Blood of an Exile

by Brian Naslund

  Ashlyn paused. Rubbed the back of her neck for a moment. She always did that when she had to relinquish a secret.

  “We tried ships first. Three of our fastest vessels set sail the morning after Kira was kidnapped.” Ashlyn picked up the leather scroll she’d brought with her when she entered the room. “This is from Lord Arnish, the commander of those ships. When he reached the Balarian coast, he was surrounded by frigates and imprisoned on a barrier island outside Burz-al-dun. He writes that he is no closer to gaining access to Balaria than he was three weeks ago, and warns that additional ships will likely meet the same fate as his.”

  “What about the mountains?”

  “Three parties,” Ashlyn admitted. “They were all murdered by Skojit marauders, we think. But you’ve made it through the Razors safely once before.” Ashlyn paused. “I want you to do it again, this time with a group of people who can bring Kira home.”

  “Dragonslayers aren’t exactly free to travel the world at their leisure, Ashe.”

  “You’ll enter Ghalamar on the pretense of slaying a dragon far to the east. The squire who brought you in here heard my father order it, and that boy has the biggest mouth in Floodhaven, so the story’s legitimacy is already spreading.”

  Bershad took a moment to think. He was more than happy to murder the king instead of running an errand for him, but he’d loved Ashlyn. Maybe he still did. That was worth something.

  “So, I sneak a rescue party across the border, then I break off and kill the emperor for good measure?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why not just bring Kira back without the royal assassination?” Bershad asked. “It would attract less attention.”

  “Because we need to send a message,” Ashlyn said. “The lords of Almira will never stay in line if they see the Malgraves are too weak to impose consequences when their own flesh and blood is kidnapped and taken across the Soul Sea. And even if the High Lords don’t rebel, do you really think the Balarians will scuttle back behind their border again for another thirty years after this? Once again, they think Almira’s ripe for conquering—that they can turn us into a colony just like they did Ghalamar and Lysteria. The only way to keep Almira free is to bring Kira home and put a seashell in the emperor’s mouth.”

  Bershad let out a long breath. Felt a wave of sorrow wash over him as he realized that Ashlyn had changed.

  “Funny,” he said quietly. “That’s the same argument your father made when he told me to ride down to Glenlock Canyon and kill that mercenary general for him. And if I’m not mistaken, that bas tard is still alive and Almira is doing just fine. You might not have become your asshole father, Ashlyn, but you have become a Malgrave. It’s your dynasty that you want to protect, not Almira. And I’m not sworn to serve you anymore.” He turned to Hertzog. “You saw to that.”

  “Silas,” Ashlyn pressed. “I know that you don’t want to keep killing dragons. I know that it’s torture every time you use that spear and—”

  “You don’t know me at all anymore,” Bershad snapped, even though everything Ashlyn said was true. “I won’t trade black work like this on the promise that a Malgrave will keep their word.” His voice choked. Turned into a whisper. “I’ve made that mistake before.”

  Ashlyn hesitated. “There is a greater good for the people to consider. Emperor Mercer has—”

  “Don’t dragonslayers already serve the people? Ridding the countryside of the great scaled menace so farmers can work their fields in peace?”

  The rage surged back into Bershad’s throat. Filled his mouth. The memories of all the dragons that he’d killed swarmed in his head. He threw his sword on the floor, then spat on it.

  “I don’t give a shit about the greater good.”

  Ashlyn glanced at the guards standing on the edges of the room before speaking again. “I understand. You have every right to doubt us. Doubt me. Sleep on it, at least. In a real bed, for a change.”

  She raised her eyebrows and inclined her head. Ashlyn had more to say, she just didn’t want to say it here.

  “An expensive bed isn’t likely to change my mind. You two best start making other plans.”

  4

  BERSHAD

  Almira, Castle Malgrave

  Dennys led Bershad through the castle, winding through passages and halls, down a twisting flight of stairs, and then up even more as they ascended one of the spires. The castle had once been a familiar combination of wonders—full of gardens, courtyards, and secret rooms that smelled of sea salt. Now the walls and rooms were strangers to Bershad. He felt lost inside of them.

  As the rage from seeing Hertzog and shock from seeing Ashlyn wore off, Bershad felt lost in a much larger way, too. He’d refused their offer because he hated Hertzog, but he wondered if that was a mistake. It had been so long since he’d encountered a path that didn’t involve trying to kill a massive lizard; it seemed foolish to throw this one away out of sheer spite.

  Rowan was waiting in Bershad’s room. Sitting cross-legged on the floor by the hearth with a cloth spread out in front of him and six spear points set up in a neat row. He had a seventh in his hand and was making careful strokes along its edge with a sharpening stone.

  “So, you didn’t get yourself killed after all. Good.” He glanced at Bershad then returned to work. “Your armor is with the blacksmith, but I didn’t trust him with your spear points. Man had farmer’s hands.”

  “The blacksmith of Castle Malgrave?”

  “Farmer’s hands,” Rowan repeated.

  “How’d you get in here, anyway?” Bershad asked.

  “Charm,” Rowan said, but didn’t elaborate.

  The room had a massive bed and half a dozen cushioned chairs and recliners scattered around. This would be the first night Bershad had slept on something besides a tavern chair or a dirt floor in a very long time.

  “So, what happened?” Rowan asked.

  Bershad ignored the cushioned chairs and took a seat on the floor next to Rowan. “We’ve been offered a new job.”

  “Is the king dissatisfied with your dragonslaying performance?” Rowan set down the spear point and picked up another.

  “I’d say he’s a bit frustrated, seeing as he expected me to be turned to dragonshit more than a decade ago.” Bershad pulled his boots off and angled his legs toward the hearth. “But Kira has been kidnapped by the Balarians, which appears to vex him far more than the Flawless Bershad.”

  “What does a kidnapped princess have to do with you and me?”

  “He wants us to lead a rescue party into Balaria by way of the Razorback Mountains.” Bershad paused. “Then he wants me to assassinate the emperor.”

  Rowan’s hand stopped working the spear point for a moment—frozen halfway through a lick with the sharpening stone—and then continued. “That’s a tall order. What’s the emperor done to earn that kind of treatment?”

  “Besides abduct a princess?”

  “Yeah, besides that.”

  “Threatened the shiny, powerful future of the Malgraves,” Bershad said.

  “That’ll do it.”

  “But if I kill him, Hertzog says he’ll lift my exile and return my lands. Probably make you a high-warden or something.”

  “He’s made promises to you before, Silas.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Plus, it sounds like a pretty elaborate plan for a man like Hertzog. He always liked to keep things simple.”

  “It was Ashlyn’s idea.”

  “Ashlyn’s in the castle?”

  “I just saw her.”

  Rowan laughed to himself. “This is getting good. How’s she looking these days?”

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Same as before.”

  “And would I be correct to assume she’s the reason you didn’t send Hertzog on the long swim today?”

  “You would.”

  “Glad she was there, then.” He tossed another log onto the fire and worked on the spear points for a while.

  “So, are you g
onna do it?”

  “I told Hertzog to fuck off, but Ashlyn asked me to sleep on it.” Bershad winced at the things he’d said to her in the dining hall. “I owe her that much.”

  Rowan put down the spear point and the sharpening stone. “Seems to me we’ll probably die trying to cross the mountains, given what you told me about that pass. Even if we do make it over the Razors and into Balaria, do you think the clock-toting bastards will just let you sail home after you open their emperor’s throat? It’s a suicide mission, Silas.”

  “Maybe. I’ve survived lots of those, though.” Bershad shrugged. “Would you rather go find another dragon?”

  “I’d rather retire to the mulberry orchard my sons work together. Meet my grandchildren. Spend my last days getting drunk on a porch and smoking a pipe.”

  Bershad smiled absently. “That will never happen if we stay on the same road we’ve been walking. It’s only a matter of time before one of them gets me. Then some asshole sentinel will kill you and Alfonso, and our heads will guard the castle walls together until they rot to nothing.”

  “That’s what you said sixty-six dragons ago.”

  Bershad stared at the fire.

  “There’s always the other way,” Rowan continued. “From Ghalamar we could ditch this rescue party. Hide out in the wilds.”

  Rowan brought the idea up every few months. Bershad’s answer was always the same.

  “And if we get caught, they’ll skin Alfonso alive, wrap you up in his hide, and light you on fire while I watch.” Bershad left the last part unsaid—they’d gouge his eyes out after he watched Rowan cook, then they’d force him to go fight another dragon. “I won’t risk that. Ever.”

  “People make it.”

  “Most don’t.”

  Rowan grunted disagreement, but didn’t push the issue further.

  “So, if it’s between killing another dragon or killing the emperor, what would you do?” Bershad asked. “At least we’ll get something for killing the Balarian.”

  “We might get something,” Rowan corrected, then let out a long breath. “But my opinion doesn’t factor in here. The rest of this muddy country may treat oaths like unwanted bastard children, but I do not. I swore to your father I’d look after you, and that’s what I intend to do. I’m with you either way, same as always.”

  Bershad nodded. Rowan was the only friend he had, but Bershad had never gotten comfortable with the man’s unwavering loyalty. His father had earned that from Rowan during the Balarian Invasion. Bershad had not, no matter what the old man said.

  “In the morning I’ll decide,” Bershad said. “For now, clear out, will you? Don’t want Ashlyn to sneak in for some nostalgia and find you here.”

  “Right, right.” Rowan packed up the spear points and moved for the door, but stopped short. He glared at the bed. “All’s I got was a pile of straw,” he said. “Lucky bastard.”

  * * *

  Bershad found a full pitcher of wine and drank from a silver cup while he stared at the fire. He listened to the servants moving down the halls. He’d never liked crowds. Even backwater villages like Otter Rock drove Bershad toward the drink, but Floodhaven was the largest city he’d spent a night in fourteen years. The movement of so many people in the castle felt like rats scurrying against his skin.

  After emptying the pitcher, he stripped naked and got into the bed. The softness felt foreign and wrong after so many years of sleeping on the hard earth. Bershad didn’t even try to sleep. He knew it wouldn’t come. Not in such a soft bed. Not with this decision weighing on him.

  Later, someone knocked on his door.

  Bershad got out of bed, pulled his pants back on, but couldn’t figure out the buttons on the shirt. “Screw it,” he muttered, and went to the door half dressed.

  Ashlyn Malgrave was waiting in the hall. This time, she was carrying his sword along with a thick roll of scrolls.

  “Did I interrupt your dreams, Silas?”

  Bershad’s chest tightened. He resisted the urge to pull her into his arms.

  “No, Princess.” He let her into his bedroom. Closed the door behind her.

  She stood in the middle of the room, staring at the dying fire for a moment. The embers ignited the outline of her body through her loosely tied silk dress. The shape of her arm, the curve of her hips.

  “It’s a crime to give me that,” Bershad said, pointing at the sword.

  Exiles weren’t allowed to carry swords—anyone in Terra had the right to behead a blue-barred man on the spot if he saw a steel blade in his hand or on his hip.

  “It’s a crime to reject a gift from a king, too,” she said, tossing the sword onto the bed. “You looked about ready to kill my father with that when I walked in.”

  “I was.”

  Ashlyn narrowed her eyes. Nodded.

  “I didn’t talk to him for ten years,” she said. “After what he did to you, I could barely stand being in the same city.”

  “You two seem pretty close now.”

  “My older brothers died,” Ashlyn said, her body tensing. “And someone has to take care of Almira after he’s gone. I didn’t want the job, but it’s mine now and—”

  “Ashe,” Bershad said, stopping her. “It’s all right. I’ve spent time blaming just about everyone else in Almira for what happened to me. Hertzog. My father. Myself, most of all. But I never blamed you.” He smiled. Motioned to the room’s window. “Remember when I used to climb up the side of the tower to get to your bedroom?”

  Ashlyn’s shoulders relaxed.

  “I remember being worried sick you’d kill yourself trying to get laid.” She laughed, then gestured toward the ceiling. “I’d have waited for you higher up tonight, but I think you’re a little old to make the climb these days. And I needed to talk to you alone. Really alone.”

  “You gave Hayden the slip, then?” Bershad asked. He hadn’t seen her in the hallway.

  “She’s just back a ways. Hayden’s learned to grant me a false sense of privacy. And to let me have the things I want, in the rare event that having them is possible.”

  “So, this isn’t your first midnight journey down the tower?”

  She flashed the crooked and mischievous smile he remembered. “Like you said, Silas, fourteen years is a long time.”

  “Yes.”

  “The tattoos suit you,” she said, touching the place on her cheek where the blue bar would go. “Lucky. Few wear the marks so well.”

  Bershad realized that she’d never seen the tattoos on him until today. After returning from Glenlock Canyon, he had been stopped at the gates of Floodhaven, stripped of his sword, then marked and cast off into the wild. No good-byes. No last words between lovers.

  “I asked them for green to go with my eyes,” he said. “Didn’t happen.”

  “The blue works.”

  Ashlyn dropped her eyes to the carpet.

  “I was sorry to hear about your husband’s death,” Bershad continued when Ashlyn didn’t say anything.

  “No, you weren’t,” Ashlyn said, smirking. “Havanath was a drunken fool. It’s no sorry thing that Almira will not have him as their king.”

  “A lot of the commoners say you killed him. Cast a Papyrian curse or something.”

  Ashlyn scoffed. “They say your cock is a foot long, too. But we both know that’s not true.”

  Bershad couldn’t help but smile. He’d missed hearing filthy words come out of Ashlyn’s beautiful mouth.

  “Anyway, Havanath drank himself stupid on that pleasure barge twice a week—it was amazing he didn’t drown sooner.”

  They stared at each other. Bershad knew she’d come to convince him that Emperor Mercer deserved to die, but he wanted to talk with her the way they used to first. Even if it was playacting. Even if it only lasted for a few minutes.

  “Judging from the stories about you, you’re still keeping up with the great lizards, right?” Bershad asked.

  As teenagers, they’d ridden all over Almira together, searching for
dragons that Ashlyn could study and sketch in her folios. They’d sleep together in the woods and talk to nobody except each other for days on end. It was the happiest he’d ever been.

  “Hayden and I spent an entire afternoon following a Horned Black last week,” Ashlyn said, another smile creeping across her lips. “We saw him fight with a rival male. They hook their horns together and tug until one of them submits, just like I always suspected.”

  “I’m surprised the king allows his heir to spend her leisure time riding beyond the castle and chasing dragons.”

  Ashlyn shrugged. “The king has to pick his battles. I will inherit the Malgrave crown, I will wear down my eyes on scrolls and maps and bureaucratic appointments, and I will protect the Malgrave dynasty as it passes through the ages. But I will not stop riding out to see a dragon when one comes near Floodhaven. That Horned Black was amazing—a perfect example of their functional bone structure.”

  Bershad smiled. “You are different,” he said. “But only some of you.”

  “You, too.” She paused. Looked around the room. “Speaking of bones, can I see it?”

  Clearly, Ashlyn wasn’t in a rush to get to business, either.

  “See what?”

  “I know you have it with you. Don’t play coy.”

  Bershad let her stew a moment longer, then went to the saddlebag Rowan had laid across the back of a chair and removed the dragontooth dagger. Handed it to Ashlyn grip-first. She tested the balance. Ran a fingertip across the sharpened edge.

  “What breed did you take it from?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the weapon.

  “A female Gray-Winged Nomad. Near Greenspur.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Silas. I know you always liked the Nomads best.”

  Before Bershad became famous in the realm of Terra for killing dragons, he’d loved them almost as much as Ashlyn. But he’d buried all of that a long time ago. It was the only way to survive.

  “She was beautiful,” he whispered.

  Ashlyn gave him a sad look.

  “How did you prevent the tooth from rotting?”

  Bershad hesitated. The truth was, the Nomad had bitten through his stomach and broken the tooth off in his guts. Rowan pulled the tooth out and threw it in a saddlebag, then forgot about it while he packed the wound with Spartania moss and saved Bershad’s life. They didn’t realize the tooth hadn’t gone to rot until almost a week later.