The Traitor’s Ruin

by Erin Beaty

  Darit halted about ten feet from a kneeling man, who didn’t appear to react to their presence, giving Sage time to study his profile by the light of the low lamp beside him. His skin was sun-bronzed like most Casmuni, but while the hair colors she’d observed ranged in shades of cedar, the king’s wavy hair and close-clipped beard were nearly black as ebony. A long, embroidered coat was tucked behind him, which differed from the loose breeches and jacket tunic she’d come to think of as Casmuni styled. On his left side a curved sword peeked out from the coat. Calloused hands rested lightly on his thighs as he sat in the center of a worn indigo carpet with his eyes closed.

  After several seconds, the king—for she assumed that’s who he was—opened his eyes but did not look at them. “I hear my friend has brought guests,” he said.

  “Da, Palandret,” answered Darit, bowing low.

  Without further acknowledgment, the king stood and stepped off the carpet, then bent over and picked it up. Gold stars had been woven into the rug’s faded blue-violet background, giving it the appearance of the night sky. He hung it on a pair of hooks with care, like it was precious to him, and at last turned to face them.

  He wore no crown or symbol of royalty she could see, other than perhaps the gold embellished belt and the jeweled hilt of his sword. The long jacket hung to his knees, but he matched Lieutenant Casseck in height, though not in thinness of build. In the light, his eyes were a deep shade of green, reminding Sage of dried seaweed. With purposeful strides, the king came to stand just beyond arm’s length of them. Sage tried not to fidget and hoped Darit hadn’t omitted anything in his instructions.

  The king studied her with an expression of dismay. “Has my friend brought me a pair of wendisam?” he asked. Sage had no idea what wendisam were, but it didn’t sound good. “They are but boys.”

  Darit’s mouth twisted up in what Sage had come to know as his ironic smile. “If My King would speak to them, he would see they are anything but.”

  The king raised his eyebrows and looked back to Sage and Nicholas. As Darit had bowed the first time he spoke, Sage crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her head; Nicholas followed her lead. “Bas medari,” she said, choosing to go with the older, more formal greeting.

  His expression was even more surprised when she looked back up. “They speak Casmuni?”

  Four days among the desert men had improved her grammar, pronunciation, and vocabulary, and she understood much more than she could speak, but that wasn’t enough. “Very little,” she answered.

  “My friend is modest,” said Darit, and Sage blushed that he’d called her his friend more than from the compliment.

  The king’s eyes had never left hers. “And a woman.” He now looked her up and down.

  Sage ground her teeth a little and reminded herself the Casmuni did not think it polite to speak directly to someone they hadn’t shared water with.

  As if also remembering this, the king gestured to his left and a servant appeared, holding a silver tray with a chalice and pitcher. He calmly took the cup and poured water into it, then looked her straight in the eyes as he took a long drink before extending it to her. Sage took a trembling step forward and accepted the chalice without breaking eye contact. Darit had described most sharings as casual, but when one met a king for the first time, all formality was observed.

  The Casmuni king didn’t reach for the cup when she was finished, which Darit had told her meant she was to hand it to Nicholas. It also meant the prince wouldn’t be addressed except through her, but she was glad to have them assume she was of higher rank. Nicholas took his sip and handed it back to Sage, and she offered it back to the king.

  The king replaced the chalice on the tray and extended his hands to her, palms down. “You are welcome in my tent,” he said formally. “I am Banneth, the seventh of that name.”

  Sage warily reached out, placing her fingers under his, and he grasped them gently. “I am well welcomed,” she said awkwardly, hoping that would work. “I am called Sage Fowler.”

  The king struggled to say her name as Darit had, then gave up and released her hands. “I am sorry I cannot say it correctly.”

  “It is nothing.” She extended an arm to the prince. “This is Nicholas Broadmoor,” she said, giving him her uncle’s surname. Banneth clasped one of the prince’s hands briefly and stepped back.

  Now what?

  Nicholas’s stomach roared audibly, and the king smiled. “Yes. I think we should eat.”

  67

  THE TABLE COULD have seated six, but there were only the four of them. Sage was invited to sit at Banneth’s left hand, with Nicholas beside her and Darit on the king’s right. The two men were casual and comfortable with each other. It was obvious they were close friends, and she was gladder than ever she’d helped Darit and Malamin escape.

  Darit gave an account of his mission, though Sage only understood sporadic words. His report sounded very thorough, and Banneth ate and asked questions, casting occasional looks at Sage and Nicholas.

  “Saizsch gave me this,” said Darit, now speaking slowly for her benefit. He pulled out her dagger and offered it to Banneth. “As a sign of friendship and to aid in our escape.”

  The king accepted the knife and unwound the leather strips on the hilt. She’d used the ones on Alex’s knife to bind Nicholas’s wrist, so now it was obvious the daggers matched. Banneth ran his thumb over the golden SF. “Saizsch Fahler,” he said, pairing her name with the letters.

  There was room for a Q, but it would never be there now. The food in her mouth suddenly tasted like ashes.

  “I do not think she knows what it meant,” Darit said.

  Sage’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two men. What unknown custom had she breached?

  Banneth looked amused. “I assume you will not accept,” he said.

  Darit chuckled. “No.”

  The king turned to Sage, suppressing a smile that reached his eyes nonetheless. “Giving one a weapon means you are friends.” He held up the dagger. “Giving a gift with your name on it like this proposes marriage.”

  Sage choked, spitting crumbs all over her plate. Nicholas pounded her on the back until her coughing subsided. When she could finally breathe, she drank all the water in her cup to avoid looking at Darit or the king.

  Banneth handed the dagger back to her. “Don’t ask,” she said in response to Nicholas’s confused look. Face flaming, Sage jammed the weapon on her belt. “I have much to learn about Casmun.”

  “As I have much to learn about Demora,” Banneth replied. He paused thoughtfully. “Are you familiar with any other tongues?” he asked in Kimisar.

  Before she could debate how to respond, Nicholas’s head jerked up, his eyes wide, giving himself away. Sage took another slow sip of water from the cup Darit had refilled. “Yes, I am,” she said in Kimisar.

  “I take it no one asked,” said Banneth with a glance to Darit, who looked shocked. “And it was not something you wished to reveal.”

  “I chose to leave it unsaid,” she answered.

  “Wise as well as brave.”

  She felt herself blush again. “I do not know all my friend here has told you about me, but I do not consider myself either wise or brave.”

  “I assure you he said nothing bad.”

  Sage’s mouth twisted up on one side. “But not all of it was good.”

  Banneth chuckled. “Good people are boring.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “I’m sure you have many questions,” said Banneth. “Please ask. I will answer.”

  “So I may return the favor?”

  The king smiled wryly. “Of course.”

  “Are we your prisoners?”

  He shook his head. “No, you are my guests.”

  She wasn’t quite ready to believe him. “What do you plan to do with us?”

  “That I have not decided,” he said. “I do not yet understand what your presence means.” She tensed a little. “But should you wish to l
eave, I will not stop you.”

  That meant little considering the desert between her and home. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

  “May I ask questions now?”

  She nodded. “Please … except first, how may I call you?”

  Banneth thought for a moment. “Palandret is traditional. But I am not your king. Would that cause offense to say?”

  “No, Palandret.”

  Banneth nodded, then went straight to business. “Why were you in Casmun?”

  The question no doubt referred to both times, but Sage decided to address only the second. “We were running from a Kimisar attack. We escaped, but they pursued us, and we continued into Casmun out of necessity.”

  “You are the only survivors of the attack?”

  Sage flinched. “No, most survived.”

  Green eyes shifted to Nicholas. “Why do the Kimisar want your young friend?”

  Sage’s stomach somersaulted. Somehow Banneth had figured out Nicholas was the valuable one. Her right hand drifted toward the hilt of one of her knives.

  Darit tensed. “My King,” he whispered in Casmuni. “I have had to restrain her before.”

  The king seemed unafraid as he looked her straight in the eye. “If your friend is worth chasing, worth dying for, you understand my need to know his importance.”

  Thank the Spirit Nicholas was silent; it allowed her to think. Sage combed through every interaction she’d had with Darit. Nothing she said now could contradict what he’d seen. “They wanted him for ransom,” she said, starting with what she suspected was the truth.

  Banneth nodded. “But not you.”

  “No.”

  “You are not brother and sister, then?” The king glanced at Darit.

  Here was an out—apparently that was what Darit had assumed. She’d introduced the prince as having a different last name, however. Either they hadn’t noticed or she was being tested. It was highly unlikely the Casmuni knew what her botanical name implied—or that they even knew sage was a plant—but it gave her an idea. “Different mothers,” she said. “He is the heir, but I am nothing.”

  “I see.” Banneth seemed to understand she was saying she was illegitimate. “And what is he heir to?”

  “Land, mostly.” A roundabout truth.

  The king nodded again. “Why, then, were you and Nikkolaz in the company of soldiers?”

  Sage should’ve anticipated that, but she’d not counted on being questioned in a language she could speak. She racked her brain for what Darit had seen while a prisoner. What must he have learned or suspected about Alex and the mission into the desert?

  Alex. The thought of him hit her like a blow. Suddenly she could think of nothing else.

  “I am learning to be a soldier,” Nicholas said abruptly.

  “Let me handle this, Nicholas,” Sage snapped in Demoran. Her mind still felt like it was stuck in the mud, but the prince’s words were like a rope she could grasp on to and pull herself out with.

  “Sage snuck into my training to watch over me,” he continued, unperturbed. “She’s always following me like I need her protection.”

  Now she regretted teaching him Kimisar so well. Sage seized his uninjured arm without taking her eyes off Banneth. “Enough,” she snarled. “Not another word, Nicholas.”

  “See what I mean?” Nicholas said. She applied pressure to his wrist, and he whimpered but finally shut up.

  Sage tried unsuccessfully to smile. “Do you have any younger brothers, Palandret?”

  “No,” Banneth said, green eyes sparkling in amusement. “Only a sister.”

  Sage brought her hands back to the table and made herself relax. “Would you like to trade?”

  The king chuckled. “We can negotiate.”

  * * *

  The Casmuni king created a space for them in his tent, adding to the image of their treatment as guests, but it didn’t escape Sage that it also meant they were heavily guarded. The moment they were alone, Sage grabbed the prince’s elbow. “Never do that again, Nicholas. I have reasons for not telling them the truth, foremost being your safety.”

  “I know, I just had an idea that explained everything.” His brow wrinkled in concern. “And you seemed to be struggling.”

  Sage rubbed her forehead. “You were lucky,” she said. “We were lucky.”

  “You have to admit I pulled it off pretty well, though,” Nicholas said proudly.

  He had. The prince had saved both of them when her mind had failed. She sighed. “Just promise to consult me first next time, please. No surprises.”

  Nicholas nodded. “No surprises.”

  He sat down on the blankets and cushions that were apparently meant to be his bed, and Sage settled in the area designated for her. The Casmuni king had a partitioned space on the other side of the tent. “What do you think of our new friends?” she asked.

  “I like them,” Nicholas said. “Food’s not bad, either.”

  “Trust you to appreciate that.”

  “Will you sleep tonight?”

  Apparently he’d noticed how little she’d slept on their journey. “I’ll try.”

  “Good. You look tired.”

  Sage grimaced. “Which is a nice way of saying I look like shit.”

  He grinned as he lay down and drew a woven blanket up to his chest. “Yes.”

  “Twerp.” She sank back on a cushion and turned away, unhooking a knife from her belt to keep handy.

  Alex’s knife. Her inner vision swam with the image of his face, tense with anxiety, as he pressed it into her hand back at Tegann. Remember what I taught you. He’d loved her then, even as she rejected him out of anger and spite.

  His last actions showed he’d never faltered in that love. She would never have a chance to prove her betrayal had been out of love, to save him from the consequences of his actions.

  Sage squeezed her eyes shut as she gripped the dagger. Alex had died in protection of the prince. Now the only thing that mattered was making sure it hadn’t been in vain.

  68

  THERE WAS A fire in front of him, the light of the dancing flames penetrating his consciousness. Alex struggled to open eyelids that felt as rough as sand. His mouth was parched, but not as badly as he’d last remembered. He wore only a shirt and breeches from the feel of it, and both were wet, as was his hair. Alex rolled to his back and groaned with the pain of a hundred cramping muscles.

  Hands appeared on either side of him, and Alex was too weak to resist as they raised him into a sitting position. Something was put to his lips, and water—warm but blessedly wet—trickled into his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty; the back of his throat felt melted shut.

  After a few sips, the water was pulled away and poured gently over his face, and Alex was finally able to open his eyes and see. It was night, and he lay in the shelter of a grove of trees. The faces of two men swam into view. Casmuni.

  Apparently he wasn’t dead. Yet.

  The waterskin was again brought to his lips, and he instinctively tried to grab it with his mouth and suck on it to bring the water faster, but they pulled it away. “Remoda,” one of the men admonished.

  Alex didn’t understand the word, but took it to mean he was to drink slower. He nodded and the water came back. After a few minutes, they took it away and laid him down, this time against a soft pile of something. “More,” he begged them. “Please.”

  They shook their heads and left him, shortly replaced by a third Casmuni holding a bowl. This man sat beside Alex and patiently fed him a thick, orange liquid. Between spoonfuls, Alex looked around, counting ten men coming and going around the fire. At least two watched him like it was their job, and all were armed with daggers and curved swords. The soup was made from some kind of stewed fruit, a bit like a tart peach, and when it was gone he only knew he wanted more. Another few sips of water was all they would give him.

  His stomach full, Alex’s eyelids drooped with the need to sleep—real sleep this time, not just unconsciousnes
s.

  The last thing he felt was his wrists being tied together.

  * * *

  Twice before daybreak he was half awakened and given more water. When the sun came up, Alex was feeling nearly human again.

  Throughout the day, they fed him doses of the tart concoction, which had a bizarre, herbal aftertaste from something the cook started adding. Alex had to trust that the desert men were experts at treating his condition. He was certainly feeling better—the muscle cramps had abated, and he wasn’t always thirsty. By evening he was permitted to eat a few solid foods. Afterward they took him to a pool of water at the center of the trees where he was allowed to wash himself, at least as well as he could with his hands tied.

  Early the next morning, Alex was given as much water as he wanted to drink and some of the thick porridge the rest of the men ate for breakfast. He had to drink his portion rather than use utensils, as they wouldn’t untie him, though he asked. With some trepidation he watched them pack up the camp. Would they make him walk barefoot and bareheaded, or would they leave him here? He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

  Then Alex saw his sword belt among their things. He couldn’t remember if he’d gotten it off before collapsing, but if they knew it was his, it marked him as a warrior. No wonder they didn’t trust him. The man he’d picked out as the leader of the group approached, carrying an armload of leather clothing. They’d found his abandoned jacket and boots. Alex wondered how far he’d gotten without them.