Tyrant’s Blood

by Fiona McIntosh

  “But, Freath,” Faris interjected. “This is foolish. No one knows what I look like; Loethar’s people—magical or not—have no way of earmarking me.”

  “Not you, perhaps—not at the moment, at least—but they have one of your men marked.”

  “No one was seen,” Jewd qualified.

  Freath shook his head sadly. “But he bled.”

  “So what?” Leo frowned.

  “I can even tell you where he bled,” Jewd offered. “He bled onto a tree. Not much either…unnoticeable to most.”

  “One of the Vested,” Freath said seriously, “according to Loethar, has the curious ability to recognize a person through their blood.” He watched his trio of companions frown.

  “What?” Faris asked. “How? Smell?”

  Freath shook his head. “Taste. He tasted the blood that was spilled from the arrow-wound and now Loethar is in a celebratory mood that it is only a matter of time before Vulpan marks the man. You have got to get that man away from our king.”

  He watched Faris walk away to lean against a tree, thinking and then his big friend, Jewd, moved to stand near. Leo had not moved. “Where did you hide, majesty?”

  “That is a secret that I must pass on only to another Valisar, Freath.”

  He nodded. “In that case, you will be pleased to know the other news I have heard.” He flicked a brief glance at the two men talking urgently between themselves, then looked back to the king. “We believe your adopted brother, Piven, though lost, has not perished.” He saw Leo straighten with interest and even in the dim light could see the monarch’s eyes flash with a new intensity.

  “You’re sure?”

  “No, sire, I cannot be sure but the person who sent the news is very reliable—a true friend and loyal to you. Kirin Felt has gone in search of him. We understand that Piven has been living in and around Minton Woodlet.”

  He watched relief spread over the young monarch’s features. “I thought Loethar might kill him.”

  Freath nodded. “In his strange way, majesty, Loethar was fond of Piven. He once confided in me that he had two friends, neither of whom spoke. One was the bird that you know about, the one he called Vyk. The other was Piven.”

  “My brother was always so affectionate and good to everyone,” Leo admitted. “I hated watching him be so friendly to the barbarian.”

  “The good thing is, your majesty, that he is considered long dead. Loethar has effectively dismissed both of you from his mind. If Piven is found, we can not only re unite you brothers but we finally have a reason to rally people.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Faris counseled quietly to Leo, arriving back from his discussion. “We have to take this Vested working for the barbarian seriously.”

  Freath gave a sound of relief. “Thank you. Just get your wounded man as far away from here as possible. Send him to Medhaven or better still, put him on a ship somewhere to…”

  “You don’t understand, Master Freath,” Leo interrupted. “You see, the injured man is me.”

  Ten

  It was nearing morning and they’d begun traveling after midnight. Greven took Piven’s hand and the boy hauled him up onto the ledge.

  “If Leo was trying to find this Kilt Faris you speak of, what’s our best direction, do you think? Heading more west toward Caralinga so we can hug the coast, or is it best to keep inland, perhaps veer slightly more east, making for Berch in the north via Tooley?”

  Greven looked at Piven, baffled. “Honestly, my boy, I can’t answer that. Lily and Leo took off a decade ago. I’ve had no word. They may be south for all I know. They may be in another realm.”

  “Compass,” Piven corrected.

  “They could even be gone from our shores altogether.”

  Piven considered this. “I doubt it.”

  “Why? Leo would be a man already, Lily might even be married, have children.”

  “Because Leo is king, that’s why. He belongs here in Penraven.”

  “Despite what you sense, Leo might be dead. Have you considered that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Well, then I would be king, I suppose,” Piven countered, pulling angrily at the leaves on a nearby bush. He scattered the tiny flecks to the wind.

  Greven was disturbed. “No, that’s not right. The Valisar line ends with Leo.” He suddenly began to cough; his breath dragged in with short rasps.

  “Greven?”

  “Let me sit,” he managed to choke out.

  Piven lowered him to the ground. “What’s happening to you?”

  Greven clutched at his chest and winced. “I’m getting old, I suppose.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Don’t fuss, child.”

  Piven pulled the older man’s hands away. “Look at me,” he demanded.

  “Piv—”

  “Please.”

  Greven obliged, taking the opportunity to study the child in the moonlight. Piven’s lovely face frowned and stared, his curious vision looking well beyond Greven’s eyes, and then he felt a coldness, like a splinter of ice, passing through him. No, not passing through, but cutting through him. With his adopted son’s hands holding him firmly by the shoulders, Greven let go of all resistance to Piven’s magic and studied his healer. The man was emerging; in a few anni, probably only a couple, Piven’s jaw would become more prominent, and those soft wispy dark hairs around it would toughen. Piven’s hair was black, the color of the raven he spoke about often, so his beard would likely be coarse. He’d have to trim it constantly to keep it under control. Those eyes of his, once so open and innocent, now looked so much more shrouded.

  “There,” Piven said. He sat back gravely and studied Greven. “How do you feel?”

  Greven smiled. “Better. My chest was feeling tight. It doesn’t anymore.”

  “Good. Your heart was sick.”

  “Is it?”

  “Not any longer,” Piven replied and Greven noticed how clouded the boy’s expression appeared.

  “Are you feeling as well as I do?”

  Piven shook his head slightly. “What’s that expression that Mistress Bane from the village used to use?” Greven looked puzzled. “Ah, that’s right. I feel as though someone just danced over my grave.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t really know. That expression seems to sum it up.”

  Greven didn’t push. As he was about to change the subject a large gray wolf padded around the trees below them, sniffing the ground. Greven tapped Piven gently and then put a finger to his lips to ensure the boy remained silent. They’d seen wolves before but not this close. This one was a big wolf and young from what Greven could tell.

  Just dispersed from the pack, he mouthed silently to Piven. Looking for a mate.

  Piven nodded and smiled. As he did so the wolf seemed to sense a presence, sniffing the night air. Suddenly it spotted them. This had happened before in the forest and Greven anticipated that the wolf would watch them very carefully but also move on quickly. He knew a single wolf would not attack them, but nevertheless he reached for his blade, unsheathing it. Piven noticed and took the blade from him.

  The wolf let out a low rumble of a growl.

  “It’s warning us,” Greven mentioned unnecessarily. “We’ll just let it go on its way,” he soothed.

  The wolf showed its teeth, pulling back its lips.

  “That doesn’t look too much like a warning,” Piven replied.

  “It won’t attack us,” Greven assured him.

  The wolf’s growl changed, rumbling into a snarl. Its hackles were up and its eyes were beady and angry. Greven realized the animal was not looking at him. Its gaze was firmly fixed on Piven, watching his every movement. In fact, Greven felt certain he could get up right now and perform a small jig and the wolf wouldn’t even cast a glance his way.

  As if he could hear Greven’s thoughts, Piven gave a soft snort. “It’s me he’s directing that at.”

  “So I notice.”


  Piven stood. “What are you doing?” Greven said, grabbing for him.

  “He doesn’t scare me.”

  “Doesn’t scare—What? Lo save me, boy, I’ll—”

  At first the wolf seemed poised to leap at them. It had taken a genuinely aggressive stance. But Greven was astonished to watch its ears flatten. He turned to Piven. The boy had not shifted, had made no move of threat, and yet Greven saw a ghostliness pass across Piven’s face, a deep, chilling darkness. His body tensed with fright but his attention was distracted by the wolf once again when it lowered its belly and slunk away, whining softly.

  Greven and Piven watched it in silence until they could see it no more in the darkness. “What in all the stars was that all about?” Greven finally asked.

  Piven shrugged. “Strange, wasn’t it?”

  Greven wasn’t convinced by Piven’s innocent tone. “Did you do that?”

  Piven turned his head to regard Greven. “What makes you think that?”

  “The wolf was scared of you, boy, or didn’t you notice?”

  “Scared? I don’t think so. Outnumbered, wise even, but no, not scared. It had no gripe with us.”

  Greven felt vaguely manipulated but before he could push Piven further, the boy raised his head, sniffing the air. Greven smelled it, too, and his stomach tightened.

  “Fire!” Piven breathed. “Stay here,” he said and began scrambling up the hill. “I’ll take a look.”

  Greven waited anxiously. “What do you see?”

  “An eerie glow in the distance and smoke. Too much. People must be in trouble but I haven’t a clue where it is. It’s south, though.”

  “I’m not sure we can be much help,” Greven commented.

  Piven scrambled back down. “We can’t be but perhaps I can.”

  The old man’s head snapped up. “What are you thinking now?”

  “Greven, people could be hurt.”

  “You said south, boy. That’s back from where we’ve come.”

  Piven frowned. “Probably that hamlet we skirted. Green Herbery. I think I should help.”

  Greven reached for his companion. “Listen to me. It is unwise of you to declare your talent. Please heed me when I remind you that it was only ten anni previous that the barbarians slaughtered people simply because of suspicions that they might wield a weak magic.”

  A look of soft irritation ghosted across Piven’s face. “No one’s going to—”

  But Greven gripped the boy’s arm. “Do not be naive, Piven. Do not declare yourself in this way.”

  “I cannot walk away if people are in trouble. It’s not in my nature to be that cruel.”

  “Piven, please!”

  “No. You don’t understand. I have to do this! This magic must be put to good use or…or…”

  “Or what?” Greven queried, alarmed by Piven’s suddenly helpless expression.

  “Stay here and rest,” the boy replied, his face clouding again. “You should have no further trouble from your heart but you are weary from what I have done. Heed my warning. It’s not such a long way back. I can be there and returned to you by morning. I promise.”

  “What about the wolf? Perhaps he might decide to come back and attack me,” Greven suggested, desperately attempting to keep the boy near.

  Piven’s eyes narrowed. “He won’t be back, I promise you.”

  Greven could see by the set of the boy’s jaw that his mind would not be changed. He had not encountered such determined resistance before. Do I even know this boy in front of me anymore? he thought.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Piven said, pulling out some food from the sack.

  “What?”

  “You’ve known me longer than anyone. And you’re the only person I’ve ever spoken to at length.”

  Greven realized he must have uttered his fear aloud. Either that or Piven had read his mind. He was no longer sure. In fact, he was no longer sure about anything. And if Piven could read minds, then Piven already knew the deepest and darkest truth of all.

  Freath had not spoken since the chilling revelation of Leo’s wound.

  “What do we know about this man?” Faris asked.

  The emperor’s aide shook his head in silent shock, mouth agape.

  “Freath!”

  Faris’s raised voice snapped Freath from his sense of despair. “Nothing, I know nothing,” he groaned. “As soon as Loethar gleefully told me the news, I was on the first horse out of the palace, making every excuse under the sun to try and hunt you down,” he said to Leo, ignoring Faris, who walked away.

  “Gavriel told me that one of his father’s creeds was that we must never make judgments only on what we see. Looks are deceiving. I judged you, Freath.”

  “I lay no blame. You had nothing else to go on, your majesty, except what your eyes told you.” He frowned. “And now that you mention him, where is de Vis?”

  Leo’s expression clouded and he sighed. “One of the great mysteries. I have no idea.”

  “Weren’t you traveling together?” Freath was aware of activity around him from the outlaws, who were clearly preparing to move. Jewd had joined an anxious Faris, talking between themselves out of earshot. “He’s not dead, surely?”

  Leo shrugged. “We don’t know; that’s the problem. He disappeared one evening and we’ve never seen him again. The last sighting we have is of him being pursued by three barbarian warriors. We know they captured him, beat him and were probably preparing to drag his battered body back to Penraven. We don’t believe they knew who he was, only that he resisted them and that gave them cause for the attack. It seems they never got to take him back. The barbarians were all killed that same night, felled by arrows. I’ve kept one; it’s distinctive, fletched by someone not of the Set. I keep hoping I’ll find another arrow like it that might point me in the right direction. I never give up hope of finding him—or his grave. I don’t suppose Corbel ever…?” Leo didn’t finish because Freath was already shaking his head.

  “No, highness. I haven’t seen Corbel de Vis since the day of the raid on Penraven by the barbarian horde.”

  Leo nodded. “Another name to add to the body count, no doubt. But I hold hope for Gavriel. His disappearance never made any sense.” He cleared his throat. “Master Freath, I’m finding it hard switching you in my mind from villain to hero. Although Regor de Vis told us never to make judgments until we knew all the facts, it was my father who implanted a notion that has become my creed for life. He told me that if I make a solemn promise, whether it be to myself or another, to break it is to be damned by Lo himself.”

  Freath gave the young man a look of understanding. “King Brennus never broke a single promise in all the time I worked with him. He was a man of his word and you would be doing yourself no disservice to follow in his footsteps.”

  “What I hadn’t realized is just how ruthless my father was capable of being.”

  Freath wasn’t sure he understood what the young king was getting at but he nodded. “The history books in the royal library attest to the ruthlessness of the Valisar sovereigns, your highness. Ruthlessness, though, has connotations of cruelty and although I could cite many an occasion when your forebears were capable of cruelty, I do prefer to think of their ruthlessness as a single-mindedness of purpose; a means to an end, you could say.”

  “Indeed. So knowing my father as well as you did, I’m presuming you could never imagine he would go back on an oath?”

  “Never,” Freath confirmed.

  “What if he had learned new information?”

  Freath’s gaze narrowed. He wondered what the king was reaching for here. Giving a very small shake of his head, he replied, “Your highness, your father was a confident, decisive man. He would not make a decision—or a promise—unless he felt secure in the information he had. All I can tell you is that, based on what I knew about King Brennus, if he had told someone he would do something, no matter what occurred to try and change his mind, he would not go back on his word.”<
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  “Thank you, Freath,” Leo said, his voice sounding suddenly deeper.

  No one could have anticipated it and when it occurred, it seemed to happen in its own space and time. Freath even had time to think that the sword seemed to take forever to lift from the scabbard and make its arc of death before it found its home.

  Eleven

  They’d arrived at a town called Woodingdene. It was a pretty place, from what they could tell, nestling within a small fertile valley, with the mountains still a distant frame and its splendid cobblestoned market square cradled by pastel colored buildings, almost all devoted to the government of the empire. It was here at Woodingdene that Loethar had established much of his administration—his mint, for instance, required a large workforce and the town was clearly thriving on the gold imperials and silver compasses in particular that were struck. The old copper trents from sovereign days had been retained, minted using dies.

  Despite Kirin’s escalating worry of being here rather than on the road to finding Clovis—and, more importantly, Piven, if the boy in question was indeed the adopted son of the Valisars—he was intrigued to learn more about the famous mint that had once struck coins for three of the other realms from the old Set. Now it was responsible for a simple trio of coins that served all compasses. The individuality that had made the Set realms so interesting was beginning to be lost through imperial rule, he realized.

  Everyone was tired, having journeyed through the night and once the soldiers felt satisfied that Kirin and his companion were not planning to make any trouble for them, the pair had been largely left alone. They could speak freely enough.

  “Now would be a very good time to tell me who you really are,” Kirin murmured. “There is nothing to be gained from the secrecy.”

  The woman at his side sighed. “My name is Lilyan. I was sent to keep an eye on you.”

  “I see. So Freath really doesn’t trust me.”

  “I don’t know Freath—only of him—so I can’t answer that.”