Traitor to the Blood

by Barb Hendee

  Magiere pulled the left rein with a soft snap, and the horses turned down the cobbled road.

  There were no buildings within a stone's throw of the gatehouse, but beyond that they were packed along the lake. Dwellings of varied height and make, stone and timber, walled the shoreline. Though not the lavish dwellings of Bela's elite, they were far more than the hovel Magiere had shared as a child with Aunt Bieja. The fifth one was no exception.

  A clean gray-stone foundation rose to the sills of the ground-floor windows. The timber plank walls were smooth, not quick-cut, like those used to rebuild the Sea Lion tavern. Whitewashed shutters framed windows with glass panes. At the end of the cobbled walkway up to the house, dormant rosebushes framed a large oak door.

  Magiere stared.

  Leesil's voice was soft and hollow. "Not what you expected?"

  She didn't answer; nor did she pull the wagon to a halt, but drove past. No, it was not at all what she'd expected for Leesil's home in a place called the Warlands.

  "What now?" she asked.

  "Turn onto the next side street." Leesil leaned around toward Wynn. "Take some pears and go to the front door. Knock to see if anyone is home."

  "But…" Wynn glanced nervously at the house. "What if someone answers?"

  "That's what the pears are for," he said. "Tell them a silver penny for the lot, and take it if they agree. More than likely they'll slam the door in your face."

  The sage nodded apprehensively. Magiere reached the side street and turned the horses. There was barely enough room to fit between the buildings, and she pulled to a stop once the wagon's rear was beyond the corner.

  "I am not certain of this," Wynn said. "Is this where Darmouth houses people like… you and your parents?"

  "As we passed, I got a look through the front window. There's a shield on the wall over the hearth. Likely one of Darmouth's officers lives there now. All I need from you is to see if anyone is at home. Take Chap, if you like."

  Wynn nodded hesitantly and gathered pears into a small burlap bag. As she slipped out of the wagon, Chap hopped down to follow, and both turned the corner out of sight.

  Leesil quietly climbed over the bench to the wagon's tail, and Magiere followed. They could just see the house from their vantage point. Wynn scurried up to the front door, knocked, and waited, both hands clutching the sack to her chest. Chap paced behind her with raised ears as he looked along the street.

  Wynn raised a hand to knock again, but didn't. Instead she stepped slowly around one barren rosebush and up to the front window to peer inside. Chap became agitated, lunging out to the street's edge, turning both ways. He trotted back to snatch the hem of Wynn's coat in his teeth.

  "What is she doing?" Magiere whispered.

  Leesil tried to step off the wagon, but she grabbed his shoulder, holding him back.

  Wynn turned and jerked her coat from Chap's teeth. When he trotted a few paces away, then stopped to look back, she followed him. They both returned to climb up in the wagon.

  "No one appears to be home," she breathed, her face pink from the cold air. "I do not think anyone has been there in some time. There is a helmet on the floor, and dust has gathered on it."

  Leesil glanced once at the house and then spun on his haunches to unlash the travel chest tied down in the wagon's bed. He rummaged through it and withdrew a long, narrow box.

  "Oh, no." Magiere shook her head. "You're not breaking into a house less than a hundred paces from Darmouth's keep."

  He ignored her and opened the box. Instead of pulling thin wire hooks from its lid panel, he used a fingernail to pry up the lid's lining and slipped out a small object from beneath it.

  "I don't need to break in," he said. "I have the key." With his box hidden beneath his cloak, he dropped out of the wagon, landing lightly on the ground.

  Magiere climbed out, wondering why Leesil had kept the key all these years. "Wynn, you wait here with Chap."

  There was no one in sight along the side street, but Magiere eyed the cobbled road before following Leesil across to the house. He crept down the narrow space between it and the next building, and she kept close as they stepped out at the back.

  As Leesil slipped the key into the back door, Magiere saw the lake's edge ten paces off—and the keep looming out of the water. No shed, nor trees, or anything at all blocked her view. They were in plain sight of Darmouth's stronghold.

  Magiere crouched low. Before she snatched Leesil to drag him back down the side path, the lock clicked and he ducked inside the house. Magiere followed, shutting the door behind them, but not without a scowl for Leesil's recklessness.

  The kitchen hearth was bare of any fire's remains, but it was still warmer inside away from the winter breeze. Magiere's curiosity overrode her irritation, and she looked about the home of Leesil's childhood.

  A crafted iron stove stood to one side, likely added after the place had been built with its original cooking hearth. There was a floor hatch in the rear corner to the left of the door. This was all she had time to note, as Leesil headed through the house.

  The next room held a table and high-backed chairs of stout walnut. Beneath the thin layer of dust, Magiere judged they were smooth and well finished. A matching cabinet reaching to the ceiling stood against the far wall. The wide archway to the front room was trimmed in the same wood and carved with squared spiral patterns from one side to the other. No other fixtures were present in the meal room.

  Sparse but rich furnishings, all tainted with dust. Magiere wondered what had happened to the inhabitants.

  "Is this what it looked like when you lived here?" she whispered.

  Leesil pulled back his hood and headed through the archway. "The house is the same, nothing else."

  His voice was too calm. Magiere imagined he'd spent most of his days in this city hidden away beneath a hood or some covering. He looked odd now with his long white-blond hair completely tucked under the scarf, but his narrow face and amber eyes were so impassive.

  A braided rug lay in the middle of the front room's wood floor. Below the front window stood a divan. Its dark leather covering was meticulously mounted by an even row of polished brass nails binding it to the walnut frame. Nearby was the steel helmet Wynn had mentioned. A round target shield hung above the small empty hearth. Beyond these remains the room was empty, yet whoever had vacated this place sometime ago hadn't taken the last of their belongings.

  Leesil headed for a smaller archway, and Magiere spotted the heavy front door beyond it. He turned around the archway's side, away from the door, and disappeared. She hurried after to find stairs to the next floor, and Leesil already up to the first landing above. She tried to step quietly as she followed. The stairs continued up another level, but he stood in the hallway, staring through a door left ajar.

  The long room within was furnished with a large four-poster bed covered in a thick comforter. The other furnishings here, from the dresser and polished silver mirror to the wide chest at the foot of the bed, seemed undisturbed and in place. The last residents had left in a hurry.

  Magiere noticed that Leesil wasn't looking at the room's contents. He stared toward the rear wall, and she followed his gaze.

  There was a window seat, soft cushions of burgundy in place and heavy cream curtains left open. Through the glass, Magiere saw only the distant forest across the lake. She couldn't tell what kept Leesil there, as if waiting. Then he dropped his gaze with a deep silent breath and turned back to the stairs.

  Instead of rounding the banister to head upward, he climbed the rail from the outside, hooked his leg over it, and leaned out to the ceiling above the hallway.

  "What are you doing?" she whispered.

  Suspended in the hall's center was an oil lamp that could be lowered by a cord tied off at the side wall. Leesil reached for the ceiling mount where the cord passed through an iron ring. He twisted the mount. When it came away in his hand, he lowered the mount and lantern to Magiere, then reached into the ceiling hole.r />
  His expression shifted suddenly to relief and then disappointment. Magiere set the lantern down, stepping under him to peer up, but she couldn't see into the hole even after he pulled his hand out.

  "No note or message," he said, "but the hidden coin pouch is gone. There's no sign of a hasty search or tampering with the lamp's fixture."

  "What?" Magiere asked. "I don't understand."

  Leesil unhooked his leg from the stairway rail and dropped down. "My father kept money hidden here in case of a sudden need… such as flight from Darmouth. My mother and I knew of it as well."

  "Then this is good. Your parents took it and fled."

  "We were also to leave a message for anyone left behind. I thought perhaps I'd find…"

  "A letter from the past?" she finished for him. "Leesil, they knew you'd left. If they fled together, there was no reason to leave any word for you."

  This wasn't a comfort to him. He hung his head with his eyes closed. As much as he'd kept his distance in recent days, Magiere stepped close, running her hand across his shoulder, down his arm, and to his own hand.

  "Remember the dead ends we hit while searching my past? At least you know they took the coin and tried to escape… together."

  He looked at her, and after a long moment finally squeezed her hand.

  "We need to leave," she said. "As long-abandoned as this place looks, we don't want patrolling soldiers to suspect anyone's here.'

  Her words spurred him, but not to leave. This time he did round the stairwell rail and climbed toward the next floor. Magiere's own warning became real as she heard muffled voices out in the street before the house.

  "We need to go—now!" she whispered sharply.

  When he took another step upward, she snatched the back of his cloak.

  Leesil turned on her and grabbed her wrist in a tight grip. The look he gave her was no longer passive but cold and poised. It hurt her like a threat. She almost let go.

  Magiere's next instinct was anger, but she bit it down. It was difficult for him to leave with so little, but she'd been doubtful that he would find much after eight years.

  "Please. We have to go," she whispered as calmly as she could. "Now!"

  Leesil eased his grip on her wrist, and Magiere backed down the stairs, watching him until she was certain he followed. She kept along the wall with her eyes on the window as they passed through the front room, then hurried through the meal room, kitchen, and out the back door.

  At the end of the narrow path between the houses, she checked both ways. Two soldiers ambled down the street toward the bridge gatehouse. When they were far enough along, she hurried across with Leesil close behind her, and they both climbed through the wagon's back to the bench.

  "Did you find anything?" Wynn asked.

  "Just that they may have tried to escape," Magiere answered. "There's no way to tell when or to where."

  Leesil settled on the bench beside her. He pulled his cloak about himself and did not look back toward his old home.

  "What about speaking with their friends?" Wynn asked.

  "Friends?" Leesil repeated. A frown wrinkled his brow as if such a notion were naive.

  "Yes, someone here must have known your parents. Perhaps they would have heard something."

  "Assassins don't have friends," Leesil snapped. He paused, lost in thought, then whispered one word. "Byrd."

  "What about a bird?" Magiere asked.

  "A man, not an animal," Leesil muttered. "His name is Byrd, and he owns an inn out back of the merchant district. My father spoke of him something like a friend. I knew him as well."

  A brief flash of relief flooded Magiere, gratitude for any clue that might give Leesil answers. It was quickly followed by nervous caution.

  "Can he be trusted?" she asked.

  "In a way," he answered.

  Magiere's anger got the best of her this time. "What does that mean?"

  Leesil breathed in and blew the air out slowly. "He's one of Darmouth's spies."

  Lit braziers of heavy iron lined the keep's council hall where Lady Hedí Progae sat across the table from Baron Emêl Milea. Between them at the table's end was their host, Lord Darmouth. Hedí silently counted the moments until this tense evening would end.

  Stuffed pheasants, dried peaches, winter nutcake, and loaves of freshly baked bread were carried in on polished wood trays. All the guests ate from finely glazed plates with silver forks and knives. Hedí had no patience for pretenses of finery, though she did note that the number of Darmouth's trusted ministers had diminished over the years. The only minister present this night was her Emêl. She made polite play with her food in small bites as she watched her host.

  Lord Darmouth's brown hair was cropped short, but the front and temples were graying. His blockish face was lined, and there were faint hints of old scars below his left eye. Even at a formal dinner, he wore a steel-reinforced leather breastplate and long daggers sheathed upon his wide belt. Bearded in past years, he now shaved daily, perhaps believing it made him look younger. Pointless, as he was nothing more than an aging savage.

  Hedí glanced across the table at Emêl. In his early forties with thinning red hair, he was the one person here this night who understood her false smile of submission. He had taught her self-preservation, to keep everything inside. Emêl still lived, while so many of Darmouth's entitled nobles and officers ended their days on an iron spike upon the keep's walls. They dangled there until their bodies rotted enough to tumble into the lake and vanish from sight, if not memory.

  Each time Darmouth shifted in his high-backed walnut chair, Hedí smelled musk and stale sweat. Reaching for the wine bottle, he brushed his forearm across the back of her hand, and she flinched. His sinewy limb was like knotted cord around a log, and covered in salt-and-pepper-shaded hair. She went rigid to keep from driving her dinner knife through his wrist.

  Hedí smiled, demure as always.

  Darmouth did not smile back. Instead his gaze moved down her burgundy satin gown and back up to her shoulder-length black curls. Emêl stopped chewing when he noticed Darmouth's wandering eyes.

  Emêl had suggested the gown, and Hedí regretted her agreement. Though her attire pleased him, and that was acceptable, it was too low-cut in the presence of a murdering lecher like Darmouth. Pleasing such a man was as dangerous as defying him.

  Seven officers were seated at the table, among them Lieutenant Omasta, head of Darmouth's personal guard. Between bites, Omasta tugged uncomfortably at his blond beard and gripped his fork awkwardly like a shovel. Normally these men ate off the same large platter or out of the pots while discussing military matters in the meal hall across the way. This entire dinner display of trays and wine sipped from plundered silver goblets appeared to be for Hedí's benefit alone.

  Lord Darmouth gestured to the roasted pheasant ringed in mushrooms.

  "Please, my lady," he said, voice deep and gravelly. "Have a bit more."

  Perhaps she should be flattered. She could count the times he had used the word "please" on one hand. Apprehension overcame her revulsion.

  "In a moment," she answered. "I would like some wine first."

  He fumbled for idle conversation. "Where are you and Emêl staying?"

  "At the Bronze Bell."

  "Yes… a fine inn."

  A worthless exchange. They stayed at the Bronze Bell whenever Emêl was called to Venjetz. No visiting noble was lodged in the keep—nor wished to be. Darmouth poured wine into her goblet. Hedí hoped she could swallow smoothly, as he bit into a pheasant leg, speaking while chewing.

  "Emêl, I want Tarovli put down before the winter celebration. I want his head, and I want any officers with him for crow's fodder."

  The words were so casual that for one breath they didn't register upon Hedí. She stiffened and quickly relaxed before giving herself away.

  "Of course, my lord," Emêl said too slowly. "I've deployed troops and recalled Captain Altani from the north. The matter will be settled before t
he new moon."

  Darmouth grunted acknowledgment. "I've enough trouble with that witch, Lukina, on my western border."

  "Yes, my lord," Emêl replied more quickly. "I've placed most of my own men under your officers there to assist with patrols."

  More patrols, indeed. Hedí knew the growing number of raids across Darmouth's borders was more than the usual feints and jabs the provinces made at one another. The other tyrants of the Warlands watched Darmouth's grip tighten with each year. His hold weakened his own province, with the population decreasing and fewer men to conscript.

  Lukina Vallo was not the only one becoming a threat. There were rumors of Dusan Abosi's forces thickening beyond Darmouth's northern border. And Tarovli's meager success at treachery from within was another sign of decay. One by one, Darmouth's nobles became starving dogs, turning on one another in desperation to survive. His territory was plagued from within, and the wolves of the Warlands were circling outside.

  Hedí had learned of Mikhail Tarovli, like all other shadowy dealings in the province, from Emêl. The young Count Tarovli had lured away enough conscripts to ambush a contingent of Darmouth's sparse cavalry. No one knew it was his doing at the time. Some upstart officer was always scheming, but Tarovli was exceptional or lucky. He managed to build his forces and arms for nearly three moons before his treachery was uncovered. Most never launched their first assault.

  Tarovli was unfortunate, no matter how cunning, for he would not die quietly and quickly in the night. Hedí felt no pity for him.

  Sometimes nobles and officers eliminated one another, seizing a rival's plan for their own. Hedí's knowledge of such intrigue was sparse, but lately she had grown more skilled at gleaning information. Her awareness and hatred grew like an ice-capped mountain constructed one pebble at a time.

  Years ago, when Hedí was only fifteen, she, her mother, and her sisters were invited to a "ladies' evening" by her uncle's half sister. It was a long and strangely tense event of halting empty talk and cards, but they were kept so late that it was necessary to spend the night. When they returned home in the morning, the house servants said her father was still asleep in his chamber. Everyone assumed he had taken an evening out for himself and been up late as well. No one disturbed him, even as soldiers hammered at the manor doors before anyone finished stripping off their cloaks.