

The room went very still then.

Alix could feel the eyes on her, all five pairs of them, scrutinising, judging. Even the falcon seemed to be watching, waiting for her answer. “I'm no assassin,” she whispered, but the words tasted like a lie on her tongue, the biggest lie she'd told today.

Fate, it seemed, had a nasty sense of humour.
A sodding
Trion
, and you had him snuffed, without even consulting anyone.
Liam's voice a week ago, hurled like an accusation. The point of that spear was still lodged in her breast.

An assassin.

For a bodyguard, there was no fouler creature. Erik had nearly been killed by one; Alix had almost died protecting
him from another. In ordering Varad's death, Alix had come perilously close to becoming the thing she hated most. Close, but not quite;
she
hadn't killed him, not with her own hands. A chain of spies stood between her and the deed. That distance mattered to her, was the only thing separating her from the monsters who'd tried to murder her king. And now . . .

“If you want my help,” Wraith said, “that's exactly what you'll be.”

*   *   *

“I can't do this,” Alix said, tracing small circles on the table. She couldn't look up, couldn't meet the concerned gazes of her companions. “It's too much to ask.”

Dain went to the window of the cabin. “Do you suppose they can hear us out there?” Their hosts had left them alone to discuss Wraith's proposal, but they hadn't gone far. “I see them. They're sitting on the back of the wagon.”

“Let them listen,” Alix said. “I don't care. I won't do this.”

“Really?” Ide sounded puzzled. “Thought you'd jump at the chance to help snuff a man like that.”

“Did you.” Alix glanced up coldly. “And why would you think that?”

“Sounds like he deserves it and then some. Besides, he's the enemy, isn't he?”

“It's more complicated than that,” Dain said. “It's one thing to face a man in battle, but to sneak into his home and kill him in cold blood?”

“Even if he tortures and murders people for a living?” Ide shook her head. “Don't see what's complicated about it. Besides, it's not as if they're asking Alix to go it alone. She's just supposed to help, right?”

Dain appealed to the priestess. “What do you think, Daughter?”

But Vel scarcely seemed to be listening. She gazed into nothingness, a troubled line creasing her brow.

“I'm not an assassin,” Alix said again, as though repeating it would make it true.

“You ask me, that's just a word,” Ide said. “Enemy is enemy, dead is dead. What difference does it make whether he's looking you in the eye when he dies?”

“Honour,” Dain said.

“Honour is for duels. This is war.”

“There's no honour in war?”

Ide rolled her eyes. “You telling me you never took a man from behind in battle? Or ambushed one with an arrow?”

“Of course, but—”

“How's this any different?” She made a dismissive gesture. “You got nothing to feel bad about, Alix, but if you don't want to do it, I can offer my services. I'm a trained scout too. Not as good as you, maybe, but good enough to help Wraith and his men sneak into the palace.”

Alix was almost tempted. But no—she'd be using Ide just like she used Saxon, a tool to keep her own hands from getting bloody.
Either this is right or it's wrong, and if it's wrong, it's not fair to let your friend stain her honour in your stead.

The trouble was, it didn't
feel
wrong. In fact, she agreed with Ide—Arkenn was obviously a monster. Moreover, as governor of occupied Andithyri, he was a legitimate military target. Or so she told herself, but was that wisdom, or rationalisation?

Would Erik do it?

She tried to imagine what he would say if he were here, if she could confide in him the way she used to. But the thought of Erik was too painful; she flinched away from it. She was on her own. “Dain, you served under my brother's command. You know the lay of things better than I do. If we took out Arkenn, it would help the Kingswords, wouldn't it?”

“It would stir things up in Timra, that's for sure. That might force Sadik to pull some of his men off the border, redeploy them to the capital to restore order. Anything the white-hairs do to keep the Warlord busy is good for us.”

“But not quite as good for the people of Timra,” Vel said, snapping out of her reverie. “If the Trionate's governor is murdered, we can be sure the Warlord will respond harshly. I have seen with my own eyes how brutal Sadik's reprisals can be. Is that something we can live with?”

“That's for Wraith to decide, isn't it?” Ide said. “His people. His idea. Our job is to look out for Alden. For the Kingswords.”

“And for our own souls,” Vel said. “Wraith might have more right than we to decide what is best for his country, but
he cannot decide what is best for us. So I ask again, is this something we can live with?”

Alix sighed. “Let's hear from Wraith. I doubt we'll find any answers there, but I'd like to know he's at least weighed the consequences. Dain, if you wouldn't mind calling our friends?”

Vel's dark eyes followed Dain out of the cabin, growing unfocused once again. Alix would dearly have liked to know what was so damned important that the priestess couldn't concentrate on the discussion at hand, but she had bigger worries.

“So,” the leader of the Resistance said as he walked through the door, “do we have a deal?”

Alix didn't bother to hide her resentment. “This is coercion.”

“Way I see it, it's a simple trade. I do for you, you do for me.” He shrugged. “Either way, I don't give a flea's teat how you feel about it. It's a military necessity. And I daresay General Black won't look ill on it, either. It helps your Kingswords, after all.”

“So we've concluded,” Alix said. “But it will certainly provoke a backlash against a lot of innocent Andithyrians.”

“I saw what Sadik did at Raynesford,” Vel put in. “I prayed over the corpses of children. Are you prepared to make such a sacrifice?”

For a fleeting moment, Alix glimpsed a different Wraith: grief-worn, weary to the bone. Then his lips pressed together, and the hard shell came back over his eyes. “My people have done nothing but sacrifice for the past two years, Daughter. I've buried family. Friends. If it's going to end, it's going to end with blood. I'd have thought an Onnani would understand that better than most.”

It was a well-aimed shaft. The look that came over Vel was at once proud and serene. “My ancestors sacrificed a great deal, it's true. Many innocents had to die for their children and grandchildren to be free.”

“Just so,” Wraith said. “And it might have been my ancestors who had yours under the boot, but make no mistake—Andithyri and Onnan understand each other now. We've learned from you, and the greatest lesson is this: Strike where you can, when you can, even if it's a glancing blow, and eventually the enemy will bleed out.” His gaze shifted back to Alix. “For what it's worth, I don't ask this lightly. If that bloody
parasite had the balls to set foot outside the palace, it'd be simple enough. But he won't, which means we've got to go in there after him. That won't be easy. I've got a few men of skill, like Asvin here, but he can't do it alone. So I'm asking one last time: Are you in?”

Alix paused. Traced a final circle on the table. “We're in.”

“Good,” Wraith said. “We leave at dawn.”

“I
don't know,” Liam said. “Piglet, maybe?”

“Piglet.” The cook repeated the word as if he'd never heard it in his life. Then a delicate spasm of pain crossed his face. “Does His Highness perhaps refer to
suckling pig
?”

“That's it, exactly. We had it at the wedding. It was great.”

“Very good, Your Highness.” The cook made a note on his ledger. “Suckling pig it is.”

“Hmm,” said Albern Highmount, “I think not.”

Liam's back teeth came together, hard. “You disagree, Chancellor. What a surprise.”

It wasn't. It wasn't anything
like
a surprise, because Highmount had done nothing but disagree with every single sodding thing Liam said from the moment he'd been put in charge. “Can I ask why you have an issue with suckling pig?”
Childhood memories, perhaps? Not enough room at the teat?

“I simply do not think it suitable for the occasion.”

Even the cook looked perplexed. “It is a fine dish, my lord, worthy of the most distinguished of guests.”

“I quite agree, Master Horna. One of my personal favourites, in fact. But I am afraid it would not be an appropriate dish to serve the Onnani ambassador, given its origins.”

“Origins?” The cook's brow rumpled even further. “Why, it originates from right here in Erroman!”

“Precisely. It is, in fact, an Erromanian dish, dating from the days of the empire, and particularly associated with the imperial class.”

Liam laughed incredulously. “You're worried the Onnani ambassador will be offended that we served baby pig because the white-hairs used to enjoy baby pig way back when?”

“Way back when the baby pig was being dished onto their plates by Onnani
slaves
. Yes, Your Highness, that is precisely what I am worried about.”

Liam growled and rubbed his eyes. Bad enough he had to muddle his way through a diplomatic dinner, they couldn't even plan the sodding menu without worrying about the political implications.
How in the name of the Virtues does Erik do this all day?
Barely a week of trying to fill his brother's boots, and already he was going mad. “Whatever you think,” he said, as though Highmount needed his permission.

The chancellor spent another few moments discussing the dinner before dismissing the cook. Liam didn't bother listening; he was getting the impression his presence was purely symbolic anyway. Was it like this for Erik, he wondered, or did Highmount actually give a damn what the
real
king thought?
Probably
, he decided. Erik had too much gravitas to be brushed aside. Liam, on the other hand . . .

“You must understand, Your Highness—” Highmount began, preparing to launch into yet another lecture.

A soft knock sounded, and Rona Brown poked her head into the study. “Am I interrupting?”

“Dear gods, no.” Liam waved her in.

She took a seat across the desk from Liam, in the place Alix used to sit when conferring with Erik. She'd taken Alix's place as captain of the royal guardsmen too, more or less, working closely with Pollard. “All is well,” she reported, “or rather, as well as it can be under the circumstances. The chamber guards changed over this morning—I've just come from debriefing them. His Majesty's spirits are . . . not improved. But he is eating again, at least.”

Liam blew out a breath. “Thank the gods.”

“Good news indeed,” said Highmount. “I feared something drastic might be required.”

Rona winced. “Yes, well, thankfully that won't be necessary. He took both supper and breakfast, and he's no longer wearing holes in the carpets with pacing. Apparently he just sits at the window now, staring out into the gardens.”

A familiar jolt of fear arced through Liam. “We're absolutely
sure
no one can see him from out there?”

He'd asked the question half a dozen times, and Rona always gave him the same patient answer. “The gardens are sealed off. Even with a longlens, there's no way anyone but our guardsmen can get eyes on that window.”

Liam nodded, comforted—for a few hours, anyway, until the next bolt of fear lit him up again. He'd be as grey-haired as Highmount by the time this was done. Assuming he survived.

“It would appear His Majesty has finally resigned himself to the situation,” Highmount said. “That is for the best. I do not like to think of him suffering unduly.”

Unduly.
Such a sensitive man, Highmount.

Another knock at the door; this time, it was Pollard who looked inside. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. Lady Sirin Grey requests a word.”

The three of them exchanged a look.

“Bloody hells,” Liam growled, “that's all we need.” To Pollard, he said, “Show her in.”

They received their guest in a cluster of plush chairs near the window, the better to convey how very unconcerned they were by her visit. She swept aside the shining folds of her dress as she sat, smoothing them down with jewel-studded fingers and arranging them
just so
. Her braids were bound up under a delicate net of freshwater pearls, and a pair of sapphires dangled from her ears, catching the sunlight. A bit much for midmorning, in Liam's estimation. Like an aging woman plastered in cosmetics, or a knight who insists on wearing armour that no longer fits, Lady Sirin was trying a little too hard to cling to the past—in this case, her family's lost prestige.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Liam asked, breaking out his most charming smile.

“I've come to pay my respects to His Majesty.”

“Your respects?” Liam laughed awkwardly. “Did someone die?”

“How amusing,” Sirin said, sounding about as amused as if Liam had spilled tea down the front of her frock. “It's so dreadful being ill, don't you agree? I should like to boost his spirits.” She smiled sweetly.

“His Majesty will be gratified to hear it,” Highmount said, “but alas, it is quite impossible. As we have already discussed, the risk of contagion is too great.”

“My risk to take, surely?” The sweet smile never wavered, as fine-edged as a razor.

“Not really, no,” Liam said. “If you fall ill, you may infect others, and the last thing we need is more council members unfit for duty.”

A delicate furrow appeared between Sirin Grey's eyebrows. “I should think it unlikely that His Majesty would still be contagious after all this time. I must say, my lords, this seems like an overabundance of caution.”

“When it comes to the health and well-being of His Majesty's closest advisors,” Highmount said, “there is no such thing.”

“I quite agree, Chancellor,” Rona said. “If Lady Sirin or anyone else were to succumb after being permitted to break the quarantine, you would never hear the end of it.”

“Well,” Liam said, beaming until his face hurt, “that settles it. I'm sorry, my lady, but I'm sure Erik will be touched that you stopped by to wish him well.”

“And who will inform him? One of the servants, presumably, since I'm sure you would not dare take the risk of exposing yourself to illness.” Pale blue eyes met Liam's, locking him in an icy embrace. “Oh, but wait—the servants don't see His Majesty either, do they? Meals, laundry, everything passes through the royal guardsmen. Why, the servants' quarters must be positively abuzz!”

A month ago, Liam might not have recognised the threat. But he'd survived the crucible of Onnani politics, learned the rituals of courtly duels. He knew a challenge when he heard one, and Sirin Grey had just called them out. Not a gauntlet thrown, but a silk glove gliding silently to the floor.

I've got eyes and ears among the servants.
The message was clear: She knew the prince and the chancellor were up to
something, and she was making it her business to find out what.

“I'll take my leave, my lords,” Sirin said, rising. “Please be sure to keep my family apprised of His Majesty's condition. We do worry for him so.” She was halfway out the door when she paused and turned back. “Oh, and do give my regards to Lady Alix, Your Highness.” She smiled. “When next you see her.” The door clicked shut.

Liam said something decidedly unrefined.

“
Really
, Your Highness,” Highmount spluttered.

“I wouldn't have chosen quite the same language,” Rona said, “but I certainly share the sentiment. We have a serious problem.”

“Not an unexpected one,” Highmount said, “nor am I surprised that it should be Lady Sirin who positions herself as our adversary. She obviously feels compelled to prove her loyalty to the king in the wake of her brother's treachery. On top of which, she has no love for me, given my role in Prince Tomald's execution. I feared she might be tempted to scrutinise our situation, though I had hoped we would not begin trading blows
quite
so soon.”

Liam swallowed a sudden dryness in his throat. “What do we do now?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Are you sure that's wise?” Rona asked. “She's made it clear she's getting information from the servants.”

“The servants know very little that could worry us, at least for now. In fact”—Highmount made a steeple of his fingers—“I rather think this could be turned to our advantage. Servants delight in nothing so much as rumour and scandal. No doubt they have already devised a number of wild theories. We can encourage that by planting a few seeds of our own.”

Liam had a feeling he was about to ask a stupid question, but . . . “Why would we do that?”

“Have you ever seen a garden overgrown with weeds, Your Highness? It is terribly difficult to spot the flowers.”

Liam's brow smoothed. “That,” he said, “is bloody
brilliant
.”

“I am gratified you think so, though I daresay some of the most likely rumours will not please you.”

“What do you . . . ?” And then he understood.

Alix.

She was behind those doors too, allegedly, with Erik. Alone, just the two of them, day and night . . .

Such talk would hardly be new. Rumours had followed them all the way from Greenhold. The gossip had waned after the wedding, but this would only stir it up again. In the kitchens, the stables, the laundry . . . everyone would be whispering. Every night, in someone's overheated imagination, Liam's wife and his brother would be . . .

“I need some air,” he said, rising. “I think I'll take Rudi for a walk.”

“Shall I come along?” Rona asked.

“No thanks. I'd rather be alone.”

*   *   *

Erik spent the first three days of his captivity convinced she would come back.

She wouldn't leave him like this. Not Alix. She was too loyal, she loved him too much. As a brother only—it still hurt to admit that—but even so it was love, as fierce in its way as her love for Liam, or even Rig. She would realise what she had done and she would regret herself. This was Alix, after all. How many times had he been obliged to forgive her for doing something rash? He would forgive her again, and hold her as she wept, for it would be a bitter thing to watch her husband die for treason. But she would know that Erik had no choice, just as he'd had no choice with Tom, and she would understand. They would forgive each other.

So Erik had thought. So he had told himself for three long days, watching in silence as her guardsmen filed in and out, convinced each time that
this
changing of the guard would be the one to bring Alix back to him.

But she did not come. And gradually, he came to understand that she never would.

Erik spent the next three days of his captivity in a rage.

He paced the length of his apartments and back. His blood was a tempest, his thoughts a seething black swarm. He broke nearly everything he could get his hands on, taking petty
delight in the way the guards flinched every time another priceless vase exploded in a fine mist of porcelain.

That had been unwise, though. Indulgent. For he soon realised that his only hope was to bargain his way out, but by then, he had alienated his captors. Squandered his only chance at escape.

That was when he stopped eating.

It was, he supposed, the weakness brought on by hunger that triggered it: whispers, at first, voices clawing at him from the inside, their meaning just beyond his reach. And then the visions . . .

“Not visions. Delusions. There's a difference.”

Erik couldn't help smiling. Delusion or no, he was glad of the company. “You always were a pedant, Tom.”

A faint smile flickered across his brother's face. Tom sat on the far end of the window seat, one leg propped on the bench, arm draped casually over his knee. He was clad in the crimson doublet he'd worn on the day of his execution. Tom normally preferred white, but he had not wanted the blood to stand out so shockingly. Practical to the end. “Being precise is never wrong,” he said.