Gasping in shock, the man kicked out but David jabbed a hand into the wound in his back. As the Alarian’s head jerked back in pain, David reached around with the dagger and held it to his throat.
“Don’t worry,” he hissed into the Alarian’s ear, “I’ll see that your grave gets closed in.”
A single sweep and the man’s throat was slit. He bled out in moments. David shoved his corpse downward, using it as a prop for his own scramble to freedom. The saturated dirt around the hole broke under him as he hauled himself out. He almost ended up back in the hole with the Alarian, but managed to get out before the whole thing collapsed in on itself.
Rolling away, David watched as the ground subsided, turning to slush, burying the soldier. The other body fell into the growing depression, a cascade of mud covering it as well.
Back in the rain, David blinked through the water running over his eyes. Visibility was down to perhaps a couple dozen yards. He could vaguely make out the tents of the Alarian occupying force, just see the top of the earthworks. The only movement was the rain. Lightning fanned out along the undersides of the clouds, casting everything in reverse light for an instant.
The tug of his task drew David toward the camp, insisting he get in there and find the boy. Now would be an opportune time, but if he didn’t know where the boy was it would be pointless. He’d only end up incapacitated again.
Ignoring the pain in his chest, from both the bullet and the need to complete his task, David turned away from the camp. He had to find somewhere to wait out the storm, then assess the situation.
Over the western horizon was the main encampment of Negron Battalion. Destroyed by the Alarians, there was still a chance he could salvage something to help him, along with the strong possibility the Alarians had left a unit there to clean up stragglers. It was about four hours away by foot. To the east, the hills were closer, but bereft of anything that might help David in the slightest.
Considering his options, David coughed and felt the small mass of the single-shot move in his chest. That wouldn’t be coming out easy, most likely.
Resigned, David turned east. Until he was completely healed he needed security before he needed weapons.
The rain didn’t let up during the two hour jog to the hills. He was quite thoroughly done with it by the time he clambered up a rocky slope, heading for what he hoped was a cave. He was utterly soaked and carried about three extra pounds of water in his boots. To make matters worse, he’d had to discard his weapons to avoid being struck by lightning. Tired, defenceless and feeling the bullet working its way up his throat, David finally staggered into what proved to be a decent cave.
It went far enough into the dark interior of the hill he couldn’t see the end of it, and it was tall and wide enough to offer some comfort. Throwing the heavy, wet leather coat off, David turned back to stare out at the rain. He couldn’t see the camp anymore, but he could sense it, feel the draw of the task laid on him.
A sharp point dug into his back.
So much for security.
Chapter 25
Alamar stood at the head of the table, watching his fellow councillors file into the chamber, their aides and pages clustering together in a last-moment effort to make appointments and discuss points on trade and security agreements. Isabel took her seat across from Alamar’s, immaculately presented as always. She gave him a small, supportive nod. Galo sauntered to his place next to Isabel, fixed the lacy cuffs of his shirt, brushed down his velvet lapels and threw himself into his chair with that same bored elegance he did everything. Alamar could remember resenting Galo’s insufferable cockiness when he was younger. Even before assuming the throne of Giron, Galo had been brash and hedonistic, traits that had settled into cultured arrogance and overconfidence as he grew. Now that he knew so many more truths about Galo, Alamar wondered he’d ever felt anything other than contempt for the man.
Bolivar de Leon was next to sit, his anger of the previous meeting replaced by miserable grief. There was guilt in there, as well. Guilt that impinged on his grief so no one could comfort him. The Duke of Leon slumped in his chair, his Knight and page stony-faced, warning everyone else to give their lord space. It was a dangerous combination, guilt and grief, liable to make an otherwise rational person do stupid things. Alamar would warn Isabel about her cousin after the meeting.
At the end of the table was Marquis Sarabia. His attendance today had been highly doubtful, the loss of Duke Sol seeming to weigh more heavily on the old man than it should. He sat with the help of his aide, setting aside his walking-canes with a hand that shook so hard the polished wood clattered against the table loudly. Embarrassed by the noise, Sarabia ducked his balding head and muttered apologies no one heard.
Alamar skimmed over the empty position for Roque and glanced at Caritina. She too had been hit hard by Sol’s death, which surprised Alamar somewhat. Of all the duchies, Navarro prided itself on being the most independent and Caritina was simply the latest in a long line of duchesses and dukes who’d enforced that position. They rarely showed great interest in the politics of the other duchies, conducting trade with a dedication to honest business morals and had managed to keep their royal line almost purely de Navarro. Though that was going to change as soon as the Immortal Soldier returned with Alamar’s wayward son. Ramiero’s protests to the marriage wouldn’t last long when Alamar had him back within his reach.
Finally, with everyone settled into their chairs, Alamar called the meeting to order.
“I know without a representative for Roque this meeting is unofficial,” he began, giving the gathering a gentle, understanding look, “but that is why I asked you to gather here today. A memorial service for Duke Sol de Roque will be held in the palace this evening and I do hope you all attend. The suddenness of his death didn’t allow any of us to say the things we wished he knew and, small though it may be, I would like you all to consider the service a chance to say goodbye.”
At the far end of the table, Sarabia shook his head. “Tragedy. Absolute tragedy. After his brother dying as he did, this is... it’s...”
“Tragic, old boy?” Galo offered.
Caritina shot Galo a dark, dangerous look. Galo murmured an apology and dusted invisible lint off his pants.
“Does anyone know what happened?” Caritina asked.
“There was little wreckage left to study, I’m afraid,” Alamar said. “I had my most skilled Engineers and Fire Mages go over the remains very thoroughly. The only thing they can say with certainty is it was the engine. Most likely the casement failed.”
Isabel nodded grimly. “As it is with most dirigible accidents.”
“As it was with Selestino.” Sarabia looked like he was going to say something more, but glanced at Galo and kept his mouth shut.
Alamar said, “I’m afraid we may never know exactly what—”
“I don’t believe it.”
All eyes turned toward Bolivar. He slumped in his chair, head lowered, a fist on the table top. Slowly, he raised his face enough to give Alamar a hooded, dark look.
“Roque has the safest dirigibles in all Delaluz,” he continued in a soft, deliberate tone. “After Selestino’s death, Sol made absolutely certain of it. I don’t believe it was a failure of the casement. I think it was deliberate sabotage.”
“Sabotage?” Isabel looked from Bolivar to Alamar and back. “Why would anyone wish to kill Sol?”
Bolivar kept his gaze on Alamar. “The other thing that hasn’t been answered to my satisfaction is why Sol was in his dirigible, flying east, when it happened.”
Isabel definitely had to take her cousin in a firmer hand. Alamar spread his hands in wide, innocent confusion. “I’m not saying that question has been answered to my satisfaction, either, but we simply don’t know why he was where he was when he died.”
“Was it something to do with the de Roque mage you’re punishing?” Galo asked casually.
Whatever else Sol might have been wrong about, he had been right in
wanting to find out how Galo knew about Castillo. “The issue of the Bone Mage had been settled between Sol and myself,” Alamar replied. “If Sol had discovered something in that regard that sent him away from Ibarra City in the middle of the night, then he has taken it with him into the Shadows. He made no mention of anything in relation to it to me, certainly.” Addressing the table as a whole, he said, “I understand the shock you are all feeling at this sad occurrence. He was my brother-by-marriage, brother to one of my greatest friends. I will miss him greatly. But the business of this council has not yet been completed and must be, despite our personal loss. Which is why I have gathered you all here today.
“Upon Duke Sol de Roque’s death, his wife, Duchess Aracelle de Ibarra y Deleon became the regent of Roque, until such a time as their son, Prince Sebastian Xavier, is old enough to assume the throne.” Seeing the obvious questions rising in the eyes of most of the people around the table, he added, “Abbess Orellana de Roque issued a temporary proclamation naming Duchess Aracelle regent until the Council of the First Estate can proclaim a permanent regent. For now, my sister will return to Ibarra City for the remainder of the Council of the Second Estate.”
“Well, well,” Galo murmured. “Your sister sitting in for our sadly, suddenly departed Duke of Roque. Nice little family reunion for you, Alamar.”
“Implying what, exactly, Galo?” Isabel asked with mild concern. “Surely you don’t think Alamar engineered all this just so he could make his sister vote whichever way Alamar wishes.”
Galo held up his manicured hands. “My dear, I did not mean to imply anything. I was simply remarking on a pleasant side effect of all this tragedy.”
“Not that Aracelle’s vote either way will influence the outcome of Princess Alegria’s petition,” Caritina snapped.
“No,” Alamar admitted, “but to close the petition we need a recorded vote for Roque. I can assure you all, though, that my sister will be appraised of the petition in full, by Princess Alegria, if she so wishes, and will then cast her vote however she sees appropriate. I also encourage you all to make whatever records you have of the discussion available to Aracelle so she may gain a full understanding of the events.”
There was a murmur of agreement around the table.
“Aracelle is due to arrive three days from today,” Alamar said in closing. “We shall meet the day after to finalise the issue of Princess Alegria’s petition. At that time, we will also decide if the rest of the scheduled agenda for this council needs to be seen to immediately. We’ve all suffered a great loss and I personally would prefer if any matters that can be delayed were.”
The meeting broke up quickly. Isabel lingered until they were alone in the chamber.
“Galo’s becoming a problem,” she said, smoothing out a wrinkle in her pants.
“I can control Galo. He needs his little moments of rebellion. If he ever stopped making his snide comments at the table, then I would begin to worry.” He gave her a hard look. “It’s Bolivar you should be concerned with. He was close to breaking today. If you can’t keep him quiet, things won’t be bad just for him, remember that.”
Her dark rimmed eyes narrowed. “Why can’t we just eliminate him like you did Sol? If Bolivar died, you know I have enough support in Leon to assume its throne. Herrera and Leon would both be mine.”
Then if he agreed to marry her, they would both be his. With Aracelle as regent in Roque, Galo and therefore Giron under his thumb, Ibarra, Herrera and Leon within his direct rule and Valdes’ royal line unstable, only Navarro would remain to oppose him. And only if the Immortal Soldier failed to return his son. Otherwise, with Ramiero married to the heir of Navarro, it would only be a matter of years before all Delaluz was Alamar’s to control.
It would be an easy solution. But impractical.
“Have patience, my dear,” he said. “If we move too fast, we risk exposing ourselves to canny bastards like Galo. I’m afraid you’ll just have to work harder to keep Bolivar quiet.”
Isabel’s lips pursed. “Have you heard anything from the Immortal Soldier?”
“No, but then I don’t expect to. The next anyone will know of him is when he brings the boy home.” He broke off the rest of his thought when he saw a page hesitate in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Your grace, please forgive me for interrupting, but Abbess Morales commanded me to hand this to you immediately.” The page brandished a sealed envelope.
Alamar snapped his fingers. “Well, bring it to me.”
The boy rushed over and offered up the missive. Alamar took it and waved the boy away, waiting until he was well gone before opening the envelope. The note was short yet immensely annoying. His top lip curled into a snarl.
Isabel gripped his arm and though her hold was strong, he barely felt it. “What is it? Is it Ramiero?”
“I don’t know. Morales has just received word from the main encampment in the north of the Valley. It seems Queen Irania has sent her Supreme General to negotiate peace.”
“Why would Alarie suddenly want peace?”
Something flickered in the corner of Alamar’s eye. Up in the exposed beams of the ceiling by the door. He stared at the spot, teeth gritted, hands curling into fists, the note from Morales crunching into a ball.
“Alamar?”
There was nothing there.
“What is it?” Isabel asked, following his intent gaze.
Teeth gritted against the hint of a doubt, Alamar said, “It’s nothing.” He took her arm and steered her out of the chamber.
#
Once the door had closed behind Alamar and Isabel, the air between two beams over the entrance shimmered. A camouflaging veil dropped and revealed two people crouched on the beams. They wore pale coloured clothes to help blend into the walls.
“We can’t wait any longer,” the bigger said, his voice grating painfully, as if his throat had been lacerated by dozens of razors.
“What will we do?” The smaller was female, her voice shaking with suppressed fear. She didn’t like being so high. All the emptiness between her and the hard floor taunted her.
After a moment’s contemplation, her companion grunted. “It’s time to be direct.”
#
It was still raining the following morning, a lighter, steady downpour that showed no signs of disappearing too soon. Gabe, Ismael, Pio and Botello had spent the night in uncomfortable bundles, moving each time a new leak in the thatching appeared. For the most part, the crude roofing kept them dry, but the dreary, continuous dripping wore on their collective patience until Pio and Botello were ready to tear each other’s throats out. It was almost a relief for Gabe when two soldiers came to escort him to the command tent.
Relief turned to sick dread when, in the yard, he saw another Delaluzian being tied to the mesquala’s pole. The executions continued with grim practicality despite the rain and the silence from the prisoners. Wishing he was strong enough to offer what support he could, Gabe turned away when Lieutenant Carufel raised his revolver to fire.
“Mage!”
Gabe faced the condemned man. It was Palo de Torres.
“Tell them we don’t know,” Palo yelled. He glared at Carufel and spat. “And that if we did, we still wouldn’t tell them!”
“This is your last chance,” Lieutenant Carufel said calmly. “Do you know anything that might help us find Rafe? Where he is, or if you’ve heard something that might lead us to someone who does know.”
“Didn’t you just hear what I said?” Palo asked him. “Or did I speak too fast for you, Alarian? I’ll repeat it with smaller words. Fuck you.”
Carufel’s fingers shifted on the butt of his gun. “You have a chance to save yourself and your fellow prisoners. Are you going to toss that away on a stupid insult?”
“Or maybe you could answer this question. You Alarians don’t let your women fight alongside you, and yet you will be ruled by one. Doesn’t that seem a touch hypocritical to you?”
“The politics of Alarie
are not in question here,” the lieutenant said.
“Carufel!” The strident reprimand came from Roulier, standing in the opening of the command tent. Hands on hips, eyes narrowed, he glared at the young officer. “You’re not supposed to enter into debate with the enemy. If he won’t speak about the boy, shoot him.”
“Yes, Colonel,” Carufel said.
Roulier stared at the lieutenant for a moment longer, then turned to Gabe. “The general will see you, now.”
As Gabe was hustled into the tent, the lieutenant fired and another Delaluzian was killed in cold blood. Swallowing a surge of bile and anger, Gabe settled a dark look on du Serres. The general noted it with a bland nod and motioned to the table.
Plates of food had been arrayed in front of Gabe’s usual seat. He was made to sit, the warm scent of fresh bread and hot stew battling with his sudden queasiness.
“I trust you managed to pass the night in relative dryness.” Du Serres sat at the head of the table.
“Definitely more room in the old hut now that Victor’s dead.” Gabe shoved the plates away.
“A necessary evil. I usually find it’s the most direct way to learning what I want to know.”
“Except it’s not working, is it. No one’s talking and the pile of dead is just getting bigger. Do you honestly think if your Supreme General manages to cement a truce what you’ve done here will be ignored? What you’re doing in that yard isn’t warfare. It’s murder. No one knows where the prince is. Someone would have told you by now if they did. No one, regardless of their loyalty or whether or not they knew Rafe was the prince, could allow this to go on for as long as it has!”
“Regardless of their loyalty,” the general murmured, gaze cast somewhere beyond Gabe’s shoulder. “Of all the various loyalties in this camp, I should think the one you would be most concerned with is your own.”
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