by Megan Derr
"Bandits?" He was suddenly glaringly aware of how wretched his Krian truly was. He'd learned from the battlefield, from those few comrades who had been fluent and willing to teach and from listening to Krian soldiers as he had sneaked around their camps committing sabotage and murder. He'd been proud of it, even knowing he was far from skilled. Now he felt the sting of knowing exactly how awful he was. It shouldn't have mattered, but was one more slap in the face. Worse still was the realization that von Adolwulf had been speaking at his level the entire time. A sly mockery he had not bothered to pick up on until now. The bastard had probably been laughing at him the whole time.
"Yes," von Adolwulf replied. His Krian was what Beraht was familiar with, nothing like what he'd spoken to the dead men. "They thought us traveling nobles."
Beraht snorted. "What sort of noble travels alone?"
"A real one," Von Adolwulf replied. "They are wealthy enough they need bring nothing but themselves when they travel to the Winter Palace. What sense does it make to travel with wagons and servants in this weather?"
"What sense does it make to travel in this weather? Only a stupid Krian would consider this ideal." Beraht gave into impulse and drove his elbows back, dissatisfied to hear only a brief grunt.
Von Adolwulf grabbed the back of his head, pulling hard and turning it so that they were eye to eye. "I have been generous because of the weather, Beraht. Do not think I'll hesitate to beat you senseless if I feel it necessary. While I'm sure you're plenty strong for a Salharan," the words were sneered, "you are little more than a petulant child to me." The hand tightened in his hair, and Beraht choked on a hiss of pain.
"As to the weather—there is no choice. The snow falls so every year at this time. The Winter Princess is cold, but she is dependable." Von Adolwulf laughed.
Beraht muttered a few choice curses in Salharan. He did not relish being tossed into the snow, which he suspected would be von Adolwulf's next method of warning him. "So why on earth do Krians wait to move now?"
"Most move well before now," von Adolwulf said after a moment. "We are late, not least of all because I am trying to make sure that no one else comes after you." The hand roughly let go of his hair, and Beraht resettled his hood. "For many, if they did not move to the palace the weather would kill them—usually from starvation." Von Adolwulf paused. "We cannot all be soft Salharans and enjoy the sun all year long."
"At least it keeps us from turning into blood-thirsty bastards." Beraht realized too late that he should have kept his mouth shut.
Snow was even colder when landing in a pile of it—and it was only the snow that probably kept him from breaking or twisting something. Von Adolwulf loomed over him. "Bloodthirsty? Krians?" He grabbed Beraht and shook him hard; the world spun around in drunken circles. "Who is it always seeking to steal our land? At least we fight honestly, instead of hiding behind drugs and slinking around in the dark. Bloodthirsty? Perhaps. But at least I am no coward."
"Just a bastard," Beraht hissed and lashed out to kick von Adolwulf off his feet as he let go. Clearly the cold was shutting down his ability to think if he'd actually thought that might work. "Let me go!" He thrashed without effect, tangled in his own clothes and pinned by von Adolwulf.
"Behave, Beraht. I would hate to have to tie you up for the rest of the journey. You've been behaving so well." His face said he knew exactly how mad he was making Beraht. "Do you want to travel trussed up and thrown over my saddle like the worthless mongrel you are?"
Beraht snarled a few Salharan curses which turned into cries of pain as von Adolwulf hauled him roughly to his feet. More bruises. His body was starting to forget what it was like not to have them. "Let me go," he said sullenly.
"Stupid Salharan," von Adolwulf said with one of his hard laughs. He all but threw Beraht back up onto the horse. The gloomy silence that had existed most of the day returned, and Beraht was left alone with his thoughts and a fresh set of pains to endure.
And always the unending white. It was a wonder to him they could still move. However, von Adolwulf's horse seemed as unaffected by the weather as his master. Monsters both of them. "How do you even know where we're going?" he asked when the silence grew too grating. If von Adolwulf wanted him to shut up, no doubt he'd let him know. "After your little chat with the cold, starving bandits there is no telling what our direction was."
Von Adolwulf snorted in contempt. "The horse knows."
"Oh, of course. How stupid of me. Trust a horse as equally blinded by the weather as us to know where to go. Too much longer, and the snow will be too deep to move."
"Then it is a good thing that we will be stopping soon, isn't it? Give it a little longer, Salharan, and you will see our shelter for the evening."
"Another temple? Or are you going to terrify a farmer's family out of their home?"
Fingers wrapped around his throat and dug in. The leather was cold and stiff, and the hand beneath it was strong. Beraht found it harder to breathe than ever. "I think it would be healthier for you, Beraht, if you kept your mouth shut. Your suffering does not trouble me at all, but I would be willing to bet it troubles you." Von Adolwulf pressed tighter for a moment then abruptly let go.
Beraht coughed and gasped for air, holding his hand to his throat. Already he could feel the bruises forming. As if the cold did not make it hard enough to breathe, now this. "Bastard."
There was no reply.
*~*~*
Dieter was relieved to see that not all the stores had been depleted. Ludwig was a lazy bastard, and Dieter would not have put it past him to have left the place empty. The building, two stories and half again as wide, was a resting lodge for soldiers and other large groups traveling westward for the winter.
It should have been crammed to bursting with the men who usually returned home with him. Instead, he had only the man responsible for their deaths to keep him company and a grim homecoming to look forward to. Dieter cast the thought aside as idle and began to prepare to bed down. When they left in the morning, they would be no more than three days away, and the road was heavily traveled, so it would not be as hard a journey as it had been up to that point.
There would also be people, which he had been avoiding, but that could not be put off forever. Let the bastards come; he'd been waiting far longer than they. "Nothing here will bite you," he jeered, eyeing the way Beraht lingered in the doorway.
Beraht ignored him, save for a few muttered Salharan curses, and wandered inside. It was, in their long journey, the only building that wasn't a hole in the ground or an empty farmhouse. No doubt it irked him to see that the Krians were more civilized than he wanted them to be.
"Make yourself at home, Beraht." Dieter wandered down the hall, past the small rooms for housing soldiers and into one of four special rooms reserved for the generals or whatever lord had decided to stop. He lit the lamps, four of them, scattered around the room.
A proper bed, which was the second thing he most missed when he was on the battlefield, far from the comforts of home. Most of all, he missed being clean. He was so very tired of being filthy.
The bathing chamber was clean at least—most likely because Ludwig had not troubled himself with something as bothersome as cleanliness. Dieter exited briefly to fetch Beraht, whom he found in one of the smaller bedrooms. "Come," he said then strode out and stalked back down the hallway.
He heard Beraht follow and closed the door behind him. "We will stay here tonight. Tomorrow we will reach the capital." Dieter grinned viciously. "Are you looking forward to it, Beraht?"
Beraht ignored him. He strode across the room and began to remove his outer wear, hanging up the cloak and gloves and extra layers on various hooks intended for the purpose. Next he sat down on a nearby chair and began the laborious process of removing his high boots.
Dieter shrugged out of his own cumbersome cloak. He valued it nearly as much as his sword, but it was heavy. When he'd first begun wearing it at only sixteen years of age—and he was more than double that now
, how tiring—it had been too heavy. He'd been forced to damn near freeze to death until he had managed to scrounge up something he could wear and fight in.
By eighteen, however, it had fit perfectly, and minimal repair had been required over the years. It had been made by a master of the craft and, like the man who had made his sword, she was no longer alive to make another.
More idle thoughts. Dieter snorted in contempt and unbuckled his sword belt. He carried it with him as he went into the bathing room. It was not a real bathing room, not like the one waiting for him in the palace, but it was better than what he'd endured so far. He discarded his clothes, which reeked of sweat and dirt and too many days spent on a horse—with a Salharan—and cast them aside. Nobles and soldiers kept all they needed in the stops along the ways, something he had tried to explain to his ignorant prisoner to no avail.
Quickly Dieter scrubbed himself clean, steeling himself against the cold water he used to rinse off. He sat at the edge of the cold bath to shave. The small mirror showed that he would need a good night's rest when the journey finally ended.
It was almost impressive that Beraht had managed to more or less keep pace. Then again, anger and fear made good motivators, and Dieter made sure both persisted in gnawing away at Beraht. Combined with the fact that Dieter did little to keep Beraht confined, he was no doubt quite off balance. Dieter intended to keep him that way. It would make for one less problem in the coming days.
At the back of the bathing room was a smaller room used for storing belongings. Several trunks ran the length of three sides. Dieter flipped open one against the back wall and rifled through it for the clothing he needed. Pulling on his underclothes, Dieter then drew on a pair of breeches old enough they fit him perfectly, followed by a white undershirt and then a heavier one black. Over all this he pulled on a sleeveless tunic, brilliant scarlet, trimmed in gold, with the crest of the Autumn Prince over his chest—a triad of autumn leaves, joined at the stem and spreading out to form a triangle.
He reentered the main bedroom; Beraht stood by the window, staring out at the snow. Dieter wondered what he found so fascinating in something he clearly hated. "I don't recommend running."
"The snow is more appealing than your company, but I'm not ready to leave quite yet." Beraht turned to glare at him. "As I've said before, you'll be begging me to leave when I'm done."
"Words are nothing when there are no actions to back them up. Would you like to fight me again?" Dieter goaded. "You're getting quite good at living without pollution—you can almost swing a punch correctly."
Beraht twitched, but otherwise held still. "When you die, the place where your star should have been will be nothing but an empty space in the sky."
"Then it's a good thing I've no interest in my soul becoming a star," Dieter returned. "Get clean."
Grumbling and muttering, Beraht nevertheless obeyed. Even a Salharan, it seemed, could be taught one or two tricks. All it took was dumping water on his head a few times. Dieter laughed to himself, then turned his attention to other matters.
How to figure out what the Illussor had been up to trying to take a Salharan… prisoner? Or had it been some sort of rescue attempt? His face clouded as the thought occurred to him. What was the name that floated about for the rumored Illussor spy? Spiegel. That was it. Could Beraht be Spiegel?
Dieter dismissed the thought in the next instant. No. Excluding how obstinate Beraht had been over the matter of a name, he did not have the temper or control of a spy. He could have been acting, but Dieter doubted it. Beraht angered far too easily and lashed out too quickly for it to be a farce.
He hung his cape on one of the remaining hooks on the wall, but his boots and sword he carried to the bed—the boots he set beside it, and the sword he kept closer to hand.
Outside the world was black. The snow had eased and finally stopped through the course of the day. Night fell quickly now, and they had traveled two hours in the dark. Not even the moon had been out to guide them. Dieter had ensured Drache was well tended and fed before permitting himself rest. Perhaps he could see that Drache went to a farm, rather than to another soldier, when everything was over.
Dieter's fingers flitted to his sword, and he rubbed a thumb along the red jewel in the pommel. A moment later he rose and stalked from the room.
The kitchen was mostly barren. No others would be coming through the lodge for some time, so it would not need to be restocked until the snow melted in spring. Only the basics remained, but it was more than enough. Dieter frowned when he came across a heavy, earthen jug. He pulled the cork and smelled—then threw the bottle across the room and watched as it shattered into pieces. The scent of dark wine filled the room, mingling with the lingering scents of fire and roasted meat and too many men.
Taking the dried meat and fruit he had found, Dieter grabbed a jug of water and stormed back toward his room. Beraht was by the window again, hair dripping onto the clothes he had stolen: brown breeches and a too-long green tunic cinched at his hips. How did such a slight man survive so long at war? Snapping him in half wouldn't even have been a challenge.
Dieter dropped the tray on the table and helped himself. "Hoping to be rescued, Beraht?"
"How much further have we to go before we reach this wretched palace of yours?" Beraht asked, ignoring the mocking question.
"We are only a day from the Winter Palace."
"Does this palace have a name, or is that giving Krians too much creativity?"
Dieter shrugged. "It is the Winter Palace."
Beraht rolled his eyes. Wandering over to the table, he helped himself to the bread and sausage that had been set out. "I don't suppose you heathens keep wine about this place, do you? That's the least I deserve after all this."
"A prisoner deserves nothing," Dieter said. "You should be grateful that I treat you as well as I do."
"Well? I've got bruises and cuts in thirty different places all because you think the way to end a conversation is with violence."
Dieter laughed. "It shuts you up, doesn't it? And I will gladly make it fifty if you do not shut up right now." He laughed again when Beraht fell silent.
He let his mind wander for a bit, giving it a chance to clear. Gradually he brought his attention back around to the question of Beraht and the Illussor. It was strange behavior for the Illussor, who seemed to fight for no apparent reason. The war over the Regenbogen was between Kria and Salhara. Why the Illussor had gotten involved was a reason that had been lost before Dieter's time. They appeared infrequently and usually only to ensure the war was not getting too close to Illussor territory.
Then again, with their nasty little mind-trick, there was really no telling how often they appeared. So basically he knew nothing useful. No doubt it was something that made sense only to magic-tainted minds.
"What is your etiquette on prisoners? I can't imagine this sort of journey is standard fare, though really you should consider adding it to your repertoire of tortures."
Dieter continued eating, unfazed. He finished a length of sausage before bothering to answer. "Most are given nothing but water and are kept bound. I may yet do the same to you, Beraht."
"You're just infuriated that I managed to kill so many of Kria's best soldiers—well, supposedly the best."
Dishes and food flew about as Dieter upended the small table and pinned Beraht to the floor with it, resting his weight until he knew Beraht could barely breathe and was in excruciating pain, though the pressure was not quite enough weight to break anything. "How do you like it? Pinned and helpless, your life completely in my control? Feeling angry? Scared? Want to kill me? My men died in their sleep. They had as much chance to save their own lives as you do right now. At least you had some warning. If you killed my men, Salharan filth, it is because you were a coward about it."
In one smooth move Dieter rose, threw the table aside, and reached down to haul Beraht to his feet. "Do not doubt for one second that I won't make you suffer. Every day, for the rest of your
life, you will regret killing my men as you did."
Though sore and shaken and gasping for breath, Beraht lashed out to drive Dieter back. It had no effect. Dieter threw him on the bed. "You keep talking about this suffering, but beyond your usual crass behavior, bloodthirsty Krian, I've yet to suffer."
Dieter threw his head back and laughed. "You don't think it's punishing enough to spend the rest of your life as my prisoner, Beraht? To know that until the day you die, you are mine. For the rest of your life, you will be in Kria. Under my control. Bearing the name I gave you. I do not understand the Salharan obsession with names, but I know you despise that I named you. That will serve nicely, at least until I think of something worse."
He'd expected a fight, but Beraht merely turned away and lay on his stomach in the bed, staring out the window on the far side of the room. Dieter sneered at his back then turned to clean up the mess he'd made of the food. When the table was righted, he blew out the lamps and sat at the table, mulling over events past, present, and future.
When he was certain Beraht was fast asleep, he climbed into the empty side of the bed and eventually fell asleep, one hand on his sword.
Chapter Six
Iah held fast to the arm at his waist, willing—ordering—himself not to panic. There was too much noise and so many people. They pressed too close, shouting, and laughing. The smells of smoke, meat, something sweet assaulted him. In the inns and along the road, he'd been able to handle it. The crush of the people at the Winter Palace, however, was overwhelming.
Sol tugged his arm free and clasped Iah's hand. "It's all right," he said softly in Iah's ear, daring to speak Illussor. "We're nearly through to the palace proper."
Iah nodded, but didn't let go of Sol's hand, as weak as it made him feel to need such reassurance. Who was he to be reduced to this? Certainly not Iah Cehka. No, for now at least he was Erhard Grau. Was it all right, then, to be weak? What had happened to the man he used to be? Now he felt like a frightened boy.
The noises gradually faded, replaced by the more controlled chaos of what he knew immediately must have been the palace. It wasn't simply in the reduction of sound. The air was fresher and laced with the smell of people and food and a bite of frost. However, it also carried the scent of flowers and faint traces of perfume.