by L. P. Dover
Kye's hand tightened painfully on the ropes that bound me.
“They were children, Raemon.”
There was no respect in his tone.
“And you were part of my army. Orders are orders. Chain him!” the king yelled.
Soldiers flew into action. I went to my knees on the stone as Kye was jerked away. I could hear him struggling, and I glanced up to see them pulling Kye's head up by his hair, a knife going to his throat. He went still, allowing two guards to fasten his arms behind his back. My heart screamed. It was all falling apart.
Kye's eyes found mine.
“You would kill me now, Father, when I seek clemency,” Kye called out.
The hall went silent. The king stepped forward. It was my first real look at King Raemon Berhest VII. He was taller than I'd pictured him, his large frame wrapped in a red silk tunic and black leather pants with knee high boots. His rugged face was covered in a thick, black beard. But it was his eyes that terrified me. They were cold, empty, and deadly.
“Your blood is enough clemency,” the king said.
I flinched, but Kye stood tall, his dark green eyes meeting the king's evenly. If Kye was shorter than his father it wasn't noticeable from where I kneeled on the floor.
“I think I've found you something worth more than my blood,” Kye said, and his eyes moved to me again. I looked down before the king could find me staring.
Raemon's heavy gaze settled on my back. “A boy?” the king snorted. “You brought me a child.”
I stiffened.
“A scribe,” Kye corrected. “I brought you a scribe.”
A rough hand found my wrist, and I almost gagged when I realized it was Captain Neill.
“He bears the mark,” the captain confirmed.
“A scribe,” the king said, laughing. “I have plenty of scribes." He pointed at his son. "Take him away!”
There was scuffling and then, "A mage, too!” Kye yelled. “He is also a mage who can speak, write, and read the same language as your enemy.”
The deafening silence that followed was as heavy as armor on my back.
“You lie!” Captain Neill snapped. “I know of no scribe with the powers of a mage.”
I could hear something in his voice, unease maybe. Kye had said sorcerers didn't like to share their power. Was Neill afraid of me, of my risk to his power at the side of the king? It brought a new awareness … hope.
The king's boots were now in front of my eyes. His hand was suddenly in my hair, jerking my head backward until I was staring up into the cold, dead eyes of my sovereign. I prayed hard to Silveet that my disguise would pass muster.
“Speak to me as if you were my enemy,” Raemon ordered in Sadeemian.
For a moment, I said nothing. Raemon's use of the Sadeemian language surprised me, rendered me speechless.
The king's eyes narrowed, and he threw me down hard against the floor. Pain shot through my arm, and I rolled to my side, my knees coming up to my chest.
“Kill him!” Raemon ordered, and I knew he meant Kye.
I lifted my head.
“I would see you dead,” I said suddenly in Sadeemian, being careful to keep my voice low but loud.
The king's back was to me, but he stiffened. Silence again, and confusion. It was obvious the king, and Kye by the look on his face, were the only two present who could understand the Sadeemian language. I allowed myself only brief surprise over Kye's knowledge of it. He was continually surprising me.
The king turned slowly, his fierce gaze coming down to meet mine.
“Did you threaten me, boy?” the king asked in Medeisian.
So his knowledge of the Sadeemian language was sketchy after all? I kept my expression even.
“You asked me to speak to you as if I were your enemy, Your Majesty,” I pointed out. I had to tread carefully. I could feel Kye's eyes on my face, but I didn't look his way. “Your enemy would not have kind words to say.”
Silence. Deafening silence. I was beginning to hate silence.
The king took a step toward me.
“Are you a mage?”
I remembered Aigneis in the woods, and I channeled her words.
“I confess nothing,” I said.
The corners of the king's eyes crinkled as his eyes narrowed. Somewhere in their depths I saw a resemblance to Kye, but it was small.
“Would you rather die?” the king asked.
I wanted the king to see as much defiance in me as he did reservation. He would not want a mage who was weak willed, but he also wouldn't want a servant who would stab him in the back.
I stayed quiet just long enough to let the king think death may not terrify me as much as he hoped.
“I can heal,” I confessed.
The king's silence wasn't as long as mine, the hall echoing as he unsheathed a dagger he had at his waist. As deftly as he pulled the knife, he sunk it into the skin of the nearest guard. The man went down on his knees, his hands going to the wound, his eyes wide, terrified.
I cried out.
“Prove it!” the king said, his eyes bright as he watched the blood flowing from the guard's wound onto the stones below. It was black rather than red in the shadowed hall. I crawled toward him desperately, my hands burning.
“My hands!” I called out. “I need my hands!”
The guards looked at the king, and he nodded, drawing a sword before resheathing his bloody dagger. It cut through the ropes at my wrist. As soon as they fell away, I dove for the guard.
“Please,” I begged Silveet as I placed my hands against the guard's wound.
The guard was on his back now, his eyes glassy, and I closed my eyes against the nausea as my burning hands found the blood on his side. As soon as I touched him, the burning increased but not to the excruciating level they had when I'd healed Kye.
The guard below me writhed, grew still, and then suddenly took a deep breath. I opened my eyes.
“He did it,” one of the guards said, awed.
It took me a moment to realize he was referring to me as the wounded soldier on the floor sat up, his wild eyes searching his side as he groped at the now phantom wound. The fright I saw in his gaze when his eyes met mine spoke for itself. The king had gained another enemy. I would remember that.
The king approached me, the point of his sword resting between my shoulder blades. I lifted my blood covered hands in submission.
“Son, you may have finally done something worth your station. Where did you find the boy?” the king asked.
I didn't look Kye's way.
“He was in the forest outside Drannon,” Kye answered.
“And he can write and read Sadeemian as well as he speaks it?”
“Yes,” Kye answered without hesitation.
“Stand, boy!” the king ordered, and I came shakily to my feet, my body too bruised to move quickly.
The king looked at his guards.
“Take my son to the dungeons. The boy comes with me.”
My eyes widened, my gaze going to Kye. What he saw in my stare made him shake his head imperceptibly. “Don't,” his eyes said. “Keep with the plan.”
I wanted to run to Kye, to pull the guards off of him. They had killed children in the dungeon. Would they do the same to him now? My lips parted.
“No,” Kye's eyes said again.
I kept my tongue. There was nothing I could do as the guards dragged Kye backward, pulling him roughly down the hallway until the darkness swallowed them alive. I wanted to sink to my knees, to cry into my hands at the injustice.
But then, “We should not keep the boy.”
It was Captain Neill's voice, and it was enough to harden my resolve, the fire of vengeance igniting in my blood. I would see this man's ashes floating away in the breeze as Aigneis' had. I would see the king fail.
My eyes came up to meet Raemon's. His eyes narrowed.
“No, I see something useful in the boy. Bring him.”
Hands gripped me again, shoving me forward into
the same palace abyss that had taken Kye.
Chapter 30
The king took me to a richly furnished study. A sturdy, well polished desk sat in the middle of the room, a carved, high back chair with a red velvet padded seat sitting behind it. There were maps hung along the walls, and scrolls thrown onto a small table to the side of the room. Men surrounded it.
All of them stood, bowing stiffly when we entered the room, their eyes grazing my face only briefly before focusing on the king. There was no doubt Raemon ruled with fear.
“At ease,” the king said, waving his hand dismissively. “I need the most recent interception brought in from Sadeemia.”
One of the men at the table broke away from the group, his eyes averted, his hands gripping a piece of parchment. I stared at him. His brown hair was longer than I was used to, the front of his face thick with facial hair, but there was no doubt it was my father.
“I can only translate certain words, Your Majesty,” Garod said quietly. “Without Aedan, translating anything written is impossible.”
He handed the document to the king before lifting his eyes. His gaze moved over my face, and I stiffened, my heart pounding both from fear and sadness. My father looked like a broken man, his gaze distant when it met mine. I waited for him to recognize me, but he didn't.
“No matter. I have found someone who can translate it all,” the king announced as he held the document out to me. I rubbed my bloody hands down the sides of my trousers before taking the document carefully.
This time when Garod looked at me, there was new interest in his eyes. Still, he didn't recognize me. I wondered if it was the mud on my face or if the clothes and hair changed my appearance that drastically.
“Let's see what you can do,” the king said smoothly. There was a dangerous edge to his voice I didn't miss.
I lifted the document, my eyes skirting the scribe's mark on my wrist. My father and the men behind him noted it as well. It seemed ironic. Almost two months ago, I'd begged my father to let me be a scribe. Now, here I stood, dirty, my hands covered in smeared blood, holding a document that could mean life or death for me and for a country. And on my wrist I bore a busted inkwell, the mark of the scribe clearly embedded in my skin.
“I need more light,” I said confidently.
The king stood back, his brows raised as he motioned at the table surrounded by his council. The war council maybe? It seemed possible considering what Ari had told me in the woods.
I moved next to the men, my head down, spreading the parchment out before me. There was a candle in the middle of the table, throwing a dull glow over the paper. The words jumped out at me.
I, Freemont Horan Bernhart VIII, do hereby give consent for my second son, Prince Cadeyrn Forsen Bernhart, of Sadeemia to marry Gabriella Bell-Senth Trellon of Greemallia . . .
I scanned the document quickly and looked up.
“It's a marriage contract between the second son of King Freemont of Sadeemia to the daughter of Greemallia's sovereign. It also outlines a treaty between the two nations, import opportunities, and a military alliance.”
The men at the table stared at me. The king looked pleased.
“Ah, for once my son has done something right.” He pointed at the document. “Does it say anything about the marriage itself? When is it supposed to take place and where?”
I glanced back down at the parchment.
“In four months, Your Majesty. The Greemallians are sending the princess by ship to Sadeemia with an escort and a rich dowry.”
The king smiled, the look more feral than human.
“We have our war, gentlemen,” the king said evenly, his hands clapping once.
Captain Neill stepped forward. “Your highness?”
The king took the paper from me. “We cannot allow the princess of Greemallia to make landfall in Sadeemia. She must die.”
No one said anything. I gaped at the king. Here it was, the proof we needed.
“What do you propose we do, Your Majesty?” Captain Neill asked.
Raemon rolled the parchment up and paced a moment, his eyes moving insanely around the room.
“We find a way to place the blame for the Greemallian princess' death on Freemont.”
Again, no one said anything. No one had to. If Gabriella died and Freemont was blamed, war would be declared between the two nations. It was a disadvantage Sadeemia could not afford. Not while Medeisa watched in the wings waiting to prey on any weaknesses.
Raemon's eyes found mine, and I lowered my head.
“Boy, you say you can write in Sadeemian?”
I shook my head. “I never said, Your Majesty.”
A sword was suddenly directly under my eyes, the tip piercing the sensitive skin on my chin. I froze.
“Let's try this again. Can you write in Sadeemian?”
I couldn't nod because of the blade at my neck so I lifted my eyes instead, meeting the king's glare evenly.
“I can,” I answered.
“Good,” the king said, satisfied. “Then I want you to outline a document written by Freemont.”
“What will it say?” I asked.
The king picked up an empty sheet of parchment and handed it to me.
“It will be a direct order from Freemont to one of his men, a Captain Blayne Dragern, to assassinate Gabriella Trellon of Greemallia.”
I stared.
“Now!” the king ordered.
I jumped, my hands searching quickly for a quill pen and an inkwell on the table. Someone slid them my way.
I began to write, my hands moving quickly and efficiently across the page. The pen felt good in my hands, the smell of ink a comfort I'd missed, but the words I wrote now left a bitter taste on my tongue, made my heart pound. Words were mighty, there was no doubt. They could pierce a heart and destroy a country faster than any weapon.
When I was finished, I looked up, my eyes hard.
“Read it to me!” the king demanded, and I did. Each word brought new hatred into Raemon's eyes, made his cheeks flush with excitement above his beard.
“Good, good!” the king cried when I finished. He took the document, being careful not to smudge the words. His eyes moved to Captain Neill. “Gather the sorcerers. We have a ship to destroy, a princess to capture and kill. And when we're done, we'll leave this for the King of Greemallia. And then,” he paused for effect, lifting the document high, “We watch the walls of Sadeemia's cities come tumbling down.”
From the inside of his shirt, Raemon grasped a chain, pulling forth a gold pendant of a dragon with ruby eyes. One half of it was missing. My eyes widened. It was the dragon pendant Lochlen had told me about, the same one Feras had gifted King Hedron many years ago.
Captain Neill took red wax from the king's desk, and accepted the parchment from Raemon. He rolled it carefully.
A candle was lifted. The wax was heated, and I stared as the red drops fell to the paper like blood. So many deaths. So much destruction.
“For Medeisia,” King Raemon said as he used the pendant to seal the document for good.
Raemon's bright eyes lifted, his gaze coming to meet mine.
“The boy knows too much now. Send him to the dungeons. Hang him alongside my son.”
Chapter 31
I didn't struggle when the guards were summoned to drag me to the dungeons, and I didn't struggle as they dragged me through the halls and down into the dark bowels of the palace. Struggling would only get me killed, and I couldn't afford that. Not now. Not when I knew exactly what the king planned to do to the Sadeemian monarchy. And so I let them drag me, my head lowered, my eyes watching.
There was filth in the dungeons. I could smell it before we'd even made it to the bottom of the stairs.
“Halt! Who passes?” a guard called out.
A sentry came into view, but upon seeing the guards escorting me, we were waved on with no interrogation. Another set of soldiers approached, replacing the ones at my side.
“He's to be hanged,”
one of my guards instructed.
There was a nod from the other watchmen, and they dragged me onward. The smell, human filth and rot, overwhelmed me, and I swallowed convulsively against the need to vomit. Moans filtered through the dark, reaching out at me from all sides. I wanted to cover my ears but couldn't.
“Here you go,” the guard said.
He pulled out a ring full of jangling, heavy keys, using one to unlock a cell before kicking me into the room, his boot against my rump. I sprawled face first into the floor, my head spinning.
Clang!
I was alone now, and I pushed myself up, my eyes searching the darkness. The only light came from two torches burning just beyond the cell. The stone room I was in was bare with the exception of a nasty looking pot for defecation and two mice running into a small crack in the stone. I didn't even attempt to communicate with them.
“Sax?” a male voice asked.
Only one person would know that name. I crawled to the bars.
“Kye?”
“In the cell next to you,” he answered.
I almost cried with relief.
“They're going to hang us,” I told him.
“I know.”
“Do you know when?”
“At dawn,” he answered
We were both silent.
“I'm not sure I should trust you,” I said finally.
More silence.
Finally he spoke. “What would you have done if I had told you who I was?” he asked.
I didn't hesitate. “I would have run. I suppose in that regard you were right not to tell me. Do the rebels know?”
“No,” Kye answered. “They wouldn't have trusted me if they did. Only Feras and Lochlen know.”
I leaned against the bars. “Why is there nothing about you in the record books? There's no mention of an heir. Nothing.”
“Because I'm not legitimate,” Kye answered.
So the woman the archives listed as Raemon's deceased wife was not Kye's mother. It didn't surprise me. I pressed my face against the iron. It felt good against my skin. I stared out into the darkness. I knew what being an illegitimate child was like, but it was different for royals.