Tyrant’s Blood

by Fiona McIntosh

  “Actually, Pastor, you really can’t insist on anything.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Kilt asked evenly, feeling all his internal alarm bells ringing.

  As if he could read his mind, Vulpan reached over and plucked a small handbell from his desk. Ringing it twice, he said, “A moment, Pastor Jeves.”

  Kilt blinked in surprise as the door opened and a scarred man entered the room, two imperial soldiers remaining outside.

  “This is Shorgan,” Vulpan introduced. “He is our Wikken.”

  Kilt froze, then tried to cover his fear. But he wasn’t sure he had been successful. His gaze was riveted on the raised, purple network of scars that traversed the newcomer’s face.

  “I can see that his presence disturbs you, Pastor Jeves.”

  Kilt inhaled carefully, calming himself. This was dangerous but he’d faced dangerous situations before. “Aren’t you going to introduce the soldiers as well?” he asked.

  Vulpan smiled at him. “Ah, a clergyman with a sense of humor. Very good. But are you really a clergyman?”

  “What a preposterous question!”

  Vulpan shrugged. “I think you lie.”

  “I don’t know how to assure you, or even answer such a claim.”

  “Well, moving on to the matter at hand, our revered Wikken—”

  “He’s not your Wikken, Master Vulpan. Wikkens are of the Steppes. You, unless I’m mistaken, are not.”

  “I work for the emperor,” the Wikken replied as though that answered any query.

  “Many do. Most do not claim to be Steppes people.” Kilt was playing for time, his mind racing for a way out of this dilemma.

  Vulpan shook his head, appearing irritated by Kilt’s argument. “Your objections are irrelevant,” Vulpan dismissed.

  “You have no right to keep me here,” Kilt blustered, deliberately sounding deeply offended.

  Vulpan took a slow breath, and straightened his coat. “Shorgan assures me you are Vested. He knew it when you first spoke outside.” Kilt swallowed. Vulpan gave an expression that suggested he was forcing himself to remain polite. “You possess powers that cannot be rationally explained.”

  “What of it?” Kilt said, allowing his annoyance and frustration to come through loudly now. “I insist on being on my way.”

  Vulpan clearly had not expected the admission. “You admit to being Vested?”

  “I never denied it,” Kilt replied, taking them all in with a single glance as if he was surprised anyone had thought differently. The soldiers looked very large and unmoved by the conversation. He might well be able to fight off Vulpan and his ugly companion but the guards would smash him to a pulp. And he noted that the door had been left open so they could be easily called. “What actually is the problem here?” he demanded.

  “I…” Vulpan hesitated. “There is no problem,” he finally admitted.

  “Good. Then call off your dogs at the door, Master Vulpan. I am a man of Lo and I don’t take kindly to being threatened with violence, or being held captive, or being intimidated by your Wikken. That was your intention, wasn’t it?”

  Vulpan gave a gesture of dismissal and the soldiers disappeared. It was a small win, but even so Kilt’s hopes soared. “I came here seeking details of my sister. Do you have any?”

  “Only that she is mildly Vested with healing powers and is now officially in our records. She left the same day with her husband.”

  The word husband cut deep inside Kilt; the suggestion of Lily’s being Vested rankled even deeper. Surely he would have known if she’d had more than the ability to simply wield her herbals with such stunning effect. “Where were they headed, sir?”

  “Back to Brighthelm was my understanding.”

  “Thank you. I will take your leave.”

  “Not so fast, Pastor Jeves.”

  Kilt turned back to the man. “I really must catch up with her.”

  “Of course. First, though, we would like to keep a record of you as well. You are Vested, after all. You could have saved us a lot of time if you’d simply told us as much.”

  “You never asked.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Do you hide your power because it is so strong,” a gravelly voice piped up. It was Shorgan, talking in perfect Set.

  Kilt swung around; the man’s face was scary but his voice was worse. Deep and unaccustomed to being used, it rasped in a manner that Kilt was sure could scare children.

  “I wouldn’t call it strong, sir.”

  “I would. I can smell it on you. You hide it well, though.”

  Kilt tried for a smile, lacing it with feigned self-consciousness. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t use my magic. I have no use for it. I’m a clergyman, guiding folk in the path of Lo. I have never considered it strong, in fact—”

  “When did you last use it?” Shorgan asked.

  Kilt was taken aback. “Well, I…I honestly can’t remember.”

  “That long ago?”

  “So long ago I really couldn’t tell you,” Kilt said firmly.

  “Could you give us a demonstration of your skill? What is it you do?” Vulpan inquired.

  “Demonstration?” Kilt stammered. He hated himself in that moment. More than three decades of practice and discipline had just been undone.

  Vulpan’s head shifted. He regarded Kilt with a dark stare. “Was that a stutter I just heard, Pastor Jeves?”

  Kilt cleared his throat and smiled sardonically, using the moment to regain control of himself. “Just a childhood affliction I thought I’d conquered.”

  “But it comes out in times of anxiety?”

  “Not really. Just now and then when I don’t concentrate.”

  “Interesting. Nosebleeds and stutters.”

  “Master Vulpan, I’m not going to give demonstrations. I told you, I don’t use my magic. You want a sample of my blood, presumably. Shall we get on with it?”

  “Shorgan?” Vulpan asked.

  “He’s lying. He’s very strong in his magic. He used it recently. I think you’ll find that would account for the nose-bleed.”

  “What?” Kilt said, turning on his heel and roaring at the Wikken, who regarded him placidly. “I demand to speak to someone who can grant me an audience with the emperor. This is ridiculous.”

  “I can organize that,” Vulpan said. “General Stracker, the emperor’s most trusted confidant and brother, will be here shortly. You’re most welcome to discuss an audience with him. Until then, you’ll remain here.”

  “I’m a prisoner?” Kilt asked.

  “I prefer the word guest,” Vulpan replied and smiled. Kilt could hear the Wikken chuckling behind him. “I will, of course, still require a sample of your blood to taste.”

  “Why don’t you lick it off my face?” Kilt said, feeling angry and incredibly helpless.

  “Oh, I prefer it fresh and running. Hold out your hand, please, Pastor Jeves.”

  To Lily he looked like a broken man. He’d arrived in their room ashen, slump-shouldered and unable to talk. She noticed his eyes were watering.

  “It was your Clovis?” She couldn’t believe it.

  “He…” Kirin sounded choked. She moved around the bed, watching him swallow hard to regain control of his composure. “He’d been stabbed in the throat. Murdered and left to die alone in the woodland beyond the village.”

  “Oh, Kirin.” Lily covered her mouth with a hand. His sorrow was threatening to make her weep now. “I’m so sorry,” she managed to say. Her heart broke for him. He was so alone, desperately in need of comfort and affection.

  Lily took a deep breath and put her arms around Kirin. She felt his initial shock and then he seemed to melt around her body. She knew he cried, and she wept too, stroking his back and hair, until his softly given tears subsided. They stood like that for a long time. It felt warm and secure and comfortable, and Lily hated herself for beginning to appreciate how well their bodies fitted together.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled fr
om somewhere at her shoulder, his face buried in her hair.

  She pulled back softly. “What ever for?” They were close enough that she would only need to lean forward slightly to touch her lips to his.

  He seemed to search her eyes. “For compromising you like this.”

  Lily felt an inward tug of guilt. “Are you always this careful and responsible, Kirin?”

  He shook his head. “Only around you.”

  She frowned. “Why?” He still wasn’t looking her in the eye, she noticed. “Am I that hard to look upon?”

  Now his eyes flashed up; his expression was disbelieving. “The opposite.”

  “Why do I make you feel so awkward, then? Why are you always so careful around me?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he said, pulling away, but she held him fast. She could almost see Kilt sneering over Kirin’s shoulder, saying to her: this is your fault. You created this scenario. Kilt was like that: so tough, always demanding so much of those around him. She could accept that he ensured everyone took responsibility for their own actions and that made each of his men exceptionally careful—as he was—but sometimes she despaired for him to show some sensitivity. Kirin seemed so helpless at this moment and just her touch, she could tell, was giving him great solace.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” he said, her hesitation embarrassing him.

  “Kirin—”

  “I can’t do this, Lily. I thought I could but I’m going to fail spectacularly and do something one of us will regret.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She could see him looking at her as though she were dense. Perhaps she was…or perhaps she just needed to hear a man express his feelings of affection, feelings she had prompted.

  He stepped back, away from her touch. “Thank you for the embrace. It helps, it really does. But it has its own set of complications and I think it’s better if we—”

  “I needed to do something. You looked so broken. We’re friends. Can’t friends offer comfort?”

  “What did you have in mind?” She was sure it was meant as a jest, a response to lighten the suddenly awkward atmosphere that had settled around them.

  She shook her head, feeling trapped. She wanted to say that she had little in her head but stupidity, but instead she stared at him, saying nothing.

  Kirin smiled gently. Had he pried? Had he listened in on her thoughts, she suddenly wondered? I’ll kill him. In that blink of startling revelation, Kirin pulled her to him; suddenly he was kissing her. It wasn’t gentle but it wasn’t aggressive either and there was nothing unpracticed about it, and yet she knew he had acted entirely spontaneously. And, Lo save her, she returned his passion helplessly.

  Kirin deepened the kiss, his arms tightening around her, and Lily came to her senses. She broke the embrace, pulling away from Kirin, horror ghosting across her face. He stared at her and she could see only pain in his expression.

  Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the chamber. She didn’t stop him, couldn’t stop him. Her mind had already fled to another bedroom in another inn where another man embraced her and talked of marriage and a future. She hated herself.

  Kirin stormed from the bedroom, his body tingling. He’d kissed Lily and this time there was nothing feigned about it. It was wrong and it was doomed but it had been delicious. Her mouth had been soft and welcoming; she had responded, he wasn’t imagining it.

  He was angry too, though. And it was a good idea to get out of that room. Lily had hardly discouraged him and while he had made the move to kiss her—which he had known even was ill-advised—she had made the move to show him affection. He wasn’t a monk. Having to look upon lovely Lily and live alongside Lily and pretend to be married to Lily—well, it was bound to happen, he growled privately as he stomped from the inn, ignoring the innkeeper’s puzzled look.

  None of this mattered! Not him, not Lily, not Kilt Faris’s feelings. All that mattered was that Clovis was dead. Stabbed, abandoned…murdered. Why? That’s what mattered. Who had killed him and for what reason? What had Clovis stumbled into or upon?

  He found Deren in the bakery, where he had said he would be for the rest of the day. He was covered in flour, pushing loaves into the clay oven. “I need to see where he died,” Kirin said, before Deren could even open his mouth.

  Deren looked around. “I can’t leave the bakery. These are loaves for to night’s meals in the inn.”

  “Is there anyone else who could show me?” Kirin appealed.

  Deren regarded him for a moment before sighing and nodding. “I’ll ask young Tod to take you. Roddy’s his friend. He was helping to look for him.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Wait here,” Deren said and disappeared out the back.

  Kirin strolled to the doorway and looked across the street. The barn would have to be rebuilt. To its left he saw the Widow Kenyan’s cottage that Deren had pointed out earlier. He frowned, cocking his head to one side. The cottage’s roof looked scorched, too, and next to it the trees looked damaged. What had occurred?

  Deren returned. “Tod says he’ll take you for a couple of trents.”

  Kirin nodded. “It’s the least I can pay,” he agreed. “Have you noticed that the Widow Kenyan’s cottage is scorched?”

  Deren was back to banging out hot loaves. “Yes. It was damaged in the fire.”

  “How? Nothing else around the barn is damaged. Why and how would the fire choose that cottage?”

  The baker shrugged. “I don’t really know. Haven’t thought about it.”

  “Well, look at it.”

  Deren stopped to look out the window. “The trees are damaged too,” he observed.

  “I know. So they caught fire and they somehow ignited the cottage roof? That doesn’t make sense. The barn is too far away.”

  “Embers, perhaps?” the man said, sounding increasingly less interested.

  “But…oh, it doesn’t matter,” Kirin said as a child ran in through the door. “You must be Tod.”

  “Got my trents?”

  “I do,” Kirin said seriously, reaching into his pocket and fishing out one of the last of his coins. He flipped it to Tod, who caught and pocketed the coin with dexterity.

  “Come on then, sir. I have to be back to bring the cows in or me da will whip me.”

  “Lead the way,” Kirin said, looking over his shoulder and nodding a farewell. “If my wife’s looking for me, let her know where I am, will you?”

  The man nodded but frowned as if to say why didn’t you? Without looking back, Kirin left Green Herbery and the memory of kissing Lily behind.

  Twenty-Five

  Greven and Piven were approaching Berch. They’d walked solidly most of the day with Greven deliberately hanging back. He didn’t want to talk to Piven…couldn’t. His hand throbbed. Hand! He sneered inwardly. He could still feel it. It was as though he were still whole and yet the intense pain told him differently. Piven had promised that to night they would brew a strong painkiller but there had been no time to stop during daylight. They had needed to put distance between themselves and the murdered man.

  Piven dropped back to walk next to Greven. “We’ll get help for you at Berch.”

  “I don’t need help. I know as much about healing as anyone in that town.”

  Piven nodded. “Then we’ll push on to the coast.”

  “Why?”

  “We can stay out of sight for a while.”

  “What are we doing? What in Lo’s name are you doing?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’m following Vyk.”

  Greven had been so lost in his thoughts and the pain that he hadn’t realized that the raven was still traveling with them. He looked around, and found it watching them from a tree ahead. “Lo curse the creature! How does it always find us?”

  “He means us no harm.”

  “Where does this end, Piven? In your strange mind, where does this reckless behavior lead you?”

  Piven frowned, considered the question seri
ously. Finally he blew his cheeks out. “To the throne, I suppose.”

  “Throne!”

  Piven shrugged. “I’m an heir,” he said, nothing defensive about his tone.

  “And we now have an emperor with a well trained army specifically marauding to keep all memories of Valisars at bay. The Valisar line ended with Brennus! Accept it. The Valisars are simply history. And, besides, everyone thinks you’re dead!” Greven spat as cruelly as he could.

  “And that’s my greatest weapon…apart from you, of course.”

  Greven scowled. “I need to rest.”

  Piven didn’t look as though he wanted to but he paused and then shrugged. “We can sit in the lee of this tree. But you don’t really need to rest, do you?” he asked.

  Greven shook his head. “Until you die, I’m in a strange state of immortality. I don’t need to drink, eat, or sleep.”

  Piven nodded. “Can we talk about this?”

  Greven didn’t reply.

  “There’s no going back now. What’s done is done. You are my aegis. You have no free choice.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I told you. My father used to talk around me as though I were invisible, which to all intents and purposes I was. My father wanted to find his aegis…he wanted to find you.”

  Greven nodded sadly.

  “It began about ten moons before Loethar struck. I’m amazed I can recall conversations in such detail. At the time I wasn’t even aware of the words being spoken but now I understand that I heard everything. My mind was sound; it was just trapped.” Piven sighed when he could see Greven was not interested in his awe. “The king became very insistent about it, sending de Vis off on missions to the Academy to learn more about magic, hoping it might lead him to his aegis. In the meantime he got serious about training Leo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Piven smiled secretively. “Of course I tagged along, holding my brother’s hand, lost in my madness. But obviously I was hearing everything, retaining it, too. You know, I really grew up around adults. When Leo was off playing with the de Vis brothers I was considered a nuisance. I couldn’t fight or shoot arrows or get involved in swordplay. They didn’t mind my being there as we all got older but as an infant I was an encumbrance to their play, so I was either at my mother’s skirts, or where I preferred to be, which was close to my father.”