by Megan Derr
They had wanted Beraht and he was going to find out why—one eye at a time.
Chapter Nine
Von Adolwulf was hot. Beraht supposed he really shouldn't have been surprised. The man raged while he was awake; it seemed perfectly in keeping for him to be hot while he slept as well.
Throwing off the blankets, Beraht slid out of the bed and enjoyed the chill that filled the rest of the room. Padding over the window, he pulled back the tapestry. Night. Pitch black and not a single star to be seen. He couldn't see anything beyond what little was revealed by the torches scattered about the palace. Soldiers on duty, a man who walked as if he were guilty of something, a dog shuffled through the courtyard, no doubt looking for scraps or something equally interesting.
No stars. No shadowed faces slinking through carefully darkened corridors looking for men who would do whatever was asked if the price was right. No men who were dying, unable or unwilling to give up the very thing that was killing them: Jaspar, who was only fifty, but looked twice that on a good day; Ormin and Tiad who would not be far behind him.
Beraht slid down the wall and stretched his legs out, letting his hands lay in his lap. He lifted one to touch the skin just beneath his eyes. Yellow, he knew—his eyes were bright yellow. Too much further, and he would need arcen simply to function.
He curled his hands into fists. The need clawed at his mind still, a deep ache in his body for a burn of which it had long been deprived. Better than anything alcohol could do and sweeter than the finest dessert. It was said that after a point even sex became bland alongside it.
The need was fighting a losing battle, however, because in the heart of Kria he was as likely to find arcen as he was another Salharan. He felt empty without it. As if some piece of him had been cut away. A voice whispered that it was a dead limb best lost, but Beraht shoved the words ruthlessly aside. Without arcen he was nothing. No longer a soldier; no longer a Brother. And, with his name given by an enemy, no longer truly Salharan.
Did he have a traitorous whore for a mother? He almost looks Illussor.
Beraht snorted at the thought. Absurd. He'd purposely forgotten most of his childhood, but he remembered the village. Far to the east, near the coast, and nowhere near the Disputed Lands, or any of the other borders.
Pale hair wasn't unique to the Illussor. Only their strange eyes that flashed like mirrors whenever they used magic. It was similar, he'd noticed before, to the way arcen-touched eyes seemed to glow, except Illussor eye color didn't change with addiction. If Beraht ever wanted to recall the true color of his eyes, he would have to never touch arcen again.
He'd always liked them arcen-touched, though. Arcen-tainted, some said. Those with homes and families, who were not made to kill to earn a name. Beraht drew one leg up against his chest and propped his chin on it.
The room grew uncomfortably cold as his overheated body finally cooled. Beraht didn't move.
Von Adolwulf planned to leave him there to rot. It sounded much like something the Brothers would have done. Except for the part where the Brothers would have had him screaming in pain, as well. Which left him to wonder what von Adolwulf was plotting.
Stars above, why hadn't he just stayed in the village?
Because he hadn't wanted to be nameless. He'd begged and pleaded and worked until his hands had bled, hoping to earn a name. It had taken him a year to reach the capital. He had joined the army because they would give him clothes, food, and a place to live—but not a name. Four other nameless he'd known then. They were all dead now, two from the war.
He was starting to shiver. Despite the thick tapestry—though could it be called that when it was only black with no decoration or ornamentation?—a steady draft slunk into the room and chilled everything it touched.
Stars, how did the Krians endure this year after year? The gloom was enough to drive a man insane, if the cold didn't simply kill him first. Only Krians would consider this home. Surely the Illussor didn't have it this bad?
On the bright side, if things got too unbearable he could simply go outside and freeze to death. It probably wouldn't take long. Beraht looked murderously toward the bed. That wouldn't be an option until he was nameless again, however. He'd spent his whole life trying to obtain a name. He killed that thought before it grew strong enough to send him plummeting back into the misery that had gotten him there in the first place.
Reluctantly he stood. Freezing to death was an option for the future, not the present. Grimacing at von Adolwulf's back, Beraht slid back under blankets that were now invitingly warm.
"Were you debating between attacking me and jumping out the window?"
Beraht started and immediately resented von Adolwulf for it. "Neither. Were you hoping for an excuse to beat me again?"
"I was hoping to sleep a night without interruption." Von Adolwulf sat up, little more than a slightly different shade of dark in the black room. "Perhaps I should have made you sleep on the floor."
"You're welcome to move there yourself," Beraht said. "Pardon me for finding this entire situation a little too awkward to sleep well." He rolled over and tugged the blankets up over his head. Already it was getting too hot again. "Too hot. Too cold. Can't you damned Krians learn the art of a comfortable medium?"
"Perhaps Salharans are simply weak." Von Adolwulf turned away.
Beraht made a face at what he thought was von Adolwulf's back. "At least we don't sleep with our swords in place of lovers."
"You have no idea what you're talking about, Salharan. It is no different than taking an extra dose of arcen before bedding down. Now shut up, or you will find yourself sleeping on the floor. Naked."
Beraht started to reply, but for once, thought better of it. If there was one thing that had been made clear ever since his capture, it was that von Adolwulf did not make idle threats.
*~*~*
Come morning, Beraht found the blankets were not too horrible a thing to have. "Why is it so damned cold!"
Von Adolwulf laughed at him. "Weak Salharan."
"This from the man who keeps five blankets on his bed."
"Makes it harder to determine where exactly I am."
Beraht mulled over that. "How very sad that you feel threatened in your own home. I'd feel sorry for you, but I've no doubt you deserve it." He threw back the blankets and immediately regretted it. Stars how did they do it? It would take a lot more than anyone could—or would—give him to make him live in a country like this for the rest of his life. He stalked across the room to where his clothes were piled, then sat down at the table to pull on the boots that were all that remained of his own belongings.
There was a knock at the door. Von Adolwulf moved to open it and stood back to admit the old man from the night before. Burkhard, he recalled.
"Good morning, Dieter." Burkhard dared a smile, which von Adolwulf did not return. "I was surprised you summoned me. Feeling rested?"
Von Adolwulf nodded. "Take him. Do whatever you feel. No one is to touch him. If you have problems," he turned and looked at Beraht as he spoke, "send for me."
Beraht ignored them both and finished lacing up his boots. "So what tortures are planned for me today?"
"A tour," Burkhard eyed him pensively then turned back to von Adolwulf. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"I'm sure it's a better idea not to question my orders," von Adolwulf replied. He lifted his cloak from the wall and swung it over his shoulders, then stalked across the room. Beraht didn't struggle when von Adolwulf grabbed his chin and forced his face up, though his grip was hard enough he could already feel bruises forming.
He barely noticed them anymore. "So what are my orders?"
"Behave," von Adolwulf said, "or I'll give you a taste of what being a prisoner normally means."
Beraht grunted as von Adolwulf roughly let him go. "So what does one do, exactly, when one is a suspended and universally hated general?" He smirked when von Adolwulf stiffened, but it turned to a frown when he realized no other reaction w
ould be forthcoming. "Bastard," he muttered softly in Salharan. The door slammed as von Adolwulf left.
"So," Beraht said into the silence, regarding his keeper with disinterest. He looked religious, but there was a definite look of old soldier about him too, right down to the ruined right hand that spelled out quite neatly why he was no longer in the army. "Is this where you show me around like a good little lackey and then you take me to the 'special' room and I get thrashed to a bloody pulp?"
Burkhard regarded him coolly. Beraht felt suddenly like a green recruit who had succeeded in pissing off his captain. He'd done it rather often. "The Lord General—"
"Suspended general."
"—has ordered that you're not to be harmed; I will carry out his orders."
Beraht snorted, but said nothing. The game was all too familiar.
"Come along… do you have a name, Salharan?"
He flinched. "Beraht," he said. Lying was not something one did with names.
"Beraht." Burkhard considered him, and again Beraht felt as though he were a fresh recruit under the eye of his captain. "I see."
Beraht didn't bother to ask what he meant. Burkhard wouldn't be forthcoming with answers. "So what am I to see first, Burkhard?"
"Your Krian isn't bad for a Salharan," Burkhard said, ignoring the question. "Where did you learn to speak it?"
"War," Beraht said.
Burkhard nodded. "Come. I want a good breakfast if I am to be forced to this ridiculous task. The Autumn Prince had best remember this when my leaf falls from the tree."
Stifling a sigh of his own, Beraht followed him out into the hall. He glared at every single person who stared at them. Most looked away, but a few started toward their swords before a gesture from Burkhard stilled them. If he was going to be forced to endure this ridiculous form of torture, then he was going to make sure everyone suffered with him. Though, he was secretly relieved when they bypassed the too-crowded dining hall and went straight into the kitchens.
He had to give von Adolwulf credit, however begrudgingly. Beraht was suffering, alone in the heart of the enemy's kingdom, enduring a name given to him by a man he hated, and the decision of whether he lived or died wholly at the discretion of that same man. Beraht hoped the bastard was suffering just as miserably wherever he was. A plate was set before him at the table, and Beraht made himself eat.
The food he'd eaten while they'd traveled had not been terribly appetizing. If there was one thing all soldiers had in common, no matter what their country of origin, it was bad food. This wasn't bad. It was a little heavy on the seasonings, but heartier than Salharan fare. He guessed even Krians couldn't ruin everything.
"Lord Grau!" Burkhard crowed. "Fair morning!"
Beraht looked up and watched the new arrival with mild interest. Just how common was it for the gentry to visit the kitchens directly? A longer look, however, said this one wasn't true nobility. He looked more like a country bumpkin. Though so far as Beraht knew, even lesser nobles didn't visit the kitchens if servants were available to do the hard work for them.
He listened to their conversation, but the Krian they spoke was too fast for him to keep up with. It was still nothing like what he'd heard von Adolwulf speak to the bandit, however. Beraht had not heard Krian like it since that moment in the woods. Perhaps it was something crude, used only by bandits and bastards. He bit hard into a piece of bread, surprised to find that it was slightly sweet.
Lord Grau said something which set Burkhard laughing. Grau turned to him. "Do my eyes deceive me, Burkhard, or is that Lord General von Adolwulf's prisoner?"
"Your eyes read right. Dieter bid me show him around." Burkhard shrugged. "I couldn't tell you why."
"One never knows what the Wolf is thinking," Grau said. "So what are you planning to do?"
Burkhard shrugged. "Show him around. Feels a bit silly, but orders are orders." He thought a moment. "Perhaps to the yards. Show him the Krian steel that always defeats Salharan pollution." Beraht bit back a reply.
Lord Grau laughed. "Just be careful not to show him too much, Burkhard. If he slips away, he'll take our secrets with him." He snapped his fingers suddenly. "How could I forget? Is it true they've suspended the Lord General von Adolwulf?"
Burkhard's face clouded. "Yes."
"I am sorry for you," Grau said gently. "For whatever reason, I know you do not hate him. I'm sure he'll be reinstated. Where would the Regenbogen be without the Scarlet Wolf?"
"That is true," Burkhard agreed, but his voice was full of doubt.
Beraht tried to keep his mouth shut and failed. "It would be given to those who would actually use it, instead of being soaked in blood because the Krians are too damn greedy to share what they don't use."
Burkhard eyed him. "It is our land."
"Che," Beraht said and fell silent. A crash broke off whatever remained of the argument. Burkhard spun around and immediately rushed over to help the maid who had dropped her burden across the kitchen.
Beraht noticed Lord Grau wander near and help himself to a small hunk of soft, white cheese. He focused on his plate. "You have a name, Brother."
The Salharan words made Beraht choke, and he quickly picked up a nearby glass of water to avoid anyone noticing. He flicked his eyes toward Grau, and they widened in shock to notice the telltale burn behind Grau's brown eyes. Arcen. Just the slightest bit. Probably only a sip, but enough to have upset a maid's tray from across the room.
He burned with shame to realize that a Brother had learned of his name. "Yes," he said softly, looking at his food.
"Why?"
"I did not want to die." He tore a piece of bread into small shreds. "Who are you?"
Grau gave barely audible laugh. "I am offended, Lieutenant. You once fought beneath my banner."
Beraht nearly choked on his food again. "General deVry!" he hissed.
"Yes," Sol answered. "We've much to discuss. But later." He finished filling two plates with food as Burkhard returned to them. "Good luck, Burkhard." Grau clapped him on the shoulder. "Be steady. Spring always follows winter."
Burkhard stared at Beraht, who glared back. "Yes, but I sense this winter is going to be especially long."
"You have no idea," Beraht muttered and went back to eating. His mind was racing however. What was General deVry doing here? Was he a spy?
Suddenly it made sense. The deVry family had been in disgrace ever since the general's father had been found guilty of treason. Beraht had known deVry was a Seven Star. Of course they would put him to such work—who better to shame than a man who already suffered?
Seven to watch the house. Seven to watch the field. Seven to watch the neighbors.
Except General Sol deVry had always appeared to be one of the seven on the field. Such deception would be perfectly in keeping with the Brothers. Beraht's shoulders hunched unconsciously. It was a painful reminder that he wasn't a Brother. He'd known they'd only sent him off to die and take as many Scarlet as possible with him. That had only made him more determined to prove them all wrong.
That was another hard dose of reality. Beraht shoved away what remained of his food. "Well, keeper. How about those yards?"
"Dieter was right," Burkhard said slowly. "You do have a mouth on you."
"Just tell him to beat me," Beraht said. He found suddenly he was beyond caring. Let von Adolwulf do whatever he wanted. Because unwanted he might be, General deVry had just made his presence known and had said they had much to discuss. Which meant he was going to do something to help. He hoped.
"I will, be assured." Burkhard finished his own plate and led the way from the kitchen. "This way." He guided Beraht through the halls, and Beraht continued to glare people down whenever they glanced his way—until someone glared back, startling him. It also forced him to recall that without arcen, he had no real idea how to fight. Minimal practice with a short sword would be little more than a joke against a Krian soldier. Stars, even the nobles could probably fight better than he.
Not once sin
ce he'd left home had he felt so inadequate. Even among the Brothers, it was acknowledged he knew his way around magic. Who else could have killed so many Scarlet alone? He had murdered hundreds of them in a single night and with only a single dose of yellow. He hadn't needed to stray anywhere near orange.
The clash of steel against steel, mingling with shouts and cries, broke into his reverie. Burkhard walked down a smaller hallway and then out onto a balcony that overlooked a large, dirt-packed ring below. It was massive, easily the size of the palace's grand hall and then some.
Men fought—practicing, though it didn't really look much different from the battlefield. Krians. Was there a season they didn't spend fighting? It was nice, however, not to be on the receiving end of it."So you stop fighting in the winter to come home and fight some more?"
Burkhard looked at him in disbelief and contempt. "Surely even the polluted have to practice their artificial tricks?"
"Strange," Beraht said. "That wound on your hand doesn't look artificial. More like a light knife spell."
"You are lucky, Salharan, that I would rather die than disobey the Lord General."
"Suspended Lord General," Beraht corrected. He leaned his elbows on the railing and watched the fighting, feeling the angry eyes glaring at his back. "Speaking of the Wolf, I'm surprised he's not here beating them all into the ground."
"That's because he would beat them all into the ground," Burkhard said. "No one will fight him anymore. They get tired of losing."
Beraht sneered. "Then they should get better."
"We've all tried," Burkhard said, "but Dieter and his nameless sword have no equal."
"Nameless sword?" Beraht asked absently, fascinated despite himself by the display below. Vulgar, most Salharans would have called it. Physical brutality was for animals and peasants too poor to afford even violet arcen. It was crude, primitive, and uncultured. Yet, he had to admit, these men almost made it look like an art form. It had never seemed so when the sword was coming at his head, but high and safe it was hard not to admire it at least a little. Then his words struck him. "Krians name their swords?" He stifled a laugh. Somehow he wasn't surprised. "You really do treat your swords like lovers, don't you? Too busy fighting to bother with a flesh-and-blood lover?"