by R. G. Green
Kherin bit back a muttered reply but couldn’t help rolling his eyes, drawing another small laugh from the trader.
“Then what, exactly, is the point?” he demanded shortly.
Derek’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Ah, my prince. Think back, and you will remember the army I told you of that was being raised in Dennor as a response to the appearance of northerners.”
“The one being raised by the councilman’s son,” Kherin stated evenly, remembering full well what Derek had told him in his father’s library while his leg still healed from its break.
“And had you been listening the day after your venture into the Mouse, you would be more aware of how quickly things had changed there.”
Derek’s expression hadn’t changed, but Kherin grunted as the memories of that conversation in the Crossroads flitted back—and what he remembered was how his own churning emotions that day had made whatever Derek had said of the northerners and port city irrelevant. Derek’s glittering eyes said the trader knew he had struck his point home, and Kherin wasn’t going to argue, not when they both knew Derek was right. He felt his cheeks heating, but he met the trader’s eyes squarely.
“All right. I’m listening now. Get on with it.”
Derek’s quiet laugh was accompanied by another gentle sweep of his fingers against his cheek. “As you will, my prince. The rumors of the army are true, and though it began with a group of bored and wealthy sons, the Leader happens to be a young man named Sethan Alderson, who happens to be the son of one of Dennor’s councilmen. One of Dennor’s highest ranking councilmen, in fact. And through his own connections or his father’s, Sethan has also learned who it was that could teach him and his group about the Akhael and their blood magic, and so he sought out Dar to hire his services.” Derek’s eyes lost their mischievousness as something colder took its place, and his hand fell away as his tone turned darker. “As it happens, Sethan was quite put out when Dar refused. His connections then cost Dar his position, his home, and his money. Revenge, in part, but a threat as well.”
Kherin sat up completely and stared at the trader as sheer disbelief echoed in his words. “They would destroy Dar’s life simply because he wouldn’t teach them about some kind of magic that may not even exist?”
Derek’s level gaze was answer enough, and Kherin let out a disgusted sigh. “Doesn’t Dar have any family who could help him?”
“Yes, he does,” Derek answered. “But they have since left Dennor, and Dar refuses to do so. He knows what that group is about, and he knows how dangerous that magic would be. And yes, Dar believes the magic is real, though he refuses to teach what he knows of it. And thus, Dar would rather be homeless in Dennor, where he can keep an eye on this group, than have a roof and a bed somewhere where he can’t.” Derek shook his head slightly. “Sethan calls on him every few days or so, at least that was his habit when I was last there, and Dar knows, as long as Sethan keeps asking, he hasn’t yet discovered anything dangerous. Dar believes the peace of mind alone is worth sleeping in an alley.”
“But they could kill him!”
Derek shook his head. “If they did, they would lose the only source of the information they need. Both Dar and Sethan are well aware of that.”
Kherin continued to stare, grasping at the enormity of the game taking place in Dennor. All else aside, he felt a measure of respect for the old tutor, homeless and penniless because of his refusal to give out information, but effectively maneuvering Sethan’s group into an impasse. With nothing left to lose, they had nothing else to hold over him. Clever. A bitter triumph, but clever.
Kherin shifted on the bed, looking at the trader fully when he had stilled. “So what does all of that have to do with the northerners, or with their attack on Adrien?”
Derek shrugged. “Maybe nothing. But the point, my prince, is that since there is one person in Llarien who would recognize the word ‘Akhael’, it may not be only the northerners who can provide the answers we are looking for. It may be that Dar knows something that can tell us what is happening here.”
“And so you are going to go ask him.” Kherin finished with gut-wrenching certainty. Derek was right. The Akhael may be gone, and their magic gone with them, but with the sudden emergence of northerners in Llarien and the fact that they had used that same word…. Dar might or might not know what it was the northerners were after, but they had no choice but to find out for themselves. Not if they were going to keep Llarien safe. Even if learning it would mean losing Derek in Gravlorn. He dropped to sprawl on the bed, rubbing his eyes with one hand as the reality of the words sank in.
He didn’t want Derek to leave, not when there were things between them that were still unsettled, not when they had so recently mended the breach Kherin had never intended—and not when what had hung between them since the way-stop had been confirmed in the Harper’s Den and answered with that kiss in the hall of the hospice.
But he couldn’t ask Derek to stay, not when there was a chance he was right. Not when it was his job to travel the kingdom and learn what he could. Not knowing Derek’s responsibility was to more than the second prince of the Llarien. He couldn’t do it, not when what Derek learned could save Llarien from a potential war with those familiar with the ancient ways of magic.
The sadness that touched Derek’s smile said the every emotion he felt showed clearly on his face, and the trader no doubt knew the moment when understanding of the necessity of Derek’s traveling to Dennor settled at last in Kherin’s mind. Derek’s fingers threaded through his hair again, and his voice gentle when he spoke. “I had planned to travel there before now, and now there is a very good reason to do so,” he told Kherin softly, and Kherin swallowed at the truth in those words.
“I know,” he answered quietly, dropping his hand to the bed but not taking his eyes from the ceiling above him. It was here in this room that he’d first learned the dreams and fantasies that had made up so much of his adult life weren’t as far out of reach as he had believed, and here in this city that he had learned that while he may have fallen in love with Derek a long time ago, he hadn’t fallen in love alone. It was here that he’d learned what it would be like to be with Derek for more than his brief visits to the castle, and he didn’t want to face the thought of suddenly not having him near.
“I’ll see you again in Delfore, my prince,” Derek went on, easing down beside him, “with Adrien returned to health and the kingdom secure from the northerners once again.”
Derek was offering platitudes, Kherin knew that, and he didn’t want to hear them any more than he had wanted to learn the trader was leaving. Sudden resentment fueled his movements as he pushed himself to his feet, his anger directed at everything and nothing and finding a target only in the world in general. He adjusted the clothes he wore—the same ones he had dressed in yesterday—with short, quick touches of his hands, aware that Derek watched him, and met his gaze only after he was finished.
“We’re still crossing tonight,” Kherin told him, calmly and coldly. “Even if you find the answers in Dennor, we can’t wait.”
“I know,” Derek answered soothingly, standing and then coming around the bed to stand close to the prince, accepting the change of subject without judgment. He again brushed his fingers against the prince’s cheek, then slipped them under his chin to lift Kherin’s eyes to meet his own. He released his breath slowly, and it seemed to take the words he wanted to say with them. The words he spoke in their stead were at odds with what was written in his eyes. “I would tell you again to be careful, but I know you have heard that enough. Instead, I will only wish you luck.”
Kherin nodded mutely and remained still as Derek unsurprisingly leaned forward and kissed his forehead gently, as he had done so many times in the past, lingering over it before pulling away.
“I will be in Gravlorn until tomorrow morning, and I will see you again before I leave, my prince.”
Kherin's throat closed in a sudden wave of emotion, and his chest tight
ened with a cold feeling of loss. But as much as he wanted to pull the trader to him and beg him to stay, he instead drew a determined breath and stepped back, putting space between them.
“I need to report for duty in a few hours,” he said roughly. Derek gave a slight nod, his eyes filled with understanding and regret, and Kherin couldn’t meet them for long. “I’ll see you after my patrol.”
With that, he turned away, moving to the door and pushing through it, taking the stairs to the main floor in a driven flurry of motion. His eyes stung by the time he reached the bottom, and he forced himself out of the inn. The chill air hit him as he stepped into the street, and he squinted against the wind that had not been present earlier.
It was cold, but it couldn’t match the coldness he felt in his gut.
And should anyone ask, he would blame the wind for the tear that escaped as he left the inn behind.
THE weather only grew worse as the day went on, and the first drops of an icy winter storm slapped against Kherin’s cheek, distracting him enough that the arrow he shot flew wide, hitting the loose dirt and bouncing sloppily to lie with the other blue and black fletched arrows scattered on the ground. Practice arrows, or so Gresham had told him, though what difference they held from armory arrows, he had no idea. But they were all that could be found, in the camp or in the city, and they would have to do. The target of cloth and wood erected nearly a hundred yards distant stared back at him resolutely, its surface marred by only a few shafts burrowed deep into its stuffing. Far fewer than the number of arrows he had fired, which in truth wasn’t truly surprising. His skills with a bow had always been passable at best, but today his accuracy was particularly poor. The trail of his thoughts blackened his mood as much as the thunderclouds roiling in the northern sky darkened the horizon. What had begun as a clear winter morning had turned into a dark, threatening day.
Gresham had moved quickly, he would give him that, creating a practice field near the stables and presenting it to the prince when his duty had brought him along this part of the river, little more than halfway into his patrol. It was narrow and crowded, barely fitting in the space given by the trees, but like the arrows, it would have to do.
The Defender Leader had said nothing when Kherin tapped another Defender to continue his patrol, instead nearly glowing as he showed off the arrangement of bows that had been found in the city, and the arrows purchased or acquired with the kingdom’s coin. Gresham had wanted Kherin to be the first to test the new weapons.
“How many Defenders do we have that can actually use these?” Kherin asked the Leader shortly, gesturing at the pile of weapons, counting less than twenty bows in all. Arrows, on the other hand, were plentiful, even if they were only practice ones.
“Ronel is seeking out the qualified archers even as we speak, my lord,” Gresham told him succinctly. “He is aware of the number of bows, and will only pick the best we have to use them.”
Kherin’s lips tightened, not hearing anything he didn’t already know. If the choice were his, he would have chosen Delfore Defenders, if only because he was sure of their ability. But the choice wasn’t his, and he would have to accept those chosen by Ronel.
He reached for another arrow, and then stopped suddenly as shouts erupted loudly behind them. Kherin and Gresham both whirled, recognizing the urgency even if they couldn’t make out the words. Heart pounding and instantly alert, Kherin paused for only a breath to determine where the shouting was coming from. Then he broke into a full, ground-covering run.
As the ground passed beneath him, the shouting grew louder, coming from the east, on the other side of the camp, where the barracks had been built. He didn’t need to see them to know that northerners had been spotted, and the sound of fighting soon confirmed it. He slowed as he neared the source of the fighting and watched in horror as the mix of Defenders and northerners exploded around the barracks, twisting and tangling as the Defenders fought for the advantage. His lips curled into a snarl—the northerners had breached their defenses, caught them by surprise on their own side of the river—again. And they outnumbered the Defenders. Greatly. Anger surged through him as he dropped the bow he carried and slipped his sword free.
The northerners looked like nothing more than animals, shaggy hair and ragged beards covering their faces, animal skins covering their bodies. They fought with both axe and sword, and shouted in loud, guttural voices. Kherin fought his way through the mass of hair and fur, intent on wounding rather than killing. Wounding would take them out of battle, would take less time and less strength, and would leave them alive for questioning later. And though the northerners were vicious fighters, they were not skilled and not trained, and yet it was his own anger that proved to be his greatest strength. His anger, and the rain that began to pelt down as the sky opened up, heralded by a deep rumble of thunder.
The fighting was fierce on both sides but, strangely, lasted for only a moment. In an inexplicable move, the northerners began to flee with the coming of the rain, the abruptness of the reprieve surprising Kherin. The sudden abandonment of the fight left him disoriented, left him behind the sudden surge to the river. It took him a moment to realize the fight was over. Others followed them to the water’s edge, but stopped short of stepping into the current, instead standing in confused silence as the northerners slipped out of reach.
Kherin reached the banks by pushing his way through the mass of bodies, breathing heavily as the icy water lapped over his boots, and he stared in utter disbelief at the figures bobbing across the Ford. Retreating. The northerners had forfeited what would have been a damaging attack, if not a minor victory, giving up when the advantage had still been theirs. Why?
He had no answer, and as they leisurely made their way home, he nearly spit in disgust at the one victory the northerners did claim. They knew the Defenders wouldn’t follow them into the river, and so they paid them no heed once they had begun wading back to their own lands. They knew the Defenders had no trained archers, and so made no move to protect themselves against arrows. They knew the river was a line the Defenders wouldn’t cross, and used it like a wall to secure their safety. And it worked.
He glowered at them as they moved easily through the current, their efforts taking them swiftly away from Llarien land, and he let out a growl of frustration as the first of the figures reached the far shore. A glance along the northern bank and then to the watching Defenders threatened to turn his growl into a vicious tirade—until he realized what he was seeing, and he swore fiercely at his own and everyone else’s blind stupidity. He let his bloodied sword drop tip first into the mud at his feet, the point quickly buried under its weight.
The northerners had crossed unnoticed, not just one, not only a few times, but enough times to gather a force to outnumber a Defender camp. Outnumber it and attack it.
And they had just shown him how.
The river behind the barracks was no deeper than it was past the camp, but the area was heavily wooded on the Llarien side and considerably less watched—he had learned that through his duties. He had learned how far from the camp the patrols went, how often they ventured to the edges of their territory, and how long it was between the patrols that reached its farthest points. And how they never left the banks to wander into the trees for anything more than to relieve their bladders. He had learned this, and so had the northerners. That was how they had gotten across to mount the attack the day Adrien had been injured. That was how they had gotten across now. The Defenders thought the trees protected them, and had underestimated the northerners’ ease in the water. Gods above. They had simply walked across when the Defenders weren’t watching and then hid in the trees where they knew the Defenders didn’t go.
The taverns of the city would lose a lot of business, starting now, Kherin vowed silently and viciously, not for an instant believing they had crossed all at once, not that many, not without drawing the scattered attention of at least some of the Defenders in this camp. The thought of how long they had be
en gathering on Llarien soil was terrifying, and chancing that some remained hidden in the trees was a risk he wouldn’t take. Gresham was responsible for the security of this camp, and through it the security of Llarien, but he had failed at both, and Kherin would wrest the control from the Leader’s fingers if necessary. This battle had been given to them, and he would not let anyone make the mistake of thinking it had been won. With another sigh of disgust, he turned to face the battlefield.
None of the northerners remained in the camp, though several Defenders were injured—those that had managed to arrive in time to join the battle, anyway. But no Defenders had died, a miracle from Kherin’s vantage point. The injured would be taken to the healer in the city, and Willum’s hospice would be busy for the near future.
Kherin continued to scan the field—and then he stopped breathing as his eyes found a lone figure set precariously on his knees, closer to the barracks than the river, ignoring the rain as he struggled to find his feet. He was injured, his blood mixing with the mud and water, his mouth twisted in a snarl as Defenders formed a wide circle around him.
Kherin felt his heart beating against his ribs. He was wrong. Not all of the northerners had escaped. His anger drained as something resembling hope crept over him, and he stood frozen as he watched the northerner snarl and spit at the surrounding Defenders.
He had planned to cross the river and bring a northerner back. Instead, one had come to him.
Chapter 13
KHERIN knew the instant the northerner saw him. In the moment their eyes met, the northerner became so still, so motionless, he could have been carved from stone, the blood streaking his body forgotten, the Defenders circling around him irrelevant. Crouched on his knees, he stared through the matted tangle of his hair and beard, unblinking, barely breathing.
As the moment stretched, Kherin stepped forward, slowly and cautiously, lifting his sword from the mud but not raising the blade in attack. He was aware of the uncertain glances the Defenders cast toward him, but he didn’t look to meet them, passing through the crowd until he stood at the forefront of the circle. The northerner watched him, but when Kherin spoke, it was to the Defenders.