Tyrant’s Blood

by Fiona McIntosh

  Once again Sergius straightened. He sighed. And now, friend, you must burn me. Let my spirit rise, my magic be unleashed. But do not wait. Set me alight and then go. Two horses await you at the village nearby. Ride to where you must. Goodbye, beloved Ravan.

  Sergius raised a hand in silent farewell. The flames roared once again, just for a heartbeat, and then died down to their natural color, their guest gone, his image dissipated.

  Roddy and Ravan sat in silence for a while. Finally Roddy spoke up. “Cyrena told us to make haste for the mountains.”

  “Then that is where we must go,” Ravan agreed, his voice tight. He looked at the boy. “Are you hungry?”

  Roddy nodded, trying to quell his enthusiasm.

  “Forgive me. Not much of a host, am I? Sergius always had food ready for me. He would not be impressed by me ignoring your needs. I must go down to the beach now. I will take some time alone with Sergius, but please help yourself to any food. There is sweet water in a canister at the back of the hut. Take all you need. I doubt we’ll return here.”

  “What about you?”

  Ravan shrugged. “Since tasting Greven’s flesh I have not eaten a morsel and curiously I have no hunger now.”

  “I watched you do that. Will you explain it to me on our journey?”

  “What I can, I will.” Ravan stood. “You may want to pack some food for the journey, but pack only for one.”

  “Is it the magic?”

  “I suspect so. Also that I am not real.”

  Roddy sensed the new man’s grief embedded in his remark. “Ravan, you look and feel real,” he said, touching his arm. “This means you are real…to me you are someone I can count on. If you weren’t real, how could I possibly think that way?”

  “I’m glad we met, Roddy.”

  The boy’s face creased into the first genuine smile in a long time. His belly grumbled, as if on cue, and they both laughed.

  “You see,” Roddy said, delighting in the sound of Ravan’s laughter. “You become more real with every moment.”

  Thirty-Seven

  They made far better time than they’d hoped. The sun was low but nightfall was still well away when they entered a familiar area of the forest. Kilt was exhausted but had found it easier to walk than be carried, which dented his pride. He’d rather accept the pain. He knew he didn’t have to tell Jewd this, his friend’s instincts were keen enough to work it out, so he hadn’t put up a fight when Kilt insisted on being set down some time previous.

  They were resting, taking some water, before they began the next climb. Kilt had no idea how he would make it but he would, both for Lily’s sake and to ensure Leo had the safety of the camp.

  “It’s good to have the canopy of the trees again,” Leo admitted.

  “How will our king ever live in a palace again, I wonder?” Kilt asked Jewd mischievously.

  The big man grinned and winked. “Servants to cater to his every whim.”

  “To dab his mouth after a meal.”

  “To wash his hands and dry them on a dainty linen,” Jewd added.

  Kilt grinned. “Someone to blow his nose.”

  “And kiss his arse,” Jewd finished.

  Leo took it in good cheer. “I haven’t thought about it. I can never get past the vision of confronting Loethar.”

  “Do you see yourself killing him?” Kilt asked, genuinely interested.

  “Of course,” Leo replied. “That’s all I see. But ever since I took Freath’s life and realized how hollow the satisfaction is, I don’t know how I’ll actually behave if given the opportunity with Loethar.”

  Kilt sat up, while Jewd stole a sly glance at Leo. “Do you really regret it, Leo?” Kilt asked.

  “I didn’t get a chance to say this to you but I do regret that Freath is dead, yes. The problem for me, Kilt, is that I’ve been raised to be a man of my word. I would shame my family name to be otherwise and while I do wish Freath wasn’t dead now, I don’t believe anything could have stopped me killing him. I know that’s not answering your question but I’m trying to be honest. He had to die—out of duty to my king, to my mother, to myself…to Piven and our sister. Freath had to die for murdering the queen.”

  Kilt wasn’t convinced. “Do you never see situations in anything other than right or wrong, black or white, Leo?”

  The young king considered the question, then gave an awkward shrug. “Corbel de Vis used to try and explain what he called shadows to Gavriel and myself. Actually it was for Gav’s benefit—I was still so young—but I can remember it clearly. Corbel always viewed a problem in its entirety. He used to say to Gavriel that men should avoid judging a situation simply because of its personal effect but should rather aim to see it as a whole, and instead of laying blame, should try and find the right solution that benefits everyone.”

  “Then Corbel de Vis had a wise head on his shoulders at seventeen. It’s taken Jewd and myself our lifetimes to understand and respect that there are two sides to most stories.”

  Leo nodded and Kilt could see he was listening seriously. “Corbel used to force Gavriel to try and take a bird’s position. He’d say: ‘Gav, hover above the issue and look at it from all sides. Soon you’ll see there are different reasons for why people react in the ways they do.’”

  “He sounds very different to the de Vis we met.”

  Leo laughed. “They’re twins but you couldn’t have met more distinct personalities. Gavriel was fun and popular and very smart. Corbel was quiet—people hardly knew he was there at times—and he was smart in a different way. Don’t get me wrong, Corbel could hold his own in any sword fight or fisticuffs, but he’d usually outsmart his opponent with cunning, while Gavriel was just simply brilliant with weapons.”

  “I wonder what happened to them,” Jewd mused.

  “Corbel disappeared on the day of my sister’s birth, I think. It’s hard to remember now. But I know my father put me in Gavriel’s care and that whole next day has blurred into one with the days that followed. Thinking about Corb and Gav just triggers memories now of fear, blood, brutality, death…and escape. Finding all of you.”

  “I don’t know why we haven’t considered this before,” Kilt said, “but, Jewd, we should try to find this Corbel de Vis.”

  Jewd shrugged. “We’ve tried to find his brother with no luck. You’d think he would have come forward by now if he knew people were seeking Gavriel.”

  “Yes, you would. But who knows what has befallen him? Perhaps he can’t get to us—maybe he’s injured somehow.”

  “Then he’s not much use to us, Kilt.”

  Leo frowned. “Well, I’d certainly like to know where he is and where he’s been all this time. Frankly, I’d like to redouble our efforts to find Gavriel. Either he got away or the person the arrow belongs to has him. Why he hasn’t tried to find me again is a mystery.”

  “They beat him very badly, Leo,” Kilt admitted. “I’ve never really told you everything. Perhaps he can’t walk, can’t talk. He could be an invalid.”

  Leo shook his head. “No, I’m not prepared to believe that. I will see Gav again. If it takes me the rest of my life, I’m going to find him. I’m going to find them both!”

  Kilt glanced at Jewd. “Don’t lose sight of the real prize, my king.”

  “When, though, Kilt? How?” Leo asked, his exasperation showing as he punched the tree he leaned against.

  “When? Soon,” Kilt answered, surprising Jewd, who raised his eyebrows, regarding his friend quizzically. “As for how, I think we have to look to our neighbor, Barronel.”

  “Barronel?” Leo repeated, astonishment in his voice. “What ever for?”

  “For your army,” Kilt replied in a conspiratorial tone. “We have no resistance to speak of against Loethar’s warriors. You yourself admit that the Set people are getting more and more comfortable with the notion of empire and the security of peace, so you’ll get little or no support from your own citizens.”

  “Army?” Jewd repeated, perplexed.<
br />
  “Which army will support me in Barronel?” Leo added.

  “They’re called the Vested.” Kilt smiled. “Shall we go, gentlemen? I’ll outline my thoughts as we move. Let me just take another swig of the bermine.” He tipped the bottle to his mouth, licking the last drops from the top. “True, that’s the last of it. That will have to see me through to the camp.”

  “We’ll be approaching from the back, won’t we?” Leo asked.

  Jewd nodded. “Don’t worry, they’ll still see us coming.”

  “How long?”

  “For Kilt’s sake, I’m hoping we’re there before the sun sets.”

  “Let’s go,” Kilt said, pushing away from the tree with a groan.

  Loethar called a halt and Elka set him down. “I can’t stand this finger of mine anymore, sticking out at this odd angle. Elka, your brew has numbed me enough. Do you think you could…?”

  “Oh, let me help,” Gavriel said with a sneer. Within two strides he was at his enemy’s side. He took Loethar’s arm by the wrist and smiled into the emperor’s face. “Ready?”

  “Enjoy yourself,” Loethar replied, his eyes slightly glassy, pupils larger than normal.

  Gavriel didn’t hesitate. He yanked the finger straight, not even feeling for the right “fit” as his father had taught him. He was disappointed that Loethar made no sound; didn’t even flinch as the finger slid back into place. “That should ache for days now.”

  “Thank you, de Vis, for your kindness.”

  The man was infuriating! Gavriel showed nothing in his expression other than a smile of satisfaction. “It was a pleasure,” he said, releasing Loethar’s hand. They locked stares and Gavriel was aware of Loethar’s injured hand moving. “Don’t even think about it. The dagger’s long gone. We searched you.”

  Loethar smiled. “I would have been disappointed in you, de Vis, if you hadn’t. However, it was not a blade I was reaching for.” He pulled out a kerchief. “Just something to bind my fingers with.”

  Gavriel glanced at the kerchief. A tremor ran through his body, a feeling like one of those nightsparkles was exploding—the kind that Brennus used for city celebrations, made by the famous Brinaday family for centuries.

  Elka, never far way, noticed how rigid his body had become. “Gavriel?” she asked, trepidation in her voice.

  “Where did you get that?” Gavriel all but spat.

  Loethar frowned momentarily and then looked to the kerchief. “This? I don’t know.” Then he grinned. “Ah, but I do. Of course. This would be your father’s kerchief.” He twirled it in his injured hand, suddenly smirking. “It even has a monogram. I’ve never noticed that before. I took all your father’s clothes when I first arrived. We were of a similar build, your father and I. He must have kept himself very fit and trim.” He laughed at the not-so-disguised insult. “Of course, I’ve moved on from his wardrobe from then but here, by all means—” he tossed it at Gavriel—“have it as a keepsake.”

  It looked fresh, unused; Gavriel could imagine it might even still smell of his father. Once again, though, he exercised his will over his rattled emotions. He reached into his own pocket. “No need. I have one,” he said calmly and glanced at Elka, who gave him a familiar look that spoke only of pride. “Put it to some use, Elka,” he said. “I’ll go on ahead. It’s beginning to look vaguely familiar up there.”

  Elka and Loethar watched him go. “You won’t win, you know,” Elka muttered. She took the kerchief from Loethar.

  “His father would be proud of him,” he said. There was no irony in his voice and Elka regarded the emperor thoughtfully. He shrugged. “I mean it. He has every reason to ignore all the best advice and just run me through with his sword.”

  “Gavriel’s too controlled.”

  “So it seems. I’m impressed.”

  “Because you have your life still?” she asked pointedly.

  He offered his hand, and she began binding the injured finger to its neighbor. “No, because he’s the kind of person I wish surrounded me.”

  Gavriel whistled and beckoned from above them. “Elka, you’ll recognize this area.”

  “Are we that close?”

  He nodded and grinned.

  “Close to what?” Loethar asked.

  “Not what. Who!” She tied the knot. “Kilt Faris,” she finished, smiling. “You won’t have to hunt him down at all. I’m sure he’s going to find it deeply amusing to meet the prisoner we’ve brought into his forest.”

  “This is my forest.”

  She shook her head. “While Kilt Faris might acknowledge it doesn’t belong to him by law, he will still claim it’s his through the mere act of possession. But he would never agree to its belonging to the empire, Loethar. Faris recognizes the Crown, believe it or not. While you think he’s a law unto himself, according to Gavriel he actually respects the Valisars. And this forest has always belonged to the Valisar kings, which you are not. Come on, I want to get there before sundown.” She made a gesture to suggest she was plucking a hair from her head. “Old mountain ritual to bring about good fortune,” she explained, helping him up the incline. “With luck our host already awaits us.”

  A man high up in the trees signaled to his companion below and the man on the ground ran across the clearing. “Tern,” he called.

  “This better be good news,” Tern replied, turning from the small piece of mirror he was watching his reflection in as he shaved. “Glad to get that beard off,” he added, reaching for an old linen to clean his face.

  “Good and bad.”

  Tern swung around, frowning. “Tell me.”

  “We’ve spotted our own trio. They should arrive by dusk, perhaps before.”

  Relief spread across Tern’s face. “Thank Lo for that! So what’s the bad news?”

  “There are three others—all strangers to us—also approaching.”

  “What do we know?”

  “Dorv is coming down from the lookout. Should be here any moment.”

  As he said this, the man who had been positioned in the tree arrived. “You’ve heard?”

  “Tell me what you know,” Tern demanded.

  Dorv nodded. “We need to get some help down to Jewd. Kilt’s hurt, I reckon.” Tern nodded at the first man, who immediately left to organize men to offer aid. “The others, well, they’re a strange trio. Two men and, I promise I’m not dreaming this, but I think there’s a Davarigon walking with them.”

  “What?”

  “A woman, well, I think it’s a woman. I can’t be sure.”

  “You’re sure she’s Davarigon?”

  “Either that, or the giants walk the land again. No, she’s Davarigon all right. I’ve seen her kind once before near Hell’s Gates.”

  “And she’s with two men. Set men?”

  “Seems so. One’s injured. She’s helping him. The other man is ranging ahead of them. I could be mistaken but he’s looking up all the time toward us. It’s as if he knows we’re watching.”

  “He wants to be spotted?”

  Dorv shrugged. “Just my interpretation.”

  “Grab a few of the boys. We might just head them off. If they do mention us, bring them back here. I need to know what they know and why. I’m going to check on Kilt and Jewd.”

  Dorv nodded and disappeared. Tern sighed and reached for his quiver, strapping it onto his back. He picked up the bow and followed Dorv and a few others down to the incline, curious but also concerned.

  Loethar was quietly wondering to himself how much worse the pain could get. When he was young he’d taught himself to set pain aside. It took immense concentration and when he was first acquiring the skill he’d had to find a trance-like state. Nowadays he could achieve the introspection he needed at will; he still practiced what the Wikken called “spirit focus” frequently, so the ability to find that special state of mind was always available to him. He used it to divert pain, fear, even sorrow, believing that his spirit was a separate entity from his body and that it could pull away fro
m the mortal framework to avoid the repercussions of unpleasantness—physical or mental.

  But on this occasion he was not winning. He stopped to take some deep breaths; that usually helped. “Carry on,” he said to the others, “I just need a moment.”

  Gavriel doubled back. “Not likely, Loethar.” He withdrew a blade from a belt around his hip. “I’m not letting you out of our sight.”

  Loethar grimaced. “I have nowhere to stumble to. You’d be upon me in a heartbeat.”

  “You can believe that.”

  “Besides, only brandish that knife if you’re prepared to use it, boy.”

  “Boy?” Gavriel laughed. “Once, perhaps, barbarian. A long time ago I might have inwardly quailed at your threat. But never again. Be very assured I’m not only prepared to use this knife, but I’m looking for an excuse to. By all means, give me one.”

  Loethar could see the man—who, indeed, was certainly far from a boy—meant every word. The way his jaw ground told him de Vis was fighting his inclinations to kill him with every step of their journey. Despite his precarious situation he liked de Vis; liked his passion, his loyalty. Especially he admired his control. A lesser man would have gone for the transient plea sure of plunging his blade into his enemy but de Vis was exercising wisdom over heart right now, and that spoke droves for any man—young or old.

  “Gav, hush!” Elka suddenly hissed. “Someone’s coming.”

  As she said her final word, men melted out of the shadows, bows strung taut, arrows nocked. Loethar couldn’t believe they hadn’t spotted them until now; they were so close.

  Elka immediately stepped in front of her two companions, reaching behind her for her bow.

  “Don’t. We’ll kill you before you can even bring your bow to the front,” one of the men cautioned. Elka paused. “You,” he added, nodding at Gavriel. “Drop the dagger. And you,” he said, back to Elka, “remove that bow—carefully—and throw it over here.”

  Elka did as she was instructed. Gavriel hesitated. “We’re looking for Kilt Faris. I am—”