Traitor to the Blood

by J. C.

  The order had come directly from Darmouth.

  Hedí's uncle and his half sister never came under suspicion, not losing their place in this province. They raised not one finger for their kin. They were never outcast as the family of a traitor, like Hedí's mother and younger sisters, who starved to death in the streets.

  Hedí had been more fortunate, or so it was said. She was given as mistress to Emêl for his constant loyalty to Darmouth.

  Emêl was kind, treating her with pity and, later, open affection. She came to care for him and perhaps even pity him in return. He was married to a cold-blooded noblewoman ten years his senior, and there had never been love between Emêl and his wife, Valdyislava. Hedí was called "fourth consort," if referred to at all, though she was truly the only one. Her predecessors had died in questionable ways, and it took little intelligence to turn a suspicious eye toward Valdyislava. So Emêl kept Hedí far from his manor in the west of the province. Through him, Hedí learned and assembled all the pieces of what she now knew.

  Emêl promised to marry her, once he was free to do so. A nobleman could retain as many mistresses as he could afford, but he could have only one wife.

  Hedí could not fathom why Darmouth insisted Emêl bring her on this evening. Emêl had been recalled to Venjetz six days ago. She had been to the keep with him several times, but never at night. No other women were present, so why was she alone here at a time when Darmouth should be looking to his borders?

  Darmouth turned his cold eyes toward her again. He seemed fascinated by her hair. Upon her mother's and sister's reported deaths, Hedí slashed it off at chin length in mourning. When it grew back to her shoulders, it was a mass of black waves that pleased Emêl, so she kept it this length. Some ladies found it unfashionable, but Hedí did not care. Emêl was her only friend.

  Her skin was the color of buttermilk, and Darmouth's gaze dropped down to her hands. She kept her eyes on her plate, pretending to be unaware of his inspection. It was not possible that he had serious designs upon her. Darmouth had taken no consort in nearly seven years. It was common knowledge that he saw spies and traitors everywhere, so he trusted no woman within his bedchamber. Even so, she had heard of his brothel visits.

  As Darmouth cleared his throat, two slender figures entered the hall with silent steps. Hedí's presence made them pause. She had seen both before but not met either personally, as Emêl had warned her away.

  Faris and Ventina were from a northern Móndyalítko clan. Slight and tall, Faris had dusky skin, wild black hair, and eyes to match. He wore his hair long, but this did not completely hide the scars on the left side of his head where his ear had been sliced off—Hedí did not know how this had happened. He spoke with deep, quiet tones and wore silver rings in the lobe of his remaining ear. Ventina looked enough like him to be a sister, or perhaps a cousin, rather than his wife. Her eyes shifted back and forth as she drifted in behind her husband. When her gaze passed over Darmouth, her hatred was too thinly masked. She and her mate skulked in their lord's shadow and did his bidding without question.

  Darmouth frowned at their presence.

  "My lord," Faris breathed. "I beg a word."

  "We are at dinner," Darmouth rumbled. "And you enter without announcement."

  Hedí expected Faris to back away, but he stepped closer.

  "My lord, there was a skirmish at the Stravinan border over some deserters and their families in flight. A man crossed the border and engaged your troops."

  "Stravinans… breach a treaty?" Darmouth straightened with a glower. "What is this horse piss? Who told you this?"

  Faris hesitated, then drew close to whisper in his lord's ear. All the while Darmouth appeared on the edge of striking his servant down. The more he listened, the more attentive he became.

  Hedí did not catch much beyond the mention of white hair and strange eyes. She watched a flicker of alarm pass across Darmouth's features before they clouded with the same viciousness he showed when catching an underling in some minor deceit. He stood up.

  "Omasta!" he snapped. "Double the keep's watch and the contingent at the city walls. Double the length of shifts, if you have to. Any man with white hair, tan skin, and yellow-brown eyes is to be taken alive if possible, and if not, kill him on sight. Either way, bring him to me."

  Hedí's heart slowed as she looked to Emêl. He shook his head once in warning. Then his gaze drifted away.

  "Forgive me, Hedí, but I must leave you," Darmouth said, but he paused in the open arch of the council hall. "Emêl, you and I will speak alone. See your lady back to the inn, and then join me in the Hall of Traitors."

  Hedí's fork clicked too sharply against her plate, and Emêl turned pale.

  * * * *

  Leesil spotted the sign above the two-story inn that read only, BYRD's. The place hadn't changed much. The walls were a bit more weatherworn, and the shutters over the glassless windows were faded. The shake roof's eaves were jagged and crusted with snow, but the place was strangely a welcome sight compared to all else since they'd entered Venjetz.

  If only he'd remembered the cats.

  Leesil put a hand on Chap's back. "Don't you move!"

  Chap growled, then whined, and Leesil felt a shudder run through the dog's taut muscles under rising fur.

  "You're a Fay," Leesil said in a low, threatening tone. "Or that's what you've made us believe, so no doggish nonsense. You hear me?"

  Chap's panting quickened, and Leesil gripped him by the scruff of the neck.

  There were cats everywhere, sitting on window ledges, ducking around corners, or scurrying in and out of the front door left ajar. Large and small ones. Solid, striped, and spotted, they milled about the inn's front as if they were its common patrons.

  Magiere stood at his side. "Leesil?"

  "I told you Byrd is… a bit odd," he replied.

  Leesil kept his hood up and forward, shadowing his face. They'd agreed Magiere and Wynn would do the talking, until he decided whether or not to reveal himself. While Byrd was part of Darmouth's web of spies and informants, he was the only person besides Leesil's mother to whom Gavril had shown any trust. Sometimes the two had sat up talking through a whole night or just played cards.

  "Look at all of them,' Wynn said in wonder, and stepped up to the doorway to scratch a slender gray calico behind the ears. "Where did they all come from?"

  "Everywhere, miss," a baritone voice called from inside. "And they pass the word along that there's a home to be found here."

  Wynn stiffened upright with a quick backstep and bumped into Leesil coming up behind her. Looking through the cracked door, Leesil saw a few felines within, but his attention settled on the man standing near a belly-high bar with no stools before it.

  His bright red shirt contrasted oddly with his ruddy complexion. It was impossible to tell the color of his hair beneath the faded yellow scarf tied around his head. He was in his midforties, of medium height and stocky build. He looked the same as Leesil remembered. Well, perhaps a bit paunchier.

  "Welcome," he said, smiling openly at Wynn. "Do you need rooms? We've plenty, as business is slow of late."

  Leesil ushered Wynn in ahead of himself. Indeed, the cats were the only patrons for the evening. The dimly lit little common room was stuffed with nothing more than empty chairs and tables. Magiere followed, now the one gripping Chap's scruff. The dog shook visibly with restraint, and his silvery coat bristled all over.

  Byrd frowned at the sight of Chap. "Sure you want to bring him in here?"

  "He'll behave," Magiere answered.

  "Ha, it's not him I'm worried about," Byrd added. "He's well outnumbered. "

  Leesil glanced down to see two small kittens toddle out through the legs of a rickety chair. The leader was a slender orange tabby, while the follower was a roly-poly brown with a rather dim expression on his round, bushy face. Without a hint of fear, the pair sniffed Chap all over, or as high as their little noses could reach. They proceeded to dance through his legs whil
e rubbing against him.

  Chap made a sound like he'd choked on his own yowl, and Wynn leaned down into the dog's face.

  "Do not touch them!" she ordered. "They are babies, and they do not know any better."

  Byrd smiled widely as he scooped up the tiny tabby and handed it to Wynn. "This is Tomato, the smart and sassy one. Her brother there is Potato, affectionate but none too bright."

  Wynn held Tomato close, and Potato began thumping his head on Chap's leg, demanding attention. Magiere slowly released her grip. Chap huffed but did nothing more than shuffle about trying to evade Potato's head butts.

  A hissing and spitting came from around the bar's far end, and Chap stiffened with his ears drawn back.

  The largest cat Leesil had ever seen sauntered out of the kitchen and into the common room. Dirty cream-colored with green stains on his back, the cat had a wide stomach that nearly touched the floor. His left ear was tattered and several teeth were missing, but his claws grated the floorboards as he padded up behind Byrd.

  Chap growled, looking anxious over an opponent willing to fight.

  "Stop that. These are guests," Byrd said to the new arrival, and offered Wynn an apologetic shrug. "This is Clover Roll, my partner. He'll not plague you as long as your dog behaves."

  "Clover Roll?" Wynn repeated.

  "Look at his back," Byrd said. "He never tires of rolling in the grass."

  "By the size of his gut," Magiere said, sounding openly tired of discussing Byrd's pets, "I'm surprised he can roll at all. How much for two rooms, and where can we stable our horses?"

  Leesil watched Byrd's expression, remembering the few nights his father had brought him along on an evening of tea and stew and cards. Gavril once told him that Byrd could be trusted to do the right thing. It'd meant little to Leesil at the time, for he'd learned to trust no one but his parents. Now his stomach knotted over memories resurfacing after the years he'd kept them buried. From inside his hood, he looked into Byrd's eyes, and the older man tensed, taking a step closer.

  "Do I know you?" Byrd asked.

  This man hadn't changed, always direct and open, or so it appeared. A good front, if nothing else. His father's only friend was all Leesil had left for a lead, though he still didn't know why Gavril had ever trusted another servant of Darmouth.

  Leesil pulled back his hood.

  Magiere tensed, dark eyes locking on Byrd. Leesil caught the shift of her cloak that told him her hand was on her falchion. He stood quietly waiting.

  For a moment Byrd's face went blank in disbelief. Much time had passed, and Leesil's hair was still under his kerchief.

  "'Lad?" Byrd said. "It can't be…"

  "Yes, it's me."

  Byrd didn't lunge to embrace him nor call out a welcome. Instead he braced a hand against the bar. Magiere jerked her falchion from its sheath.

  "Call for soldiers or try to leave, and you won't reach the door."

  Clover Roll burst into a hissing fit. Chap answered him with an even louder snarl.

  "Magiere, put it away," Leesil said. He hadn't expected Byrd to be glad to see him. "Byrd, I know it has been a long time, but hear me out."

  There was no anger or blame in Byrd's face. He looked as if someone had punched him in the stomach. "Oh, no, lad. You don't need to… Are you hungry? Have you eaten?"

  Leesil backed away and sank down in a chair. When Magiere refused to move, he reached out to brush her aside. She stepped around him, finally sheathing her blade, and settled a protective hand on his shoulder.

  "We came to ask after his parents," Magiere said, and there was still a hint of warning in her voice. "Do you know what happened to them… after Leesil left?"

  Byrd looked Magiere over from head to toe, staring briefly at her black hair and again at her well-made leather boots. He ignored her threatening glower and turned back to Leesil.

  "This is your woman? Trust you to pick a fierce one." He cocked his head at Wynn. "That one looks easier to live with, but your father liked the fierce ones, too."

  Magiere's fingers tightened slightly on Leesil's shoulder. Wynn looked up at Byrd as if she wasn't sure whether to be nattered or insulted.

  Words stuck in Leesil's throat. Indeed, his father would have been fond of Magiere, though Leesil wondered what his mother would think if… when they found her. He breathed in slowly.

  "What happened to Gavril? And my mother?"

  For the first time, a hint of anger registered in Byrd's voice. "It's a bit late to be asking."

  Leesil abruptly stood and turned for the door, pulling up his hood in shame. He shouldn't have come here. Friend or not, Byrd didn't deserve old wounds opened by Leesil's own sins.

  "No, wait, damn you!" Byrd called, then grumbled something under his breath. "You had no choice. You weren't meant for your father's life, and no one understood that better than him. Now sit down."

  Leesil stopped. "Where are they? Are they dead?"

  "Sit—your woman, too," Byrd said, and he waved Wynn over as well. "Come, girl."

  When his guests were settled, he left for the kitchen and quickly returned with a pot of hot water, biscuits, and four mugs. He dropped tea leaves in the pot and sat down at the table to gaze at Leesil.

  "You look so much like her, but you act like him." His eyes dropped to the table. "I don't know what happened to them. When I heard you bolted, I sent word to Gavril. I'd have gone myself, but I feared being spotted. I thought he and Nein'a would make their way out of the city somehow." Byrd paused to lace fingers together as he leaned on the table. "The gods only know why, but they ran for the keep. Pure madness! They were seen inside heading down into the lower levels. I tried to find out more but… For a year I kept searching for answers, believe me."

  Leesil's mind and stomach both churned. While he'd been drinking himself to sleep every night, this man had been searching for his parents.

  "Why would they run into the keep?" Wynn asked, still holding the purring Tomato in her lap. " There must be some reason. Leesil?"

  Leesil tried to focus on the moment. "I can't think of anything. I rarely went there myself unless ordered to. My father went to give reports, and my mother was sometimes called to attend an evening gathering that Darmouth hosted."

  "Your mother was the loveliest creature I ever saw," Byrd said. "But you've done all right for yourself, too." He stood up, ignoring Magiere's scowl. "I'll dish us some supper while we talk, but you need to keep hidden. Eyes are everywhere, and these days it takes even less coin or threat to loosen a tongue."

  As little as Byrd knew, Leesil wondered how and where the man had acquired the strange detail of his parents' flight into the keep. He watched his father's only confidant round the bar and disappear through the kitchen's curtained doorway. Indeed, Darmouth's spies could be found in the most inviting places.

  * * * *

  Darmouth stood in the center of his forefathers' crypt in the keep's belly. To either side of him, stone coffins rose from the floor to waist height. This was the Hall of Traitors, a name coined by the fearful after his father's death, though it had nothing to do with the occupants of the two tombs.

  Four braziers mounted in iron brackets glowed from pillars to either side of the center space. Once three separate storage rooms, the walls had been opened into repeating archways to convert all three into one room. In the far back wall were series of arched cubbies carved into the stone from ceiling to floor. The braziers' light didn't reach far enough to illuminate them, and they remained black pockets of darkness.

  Darmouth laid his hand on the tomb to his left. His fingers grazed over the carved image of a face not unlike his own, but with a long beard and thick mustache. Here rested his father, placed within the stone coffin after his death. His grandfather's remains had been exhumed and placed in the other tomb. He only wished he could locate the body of his great-grandfather, who'd taken this province from Timeron a hundred or more years ago.

  Kings believed in lineage and the honored crypt of an unbroken f
amily line. Bloodline was immortality, leaving a piece of oneself in a son, who in turn passed it on to his heir. When he was young, Darmouth never dwelled on this. As the years passed, he obsessed more and more over the gray in his hair and growing weight of his sword.

  He hadn't kept these lands only to lose them to a traitorous upstart or some rival province leader. Not one of them was strong enough to take what he held. If by pure luck one ever did, this province and those around it would descend into chaos. No, Darmouth's people needed him, the only one strong enough to maintain order in the face of the petty warlords of the other provinces.

  Footsteps echoed through the crypt's open door from the outside hallway. Darmouth looked up to find Emêl standing in the opening between two of Omasta's armed men. The bodyguards looked to Darmouth for approval. He nodded, and they stepped aside.

  Emêl, who lacked true strength of will, couldn't even rid himself of an unwanted wife. The arranged marriage was intended to give him sons of older blood, but the match failed to produce an heir. Still, Emêl was dependable, one of Darmouth's few old friends and the last of his ministers. He deserved fair treatment, had earned it, but all who served Darmouth needed to be reminded where their loyalties lay. This was why he held such meetings in the tomb of his forefathers, where he passed judgment on both the true and traitorous.

  White-faced and silent, Emêl remained in the doorway, slender in his simple brown breeches and a black tunic over a white shirt. Although unarmed, as required here, he was the best fencer Darmouth had ever witnessed. His skill with a straight saber was unequaled.

  "Enter," Darmouth commanded.

  To his credit, Emêl didn't hesitate. It was whispered that Darmouth sometimes executed traitors himself in this place. True enough, as Emêl had witnessed twice.

  "My lord," Emêl said. His voice was calm, but fear flickered in his green eyes.

  "I'm giving you Tarovlis holdings. You know his region of the province well enough, and the income will increase your coffers."

  "My lord?"

  "You've earned it," Darmouth went on. "And I know how little you stay at your own estate these days. A second home would be useful, and something few can boast of."