Tyrant’s Blood

by Fiona McIntosh

  He glanced at her, seeking out guile, resisting the urge to use his magic. He couldn’t face the sickness, not when he’d spent most of the journey recovering from the last bout. He couldn’t see her clearly in the pre-dawn light. They were of similar age and over the course of the night he’d decided she was prettier than he’d originally thought. He stared at her, relying on his own instincts and what she reflected from those green eyes to tell him what he needed to know. “Not Freath,” he echoed. “So who? Who is your master, Lily?”

  “I have none. No one makes me do anything I don’t want to.”

  He sighed inwardly. Why were women so complicated? Everything a man said could be taken wrongly. Little wonder he had not pursued a long-term relationship with anyone. “Let me say it a different way. Who are your accomplices in this venture to keep an eye on me?”

  She lowered her voice still further. “Kilt Faris.”

  “Fa—!”

  She glared at him to stop him repeating the name too loudly, nodding once to confirm it. “He didn’t understand why you were splitting up from Freath. Asked me to find out.”

  “You’re a spy?”

  “Of sorts. Now I’m a prisoner of sorts.”

  Kirin sighed. “Not if we’re careful. I am attached loosely to the palace and they will find nothing to hold me for. But you, that was a stupid claim to make.”

  “I had to think of a way to remain alongside you. How was I to know what they were going to spring on us?”

  “Well, now you’re a liability of sorts.”

  She bristled. “I’ll tell them I just didn’t want to be separated from my husband.”

  “Oh yes? Inspired. And what do you think will occur when they discover that Kirin Felt is not married, has been living alone at Brighthelm for the past decade?” He could see Lily didn’t have an answer to this. “Why is your friend interested in me anyway?” he demanded. “Surely his interest is with Master Freath, whom he was meeting last night.”

  Lily looked surprised. “My friend doesn’t explain everything. I’ve told you what I know. I had anticipated traveling to Brighthelm, ensuring this journey was not connected with any guile on your part and then returning to the north.”

  Kirin ground his jaw. “Perhaps we still can.”

  “Hardly,” Lily said, her mouth twisting with worry. “You’re not married and I’m not Vested.” Before he could reply, she added: “Another thing, take a look at our companions. They don’t seem so cheery now, do they?”

  Kirin had ignored the other Vested during the journey. The last thing he wanted was to be lumped in with them. But Lily was right. “They look morose,” Kirin said.

  Kirin glanced at her as she studied them. Her gaze had narrowed. “You know, I could be wrong but even by lamplight and from this distance I think those people have been drugged.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She gave a small shrug. “Years of understanding how herbals and soporifics work. Look at that woman,” she said, jutting her chin slightly toward a middle-aged woman. “Look at her pallor, those droopy lids. And they’re all weary, we know that—they’re tired from traveling but there’s something else. Look at how restless they seem in spite of that fatigue.”

  She was definitely right. Kirin could see it now. “He lied to us?” he wondered quietly.

  “I don’t know why but yes, I think either our friendly barbarian soldier lied to us or he genuinely didn’t know they were drugged.”

  Kirin gave a sound of disgust. “Now I want to know why.”

  “Are you really Vested?” Her voice was grave.

  He nodded. “Unfortunately, I am.”

  “How unfortunate?”

  Could he trust her? He had to risk it. He trickled his magic, just for a moment or two, knowing the price for this alone would be enough. Lily was so open a flood of information crashed into his mind, overwhelming him.

  “Kirin?”

  Familiar nausea rose. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look it. Suddenly you look like that woman we were just talking about.”

  “You asked me a question.”

  “Are you going to answer me?”

  “Yes, I have the misfortune of being heavily Vested. But only two people, and now you, know it.”

  They both realized the caravan of people, horses and carts had stopped. “Looks as though we’re here,” Lily commented, “wherever here is.” She looked over at Kirin. “So you trust me?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I know a thing or two about keeping secrets. I don’t think that was easy for you to share…but you did. So you must trust me. Kirin, you don’t look fine at all.”

  “No, but I’ll survive.”

  “This happened earlier. What is it?”

  “I lied about indulging in too much Rough. I get headaches. I’ve had one all night. I thought I’d rid myself of it,” he lied. “Now it’s back,” he added truthfully.

  “I can help with that.”

  He looked at her as steadily as he could given his plunging stomach.

  She gave a small, sheepish smile. “When I’m not playing at spy, or prisoner…or liability, I’m adept with herbs.” She dug into a pouch slung around her body. “Try these.”

  He stared at the tiny black seeds.

  “Trust me,” she urged. “Just suck on a few of them. Once the shell breaks, allow the juice to slide slowly down your throat. You’ll be tempted to chew them but don’t. Keep them in your mouth as long as you can. The longer you can suck them, the more potent their effect.”

  “What are these?”

  “Seeds,” she said evasively. “Put them in your mouth, Kirin, and tell me you aren’t feeling brighter in a very short while.”

  He knew they couldn’t help him. “And if you’re wrong?”

  She gave a flick of her dark hair. “You can have your wicked way with me. That’s how confident I am!”

  Kirin blushed and Lily looked away, suddenly embarrassed.

  The soldier they had spoken to earlier in the journey approached slowly on his horse. “As you can gather, we’re stopping here.”

  “Why are the Vested so…depressed?” Lily asked. Kirin glared at her.

  The soldier fortunately didn’t notice the look between them. He shrugged. “Tired, I imagine. They’ve traveled without stopping twice as far as you have. Anyway, we plan that you will both be seen first.”

  Kirin returned the man’s gaze, forcing an innocent, quizzical expression. “Why the hurry?”

  The man appeared equally innocent. “I know you’re here because we insisted you accompany us. It’s only fair we deal with you quickly and get you on your way.”

  “And my wife,” Kirin stressed.

  “Yes, of course, both of you,” the soldier replied. “It’s tiring, I know, but I am happy to escort you immediately to the authorities.”

  “Authorities?”

  “A single person,” the soldier qualified. “His name is Master Vulpan.”

  Kirin had expected this but even so the mention of the man’s name made his belly clench. Vulpan was the reason Freath and he had rushed north. He wondered if Freath had found Faris. He hadn’t even asked Lily whether Leonel lived. He almost laughed at his own apathy. He’d been so furious at being entrapped by these men that he’d forgotten what this whole struggle was about.

  “Fine,” he said, finding a tight smile. “If he’s up at this time of the morning, then lead the way. Come, my love. Let’s get this all cleared up, shall we?”

  Lily grasped his mood, it seemed. She returned the adoring glance and nodded to the two men who permitted her to move ahead of them.

  “We’re aiming for that pale building over on the right,” their companion said.

  Kirin sucked on his seeds, hardly daring to believe the nausea might be disappearing, and feeling a fresh thrill of fear at what Vulpan was going to make of him and his Vested “wife” of no magic.

  Pandemonium raged in the vi
llage of Green Herbery. A barn filled with bales of hay and stores for the winter had gone up in flames, threatening various houses and Herbery’s only inn. Even from this distance Piven could see it would be impossible to get the fire under control. People would have to watch their livelihoods go up in smoke and their homes burned to the ground. As he drew closer he could see it was not just buildings and provisions at stake.

  Women were screaming. Piven began to run.

  Dawn was waking to an unpleasantness; the orange of the flames and their dirty gray smoke were a blot on the otherwise picturesque setting. Now he could hear the ferocity of the fire as new flames erupted and a shower of sparks exploded from somewhere in the barn. Villagers stood by helplessly holding dripping buckets and vessels, contents long ago exhausted and useless against such a force. New flames began to lick around the sides of the barn, the older flames already arching further afield for fresh tinder.

  “Help them!” screamed one of the women.

  Piven ran headlong into the crowd, which was suddenly still, no doubt feeling the dread of the situation. He pushed his way forward to where a sobbing woman sat by an unconscious man. In the man’s arms was a child, also unconscious it seemed, possibly even dead. It was a boy, Piven thought. People tried to loosen the man’s grip on the child but to no avail and the woman, lost in her despair, screamed at them to leave him alone, while still beseeching someone for help.

  Both man and boy were badly injured. Clothes were partly burned off, skin was scorched and the smell of cooked flesh permeated the otherwise crisp early morning air. People had begun to retch and the injured man, still holding the child, had begun trembling as the initial shock wore off and was replaced by pain. It was a tremble that would accompany him to his death, Piven believed; death was not so far away now.

  “He ran in to save young Roddy,” a bystander said. “Now they’re both dying.”

  “Don’t say that!” the mother screeched, looking around wildly. “Don’t you dare!” she repeated before dissolving into helpless sobs as she bent over her son, her head resting on the child’s small chest.

  A friend stooped to hug her. A man, presumably the inn-keeper, arrived with a cask of liquor.

  “Get some of this down his throat—as much as you can,” he said. “Let him die drunk, feeling nothing.”

  “Let’s all pray,” someone else said.

  “I agree with Ralf. Numb both with the Rough,” another agreed.

  “He can’t swallow. His whole throat will be scorched,” yet another countered.

  “Let’s speed them on their way to Lo.”

  “Is Roddy dead?” a child wondered.

  The mother seemed to swoon and then a fresh cry went up from around the back of the barn as the structure began to collapse. People began to run, leaving behind the dying pair, still clasped by the virtually unconscious woman, and the single woman who held her, plus the concerned innkeeper.

  Piven took his chance. He turned to the innkeeper, who was still holding the flagon of Rough. “Could you and this woman pick him up, please?”

  Ralf looked at him dumbly.

  “Now!” Piven urged.

  Obediently, still in a shocked stupor, the man gently unwrapped the mother’s grip from her child, lifting him off the man’s chest. Piven turned to the female comforter, who eyed him suspiciously. “Help Ralf carry him.”

  “Who are you?” she snapped, distraught.

  “A stranger, as you see, but I can help if you do as I say and you do it quickly.”

  “She’s unconscious!” the woman hissed, gesturing at the woman she was still uselessly comforting.

  “Not anymore,” Piven said, reaching out to touch the prone woman, who roused immediately, moaning and whimpering. “Stand her up and lead the way back to her house—quickly, before the mob returns.” He looked back at Ralf. “Get him between you and her,” he said, pointing to the helper. “This man’s life is almost given to Lo. You have to hurry now.”

  Piven didn’t wait for any more questions. He bent and picked up the child. “Hurry,” he growled, and suddenly everyone was moving.

  The mother of the child could barely focus. She was disoriented and confused but her helpers urged her forward with encouraging words and soon enough Piven could see that they were all headed to a very small cottage on the rim of the village.

  “Inside, quickly,” he ordered.

  The dying man groaned softly.

  “Let him die,” Ralf said.

  Piven sensed he was concerned that they were simply adding to the injured man’s agony. “His pain is so intense, more is hardly felt,” Piven said reassuringly. “Put him on that pallet, then go and tend to your inn. Help the others.”

  “I want to—”

  “Go!” Piven ordered, staring at him hard. The man finally turned without another word and left, glancing once over his shoulder.

  Piven had already forgotten him. “We need fresh linens, fresh water, and some animal fat. Fetch it quickly,” he ordered the woman. She moved without protest, not aware that he was giving empty orders simply to occupy her, and remove her from the room.

  Now Piven looked at the mother, who had been unconscious just moments ago. “How are you feeling?”

  “You’re not even a man yet, ordering us about. Who are you? Why are they following your orders?”

  “I need you to get up and leave.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Please leave if you want your family to live.” And then Piven smiled. Its warmth reached across the room and stilled her shivering; it seemed to calm her ragged mind and ease her heart of the pain.

  “This is not my fam…why must I leave?”

  “It could be dangerous for you to be near,” he said reasonably.

  “My son, I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I,” Piven answered. He glanced at the pair on the bed. “We have only moments. If you want your boy to live, go!”

  The appeal in his voice must have got through to her because she hurried toward the door. “Are you really going to help them?”

  “No one else can,” he replied gravely. “Shut the door behind you.”

  When he heard the latch of the door dutifully drop closed, Piven moved swiftly. Laying a hand on each victim, he raised his head, closed his eyes, and reached for the light within. He found it easily and as soon as he touched its blinding brilliance he channeled it through him and from him, gathering it up into an invisible force that he shepherded toward his suffering companions.

  “Let this work,” he muttered to himself.

  He could just hear the man’s rasping breath so he knew he clung to life. Looking within the child, he saw that the flame of life flickered unsteadily with none of the heat that now raged around the child’s body. Something about this pair niggled on the edge of his mind but he ignored it. He needed to give this his all.

  Cooling and calming and life-giving, Piven’s magic moved with a sure touch, finding every inch of its recipients that needed healing. And as he felt the deftness of that healing touch working its miracle, Piven heard the roar of the flames outside intensifying, screaming their rage that he would dare defy their fury.

  But there was also another reason for those flames talking to him. They knew and they were ready to fill him with their darkness.

  Mercifully, no other villagers had been burned; the only other victims that were touched by the repercussion of the fire’s wrath were a few hundred mice, several starlings and a sleeping cat trapped inside with the hay.

  Outside, the people of Green Herbery watched with a horrified fascination as the barn finally collapsed in on itself and then—they would swear it must have been a rogue gust of wind—the fire appeared to surge with a new ferocity, burning with a queer “blackness,” as some of them would later agree. The flames arching, bending, reaching almost as one, straining to leap across several houses to scorch the trees surrounding the cottage of the Widow Layton.

  Inside, Piven felt t
he invisible shadows creep deeper with sinister stealth within. He possessed no ability to control this new entity that seemed to be gathering around and within him. He found a smile, though, as the boy seemed to slough off his stupor.

  “Who are you?” the little voice asked.

  “I’m Petor,” Piven answered. “And you’re Roddy, aren’t you?”

  The boy nodded, eyes wide and wondering. “I ran into the barn to get Plod.”

  “Plod?”

  “My cat.”

  “Ah,” Piven said, fearing Plod was cooked, but he was saved a response by the door bursting open.

  Roddy’s mother’s scream came out silently. Her hands were clasped to her mouth and her eyes were even wider than her son’s, filled with disbelief.

  “He’s well,” Piven said as she swept Roddy into her arms. He cleared his throat. “But I’m not sure about your husband, let’s see if—”

  “He’s not my husband,” the woman stammered through tears and shock. She kept kissing Roddy’s head. “He’s a stranger, like you. He told us his name but I’ve forgotten it.”

  Piven blinked.

  “Is he alive?” she asked, haltingly, none of the amazement from her voice gone.

  “He hasn’t moved. Perhaps we lost him.”

  At these words, the man on the straw pallet flinched; his whole body jerked, in fact, and then he groaned.

  Piven was at his side in a moment. “Slowly, breathe slowly, deeply. No, don’t move, not just yet.” He stared into the man’s face, still blackened, though only from the smoke and dust. “I’m Petor.”

  “Help me up,” the man said, his voice raspy.

  Piven pulled him to a sitting position. An awkward silence settled around the strange quartet in the room, broken by the arrival of the woman who’d gone to get supplies, balancing a jug of water, linens, the animal fat salve and various other items she’d obviously grabbed in her frantic rush to do as she had been told. “I think I’ve got everything. I even brought some—” She stopped still, her mouth open, her expression filled with a dozen questions.

  “Look, Aunty Fru, I’m not burned,” Roddy said, standing proudly to twirl around and prove that he was whole.