by Cate Dean
“I will hear no platitudes, my lord. I want real answers.”
“I wish I had them. Shira have been welcome in Palamar for years, at least from my family’s standpoint. Can you tell me how it is for you in the city?”
She looked surprised, but she answered. “Never easy, but we are left unharmed. Or we were.” She dropped her arms, her eyes gleaming. “My brother was taken on his way home. No one saw who took him. I lost him that night. He was the first victim.”
Micah closed his hands over hers. Tears spilled down her face, but she kept eye contact.
“I promise you, I will find who is doing this, and I will stop them. I have a friend who is at risk—” He cut himself off as a horrifying thought latched on and wouldn’t let go. What if the same happened to Raine, when she was injured, vulnerable, not able to fight back?
Not now.
“And your friend is missing.” The woman’s quiet voice jerked his head up. “I wish I could say that fate has visited you, but I know of you, my lord Micah. You are well spoken of, even by my people.” She took a deep breath, eased out of his grip. “I know you will do as you say. Thank you for listening to a grieving woman.”
With a dignified bow she turned and walked out.
Micah watched her leave, his mind in turmoil. He spun, stalking toward Ari. “We need to start—”
“I already have men investigating, my lord. I will assign more. Micah—”
Micah ignored him, and headed for the private door. “We are done.”
Ari beat him to the door. “There are people waiting. People who have been waiting to give their petition since before your brother disappeared.”
“Let them wait! I have to find Raine—”
Ari grabbed his arm, tightened his grip when Micah tried to pull away. “You are the acting ruler of this city. Your personal life takes a distant second.”
“I can’t—”
“Trust me to do my job, Micah. I understand how much Raine means to you, but right now, the people outside that door are your focus. This is what it means to lead, my lord Duke.”
Micah closed his eyes. This duty was never meant to be his—Liam spent his life preparing for it, ready to accept the sacrifices of ruling—
And now it was his turn. To hold it, until Liam returned. And he would return. Micah needed to believe that, or lose the last bit of hope that kept him moving forward. The thought of Raine out there, alone, caught by people who only wanted her death, threatened to lodge his breath in his throat.
Right now, he had to trust Ari, trust the men out hunting for a killer—and hope that Raine was not at the end of that hunt.
He took in a deep breath, opened his eyes. “Call the next petitioners, Ari.”
“Very good, my lord.”
He smiled when Ari winked at him, and watched the captain stride out of the chamber.
“You are doing so well, Micah.”
His mother’s voice spun him. She stood next to the private door behind the dais, a smile on her face. She looked—surprised.
“I don’t have Liam’s finesse.”
“No, but you care, and they see that.” She moved to him, ran her hand through his hair. “I was afraid this might be too much for you. But you have proven me wrong. I am so proud of you, my beautiful boy.”
“Mother.” Micah glanced over his shoulder, horrified someone might have heard her. “I’m not a little boy anymore.”
“So you’ve shown me today. It is still difficult to let go. May I ask a favor? I would like to sit in. No advice, I promise,” she said, when he opened his mouth to object. “I would like to catch myself up with what is happening in the city.”
“I suppose. As long as you don’t try to override a decision.”
“I will be an observer only. I wish to watch my son, as he becomes a man.”
Micah felt the hated blush heat his face. “All right. Can you just—sit, please? Ari will be back any moment.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why you have him here is beyond me.”
“He has a good mind, Mother. If you gave him a chance, you might see beyond who he was.”
“For you.”
She moved to the smaller chair, and sat, always so graceful, so composed. He certainly did not inherit that trait. Right now, he felt like a blind man, fumbling his way through a room full of obstacles.
But he would get past his insecurities. He had to, because he refused to give Liam a city in chaos when his brother returned.
“And he will,” Micah whispered.
“What did you say?”
“Just that I’m ready, Mother.”
For whatever challenge he faced next.
~ ~ ~
Micah spent two long, often frustrating days hearing all the petitions that had been on hold. At least they gave him a legitimate excuse to put off the sword lessons.
His mother sat in more than once, and he questioned every word, every action he made under her watchful gaze. When she finally excused herself mid-morning of the second day, he breathed in silent relief.
Some of the petitions were even more petty than the merchant and butcher squabbling over price. Others had Micah taking notes, and asking the petitioner to return, so he could discuss the issue one on one. The first time he made the request, Ari leaned in and told him it was not done, as it smacked of favoritism.
“Since when is knowledge favoritism? If I want to help them, I need to learn more.”
“Carry on, then, my lord.”
Ari refused to say anything else after that.
Once Micah was finally able to escape, he paused long enough to ask Ari for an update on the investigation into the murders, then headed right for his workshop. The woodstove had already been lit, and he knelt in front of it, his hands as close to the heat as he could get them without burning himself.
A weight pressed into his side, and he smiled down at Kres. “Yes, I’ve missed you, my friend. My life is changing, whether I like it or not.” He studied his workshop, the half-finished projects that had been sitting since Liam’s disappearance. He felt selfish for even thinking about stealing the time to work on at least one. “I do have time now. What do you say we attach the other wing, see if we have something that will actually fly?”
Kres snorted in agreement, and trotted over to the stool. With one flap of his wings he lifted himself and landed on the wood seat, sitting at attention. Micah smiled, really smiled, for the first time in days.
“All right, then. Let’s see how much my hands can take.” He fished the fingerless gloves out of his trouser pocket, and pulled them on before he tackled the ornate buttons on his tunic. “I swear, Kres, I am going to outlaw this outfit.” He finally managed to free himself from the heavy velvet, and tossed it across the workshop. Rolling up his shirt sleeves, he walked around the wings, reconnecting himself to his work. “Hand me the wrench, and let’s begin.”
Kres carefully picked up the small wrench in his teeth and tossed it to Micah’s waiting hand. His fingers cooperated—for now. He’d take advantage, and get as close to finished as he could, before his hands gave out or he was interrupted.
He quickly lost himself in the process, stopping every so often to have Kres spread his wings, or fly across the workshop. The drake humored him, but Micah suspected he was just as fascinated by the wings as Micah.
His hands started cramping just before he finished tightening the last three fastenings.
“Looks like we’re done here.” Once he reached that point, he would be useless the rest of the day—sometimes the day after, depending on how intricate the work. “I guess I won’t be holding my fork at supper…” His voice faded as he glanced at the small clock. “Which I missed.”
He fumbled the wrench off the fastening and dropped it on the table. “Up for a bit of foraging? I think a meal of foods I can eat with my fingers is in order. Preferably already cut,” he muttered, heading for the door. Thank heaven he hadn’t locked it; his joints were so inflamed, he didn�
�t think he could apply enough pressure to turn the lock. He glanced down at Kres. “I will be needing some of Raine’s magic salve tonight.”
His heart ached at the thought of her. Where was she? Why did she leave the castle, knowing she couldn’t protect herself?
Micah prayed he would have the chance to ask her. Right after he held her in his arms for a day or two.
~ ~ ~
Pain shot through her arm, jerking Raine out of an already restless sleep.
She sat on the hard pallet, cradled her throbbing forearm. With the constant darkness, she had no idea what day it was, or even what time. Her only marker of time was the single tray of stale bread. Because of her injury, Elena left a bucket of water in her cell, with orders to keep it full.
More than three days must have passed by now. She should have been dragged up into the dawn, and hanged, like a proper thief. Maybe she could try again with the silent guard—
As if her thought called him, he appeared, bearing her tray. She waited until he crouched, sliding it through the narrow gap, before she spoke.
“Please tell me what day it is.”
He jerked, his head snapping up. “Ye don’t need ta be knowin’, witch.”
She blinked. No one had called her witch since she left the desert. Even then, it was a reference to her mother’s people, not any skills she had. Her circumstances were worse than she thought. If they were openly calling her witch, hanging would no longer be the death waiting for her.
“Who told you—”
“Didn’t need tellin’. Duchess ordered ye kept alive. Eat, keep yer mouth shut.”
She waited until he disappeared into the darkness, then waited a few minutes longer. His accusation shook her, more so because that word simply wasn’t spoken here, not with people more enlightened than the superstitious inhabitants of the desert. Raine never feared that such blind hatred would follow her beyond its borders.
Until now.
Twenty
Desperation pushed Damian through exhaustion, hunger, and the need to stop moving for five minutes. They were running out of time.
Xander leaned over his horse, just as exhausted. They had been riding for two days straight, stopping only long enough to give the horses a bit of their precious water, and enough grain to keep them going over the next long stretch. Their meals were eaten in the saddle, and the supply of greasy sausage became an easy source of nourishment.
“There.” Xander’s hoarse voice jerked Damian out of his mind numbing focus of staying upright. “Buildings.”
Damian squinted through the harsh sunlight, and saw them, shimmering on the horizon. The outbuildings of the town that had sprung up around the quarry.
“It is still hours away.” Judging distance in the desert was tricky—and nearly impossible for a newcomer. “But we may have a chance now.”
They looked at each other, and urged more speed out of their horses.
~ ~ ~
By the time they reached the slave market in the center of the quarry town, Liam ached everywhere.
Two days spent with his arms shackled behind him, fighting to keep his balance on an unfamiliar style of saddle, took its toll. When the man who now owned him reined in, he nearly toppled from exhaustion. Strong hands held him up.
“Just another minute, boy, and you’ll be feet first.” He helped Liam swing his leg over the horse’s neck, and caught him under the arms as he slid off the saddle. “Find your breath. I’ll be right over there, adding you to the sales roster.”
Liam swallowed, nodding that he understood. His grasp of the desert language had improved over the last days. He had always spoken it, learning more than one language from his tutors, but never on a regular basis. And never when it was the only option for communication.
Before he was ready to move, the man gripped his left arm, led him into the large wood building. The smell of sweat, dirt, and unwashed bodies told him this was the slave market. The place he had been headed since he was handed over to the first slaver.
They halted next to a row of freestanding cages, taller than Liam, each one filled with people.
“Take him, remove his gag, see that he’s given water. I paid a good bit of coin for him, so watch him carefully.”
“Sir.” The second man waited until Liam’s owner left, then sneered up at him. “Pretty boy, getting the special treatment. Move.”
He shoved Liam forward. It took all his focus to stay on his feet. Every time he straightened, the man shoved him again. Liam quietly thanked whatever god was listening when he reached the door to the cage.
The man unlocked it, spun Liam around and smacked both hands on his chest. “Enjoy your stay, pretty boy.”
With an ugly smile he pushed Liam backward.
He tried to twist mid stumble, and tripped over an outflung leg, landing on his right shoulder. Pain shocked the breath out of him.
“Are you all right?” The low, feminine voice opened his eyes. A girl, not much older than Micah, knelt in front of him. “Let me help you sit. Barrick doesn’t like anyone taller than him. It makes him feel inferior.”
“What are you saying over there, bitch?” She flinched, but she kept guiding Liam up, until he leaned against the bars. “Who said you could help pretty boy?”
She let out a shriek when he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her backward. No one moved to assist her. If anything, they shrank away, as if her touch would cause them the same pain.
“No, please—”
He threw her against the bars of the cage, and slapped her when she tried to push herself up. Liam recognized him for what he was; a bully who enjoyed handing out punishment.
“You don’t got free will anymore. I think it’s time for a lesson.”
She crabbed backward and trapped herself in the corner of the cage, crying silently, one hand fisted against her mouth. When Barrick’s hands dropped to his belt, Liam knew what he planned. Sickened by the man’s violence, when he knew not one of them dared to fight back, Liam couldn’t stand by and do nothing.
He used the bars behind him to stand, sliding up their support. If he could slam Barrick into the bars, he might have a chance to knock him out, or at least stun him long enough to draw the attention of one of the other slavers. Unfortunately, their cage was at the far end of the row, a fact he knew Barrick used to his advantage.
Taking in as deep a breath as he could, he angled his left shoulder toward his target and sprinted forward.
He crashed into Barrick, slamming them both against the bars of the cage.
Unfortunately, the man had a harder head than Liam anticipated.
“You dare attack me, slave?” He grabbed the front of Liam’s robe and yanked him forward. “Time for your first lesson.” Dragging Liam after him, Barrick stalked out of the cage, and threw him at a thick post. He smacked into it, lost his balance, and fell, managing to land on his uninjured left side. “Chain him.”
“Barrick—you heard the boss. He’s worth big coin—”
“Chain him.”
Unseen hands pulled Liam to his knees, working at the shackles. He barely had time to take a breath before he was hauled to his feet and chained to the post, arms stretched over his head. Barrick’s breath scorched his cheek just before the man grabbed his braid and jerked his head back.
“I heard your nickname, pretty boy. They’re calling you Silver Tongue. Already famous, and you ain’t been here ten minutes. I think I’ll change that nickname.” A knife flashed in the sunlight. He stilled, breathing again when the blade slit open the back of his robe. “Turn him around. Keep his head up.”
“Barrick—”
“Do it.”
The man who chained Liam twisted him around, until the pole scraped his back. He swallowed when he saw the short whip in Barrick’s hand. Then the man caught his braid, using it to lift his chin. Barrick moved into his line of sight, that ugly smile chilling him.
“No one’s going to hear your last words, pretty boy, except you.”
Leather snapped—and the whip tore across his throat.
Liam screamed against the gag. The second blow cut him off. He fought to breathe, and the third blow denied him even that.
His cheek pressed into the pole before he realized he had been turned, his back facing his tormentor. Leather snapped again, but it sounded different. Lower, heavier—
The first lash buckled his knees. Fire roared across his back, ignited again as the whip sliced into his skin, harder, deeper. He would have screamed if he had the breath. The whip bit him again, in the same spot. He arched away, the part of his mind not recoiling from the agony aware that he may not survive this.
Another lash caught his right shoulder and he found he did have the breath to scream—a harsh, soundless scream that drove agony into his throat. Only the shackles held him up now, and he waited for the blow that would send him over the edge.
Instead, a furious voice roared through the silence.
“Barrick!”
What felt like hours later, someone loosened the gag, freed his mouth. He sucked in a raw breath, and let out a gasp as the movement set his throat on fire.
“Damn him to the lower depths of Hell. Open your eyes for me, boy.” Liam did, meeting the light hazel eyes of his owner. “I should have kept you with me. I am sorry. The handsome ones tend to set him off. He’s gone—and he won’t be hurting you or anyone again. We’re going to take you down, and have you tended. Nod if you heard me.”
Moving was agony, but he nodded enough to let the man know. He turned away from Liam, spoke to someone he couldn’t see. “Find the healer, have them sent to the private rooms.” He faced Liam. “I’m going to lift you now. You will most likely pass out, so I want you to know this—I will take care of you, because this is my fault.”
One hand gripped his left arm, and he was draped over a broad shoulder. The last thing he saw before pain dragged him into the darkness edging his vision was Barrick, spread eagle on the ground, a knife in his throat.