“And?”
“I am satisfied.” The old man got to his feet. “Did you see anything outside?”
“Just some creature passing by. I take it you’ve considered my offer?”
The old man didn’t hesitate. “I will do whatever is necessary to take Eroh out of the Swamp.”
“Very wise,” Lenoden said. “Now, what do I call you? You haven’t given a name.”
“It has been a long while since anyone has needed to call me by name. The boy just calls me Grandfather. But you may call me Auren.”
A horn sounded, not far away. Lenoden knew the sequence—they were searching for him. Responding to the alarm Ormond had sounded.
“Auren, we have very little time for plans. My men are near, and I will have to tell them how the king’s son died—I would rather not have to explain you and the boy as well. Do you know the way to Goldstone?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. Wait here until we have gone. Do not let yourself be seen. When I’ve led the knights away from here, make for Goldstone.” Lenoden removed the glove from his right hand and slipped off his signet ring. “Take this. Show it to the guards at the lower gate, and say these words: ‘I’ve come to see the jeweler’. Approach at night, wear hoods and gloves, whatever it takes to keep your skin and the boy’s eyes out of sight. Tell them that you will only deal with Marcas Tammen, my steward. He will take you somewhere safe.” Tammen had created the procedure to receive spies from other duchies, but it would serve for this as well; the guards were familiar with the passphrase. It wasn’t a perfect plan—anything could happen to the boy before he reached Goldstone—but it had become necessary to improvise. Prince Josen had left him little choice.
“Will they believe what I say?” Auren asked. “We might have slain you and taken the ring.”
Lenoden laughed. “An old man and a boy? They will not believe I died so easily. Just say the words and they will know I sent you. Do as I say, and I promise you will find safety and luxury in Goldstone.” He sheathed his saber and smiled down at the child. “Have you ever seen a castle, lad?”
“No, but… Grandfather tells me stories.” Eroh’s manner was timid and his voice strangely serene, but when he looked up with those golden eagle’s eyes, severe as the Sky God’s judgement, Lenoden couldn’t help but shiver. Imagine how he’ll affect others—the lowborn will fall at his feet. The skin and hair would be a problem, but those could be colored, darkened. It was the eyes that mattered.
The boy glanced at his grandfather. “Will we really see a castle?”
“Soon enough, Eroh. Soon enough.” The old man might have been smiling in the shadow of his hood.
“But only if we move quickly now,” said Lenoden. He stooped to pick up the witchmoss that lay on the cavern floor. “Help me get him outside. If I don’t have a body to show, Rudol will search for it. We can’t have him finding you or the boy.”
“Take the feet,” said Auren, kneeling again and hooking his arms beneath Josen’s. “You do not want to be soaked in his blood when they find you.”
Lenoden gripped a leg under each of his arms, and together they lifted Josen off the ground. It was no easy task to wrestle a limp body through the narrow passage, but he hardly noticed. He was preoccupied with a larger problem. I need a story that won’t end with me standing the cliff. Something Gerod can’t blame me for. I’ll have Rudol’s support, at least—he’ll believe whatever I tell him. Near the mouth of the cave, where it was too narrow to pass without side-stepping, they twisted the body on its side, tearing Josen’s tabard on the rough stone. Could it have been Deeplings? No, they wouldn’t have left so much meat behind. Swamplings, then.
Once outside, Lenoden led Auren deeper into the trees, away from the cave—he had to be far enough away when he was found that his rescuers wouldn’t stumble across Eroh. It cannot be swamplings alone, though. Josen must have somehow brought it upon himself. If he dies a hero, I will be blamed. But then… Rudol may have solved that for me already. Rudol had been furious at his brother this last turn—he’d spoken of little besides Josen’s sudden sympathy for the swamplings. Already a rift there. The edges of a plan started to sharpen in his mind. Yes, that will do nicely. A small smile played across his lips in the dark.
The vines and trees closed in behind them until the ridge was only a faint suggestion of a shadow. Another horn sounded, closer now. Lanterns flitted in and out between the trees not far off.
“This will do,” Lenoden said. Together, they laid the body down. Lenoden stirred the mud with his feet in a few key spots, and then tossed Josen’s saber to the ground nearby. That should paint a picture. “Back to the cave, and be silent. My men are very near.”
“They will not hear me.” Auren sounded almost amused as he turned back toward the ridge. Lenoden didn’t like it—he was struck with the sudden feeling that he was missing something. And there was one thing he knew the old man was hiding.
“Wait,” he said, and Auren stopped at his word. “Lower your hood. I want to see your face.”
“As you wish,” Auren said. Still facing away, he drew back his hood to reveal a mane of long grey hair. He turned slowly, his hands lingering near his neck. Lenoden held up his witchmoss, and what he saw by its green light shocked him enough that he nearly dropped it.
The old man’s eyes were missing.
On either side of a thin nose, two shadowed sockets stared blankly ahead. A skeleton’s eyes, clothed in flesh. He can’t be blind. He led us here. Lenoden frowed, silently examining the man’s face. He couldn’t say if this was a problem, not yet, but it was something he hadn’t expected. And he did not like surprises.
The quiet dragged on for a few moments, and then Auren curled his mouth into a sardonic smile. “Not what you expected? My own people did this to me. Now you understand why I am eager to leave this place.”
“What—” But Lenoden stopped himself. He had too many questions, and the knights might stumble upon them at any moment. He hated to go without answers—few things could ruin a plan as easily and thoroughly as ignorance—but there was no time. “Never mind that. You need to hide. Can you find your way back?”
“I do not need eyes to find my way in the Swamp.” Again, that self-assured smile; that sense of something left unsaid.
It was irksome, but Lenoden held his annoyance in check and waved Auren away. “Go, then. But you will explain yourself to me when we meet again.”
“We will wait for you at Goldstone.” Auren raised his hood and strode back toward the ridge, vanishing into the dark.
Counting the seconds off silently, Lenoden watched him go for as long as the pale light allowed. That man could be very useful, or very difficult. But Eroh would respond better to a familiar face than to a stranger. The grandfather was necessary.
For a while, at least.
When his count reached a hundred—ample time for Auren to reach his cave—Lenoden knelt by Josen’s body and raised his witchmoss overhead with one hand. Make them believe this, he reminded himself, or you’ll stand the cliff for treason. A deep breath, and then:
“Here! We need help! The prince is wounded!”
Rudol
Rudol Aryllia had ended lives in his time with the Storm Knights, and he had watched good men die. He’d done both in the battle not yet a quarter-hour past, and come near to dying a few times himself. Death was familiar to him, and he’d thought he was accustomed to it.
But when he saw Duke Castar kneeling beside Josen’s body, his sword dropped out of his hand, and the sound dropped out of the world.
He approached alone. He had followed Ormond’s panicked directions with a half-dozen men and a pair of squires, but when he’d heard Duke Castar’s voice, he’d run ahead of the others. He couldn’t hear it now; the duke was saying something, but the words vanished before they reached Rudol’s ears. The knights lagging behind him, the jangle of their armor and weapons, the chatter and breath and footsteps of dozens more searching through th
e Swamp not far away—all of it simply ceased to be. The only person he cared about was the one making no sound at all.
Josen lay unmoving on his back, his saber half-buried in the mud near his outstretched hand. Rudol’s legs felt clumsy as he approached, stiff and wooden like the limbs of a doll. Halting steps carried him toward Castar, and then he fell to his knees, reaching toward the body. The body that couldn’t be his brother, because Josen would be moving, smiling, talking. Probably talking too much. It couldn’t be him. But Rudol knew that it was.
“Give him to me.” He didn’t hear Castar’s reply, but there was sympathy in the duke’s eyes as he helped shift Josen into Rudol’s grasp.
Rudol cradled the body across his lap. It was still warm. Still whole, barely even marked save for the dark red spot beneath the left arm. Rudol could almost imagine that it was just some wine stain, that his brother was still alive. Still breathing, even if it was too shallow to see. But he felt light, too light, like something was missing. Like there wasn’t enough of him.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to keep you safe. He’d routed the swamplings with hardly any losses—his first victory leading men in battle—but still he’d failed. That was all anyone would remember. All that his father would remember. That he’d let his brother die. He was aware, vaguely, that he was crying.
He moved a curl of dark hair away from his brother’s face and touched a palm to his cheek. In the orange lantern-light, Josen barely looked like himself anymore. No infuriating grin, no glint of secret amusement in his eye. I never thought I’d miss that. But that wasn’t true, not really. He’d missed it for a long time. Missed being in on the secret.
Something broke through the silence, then, something Duke Castar was saying. Something important. Rudol looked up. “Say that again.”
A spasm of sorrow crossed Duke Castar’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to have to tell you.”
“Say it.” A part of Rudol already knew what he’d heard, but he had to hear it again, had to be sure.
Castar gave a resigned sigh. “He turned his sword on me, Rudol. A swampling woman came after us when we were fleeing from the Deeplings, and… I was only trying to protect him, but he stepped in front of her, tried to fight me. He said he wouldn’t let me hurt her. She repaid the kindness by stabbing him while his back was turned.” His brow knit and he looked away. “I… I had to let her go. I couldn’t leave him. I’m sorry.”
Rudol didn’t know whether he should laugh or sob; he might have done both, if so many eyes hadn’t been watching. Josen, you damned fool. You never could resist playing the hero, could you? He was surprised at just how unsurprised he was. A familiar anger began to kindle inside him, and he forced himself to swallow his tears. “He chose a swampling over his own people. The way he’s been talking… I should have known.”
Duke Castar placed a placating hand on Rudol’s arm. “He wasn’t thinking clearly. The shock of the attack—”
“He abandoned us to defend the enemy.” Rudol realized he was still cupping Josen’s cheek. His hand clenched, and he pulled it back. “He was a traitor.” And then, as he moved his fist away, he felt the slightest movement of air against it. Warm. A breath? He looked down at Josen’s chest.
“The king will decide what to call him,” said Duke Castar, “but for now he is your brother. Let us bring him back to the Plateaus, put him to rest.”
It had been a breath. Rudol was sure of it. A breath he would never have noticed, never have felt, except that his hand had been near. In the dark, the shallow movement of his brother’s chest was imperceptible, buried beneath layers of chain and cloth. But he was breathing.
Josen was still alive.
“Rudol?” Duke Castar laid a hand on his shoulder. “We should take him home. The body must be burned so the spirit can rise Above.”
Rudol looked down at his brother for a long moment, and he made his choice.
“No,” he said. His eyes never left Josen’s face. “No. You’re right, he was my brother. I will decide what is done with him. He died a traitor. He’ll have a traitor’s burial.”
“You would leave him here, out of the Sky God’s sight?” Duke Castar drew back his hand. “Your father—”
“When has my father ever let sentiment affect his decisions?” Rudol rose, lifting Josen effortlessly. “Wait here. I want to be alone with him.”
“I can’t let you do that, Rudol,” Duke Castar protested. “It’s too dangerous.”
Rudol turned, swept his gaze over his men—he had hardly noticed them arrive, but they were there now. Six grown knights and two squires awkwardly avoided his eyes, looking for all the world like children who had caught their parents quarreling.
“Any man who follows me will be stripped of his colors,” he said, inwardly cursing the tremble he heard in his voice. “Right now I am not a knight; I am the son of your king. Disobey me at your own peril.” He looked at Duke Castar. “I’m sorry, but that means you too. I will be alone with my brother.”
Without waiting for an answer, he strode toward the nearest squire. “Your lantern.” He hooked his fingers under the handle without releasing Josen, let the light dangle beneath the body. Then, with a final glance at Duke Castar to make certain he didn’t mean to follow, Rudol carried his brother into the darkness.
He didn’t know how long he walked before he spoke, just that it was long enough. The trees eclipsed the lanterns of the squires far behind him. There was no sound but the scattered rustling of animals in the canopy above, the low hum of a lightfly swarm drifting by. Rudol and his brother were alone in the Swamp.
“I know you can hear me, Josen.”
No answer.
“I know what you did. I wish I could say I was surprised.” He paused again; still no reply. But in the quiet of the Swamp, he could hear the rasp of Josen’s breath. Faint, very faint, but it was there. “It was always going to end like this. You were always going to find a stupid, pointless way to die. Mother’s son to the end.”
He felt Josen stir, then, and his brother’s voice came in a hoarse groan. “Castar.” Nothing more, just a strained gasp of breath. It sounded painful. The swampling’s knife had missed the heart, but it must have pierced the lung.
“Duke Castar isn’t here. We’re alone. But he told me what happened. You betrayed us, Josen. Betrayed your people, your family, your king. You chose this. Remember that. You had everything and you threw it away for this.” He dropped to one knee and lowered Josen to the ground. “You wanted freedom? It’s yours. You aren’t coming back.”
Another rasping whisper. This time Rudol could only make out a few words. “Can’t let… kill…” Josen’s eyes were open now, but unfocused, searching blindly.
Rudol stood. “I’m not going to kill you.” Looking down at Josen, he could almost see the last of his brother’s old magic seeping away. There was nothing left of the boy he would have followed anywhere in this broken man at his feet. How did I ever worship you the way I did? He couldn’t even find it in him to be angry anymore. Now all he felt was pity. “I should, for what you did. Or take you home to stand the cliff, at least. Even you can’t get away with treason. But we were…” His throat tightened, there, and he had to stop. Brothers. We were brothers, once. He shook his head and clenched his fists. “I don’t want to be a kinslayer. If you die here, it won’t be by my hand. Maybe your swamplings will save you, or maybe they’ll feed you to the Deeplings. I don’t know. But if you survive, don’t come back to the Plateaus. If I see you again, I’ll kill you myself.”
“Rudol… please…” Josen lifted his hand, just slightly.
Rudol turned his back. “Goodbye, Josen,” he said, and left his brother there in the dark.
Zerill
Zerill followed Prince Rudol only because she didn’t know what else to do.
She’d shadowed the hooded man back toward his cave, but somehow she’d lost him on the way—when she’d reached the cavern, it was empty. And by the ti
me she’d returned to Castar, he was surrounded in knights; no chance to take him and escape alive. But there had been something strange in the way Rudol had looked at his brother’s body. When he had taken Josen away into the Swamp, her gut had told her to go along, and she’d listened.
She hadn’t known that Josen still lived until she heard him speak—if it could be called speaking. She couldn’t make out the dying prince’s words. Only Rudol’s voice was clear, and there was a pain in it that might have made her feel sorry for him, if Azlin had still been alive. If he and his knights hadn’t killed hundreds of her people that same day.
No, she couldn’t bring herself to pity a highlander. Not now.
“If I see you again, I’ll kill you myself,” she heard Rudol say. Another strained whisper answered him, and Josen’s hand lifted, then fell again.
And then Prince Rudol did something that Zerill could hardly believe.
“Goodbye, Josen,” he said. And walked away.
Impossible. She couldn’t believe her luck. Even a highlander wouldn’t do this. Leaving one of her kin behind was unimaginable to her; abandonment was worse than death. But Rudol kept walking, and didn’t look back. Prince Josen was alive, alone, and at her mercy. For the first time in her life, she found herself giving thanks for whatever inscrutable values guided the highlanders.
She waited until Rudol Aryllia was well out of sight before she descended from the trees. He was said to be a skilled fighter, and his size alone was enough to make her wary. She might take him by surprise, but it wasn’t worth the risk, not before she heard what Josen had to say. Even if she beat Rudol—and she was not at all confident that she could—two dead princes could only hurt whatever chance there was to end the highlanders’ purges.
Josen’s eyes were closed and there was blood on his lips, but she could hear his breath, slow and wheezing. She knelt beside him, and pressed the blade of her spear against his neck.
A wave of fury blurred her vision; it was hard to control, so close to him. “Look at me.” The words spilled out of her mouth too loud, even for loudspeech.
The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1) Page 20