Kingdom of Khal: Redeeming Davik

by Madison Hayes

  He was admitted to his father’s bedroom where he found the old soldier propped up amidst a company of pillows. He looked small, Davik thought. He had been such a big man, a giant at one time. He wished that his father’s frail condition could be attributed to the shock of losing his oldest son, but that would be attributing feelings to a man too busy being King to have ever been a father; the King had been in his bed for more than a year now. Davik bowed before the old man.

  “Davik,” the old man wheezed. “I won’t keep you long. It’s vital you resume the siege before the Rebels have a chance to re-supply. They must be punished for The Heir’s death,” he commanded with a rattle.

  Davik nodded grimly.

  The old King shook his head. “I’m sorry about your brother. You’ll miss him, of course. Perhaps more than anyone. You mustn’t blame yourself for his death.”

  The young Prince stiffened. “I was deceived.”

  “Has it occurred to you that perhaps you were not? That while you were betrayed, you were not deceived.”

  “Father?”

  The old man made a face. “If you were taken in, maybe it was because the girl wasn’t acting. You know how impractical women are. The girl probably fell in love with one of you—both of you! And it’s entirely possible she betrayed you without uttering a single lie.”

  Davik didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about her.

  “Know your enemy, son,” he said curtly. “Use it against her.”

  “I will, father.”

  * * * * *

  Davik pulled the door closed behind him and turned to stare at the smooth, copper-clad surface. An avalanche of unwelcome feelings scraped his raw emotions like an open wound and, for an instant, he felt utterly alone—solitary in a singular emptiness.

  Ruthlessly, he shoved this weakness aside. He was behind schedule. He wanted to be on the road tomorrow, early. The corridor was dark and empty as he headed across the palace; his steps rang hollow on the flagstone walk. He hadn’t asked his father about the girl who robbed Fastig. He didn’t want to know anymore. What was the point, when the whore had lied about everything? Most like she wasn’t even the same girl.

  His steps slowed.

  Even assuming his father was right, and the girl had never lied, what did that mean? Was there any reason to believe she was the girl who robbed Fastig? She hadn’t actually admitted to the theft. ‘You’ve a good memory,’ was all she had said. The Prince shrugged with irritation and resumed his pace. What else? She claimed to have spent five years in Taranis prison, said she had not been raped; neither did she complain that she had suffered in any way.

  He snorted.

  No. She just heroically fainted in his arms when he tried to bind her wrists. And that act had drawn him in so completely. She had duped him right from the start. How could he have been—?

  He stopped completely in the corridor.

  Unless her fainting wasn’t an act.

  His guard scrambled to keep up with him as he ordered a mount harnessed. A careening ride through the city streets brought him to the cold stone building, Taranis Prison. With a gruff word to the sentries, he was escorted to the warden’s office where he found a chair and waited for the man to join him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The warden nodded. “Fastig’s Diamond Thief.” He was a seasoned man with a keen confidence and intelligent eyes. “I remember the girl.”

  “Petra,” he said slowly and waited for the Prince’s reaction. When there was none, a shield dropped before his eyes. “It’s only three years or so since she escaped,” he explained. “Tall for her age, dark skin, black, black hair. She was a tough young thing,” he said with admiration he didn’t bother to hide. “Only fourteen. I watched her receive her lashes.” The man shook his head. “She pressed her lips together and never uttered a sound. No more than blinked each time the lash fell.” He regarded the Prince rebelliously. “She was to have received thirty. I called it good at twenty.”

  Davik nodded curtly. The girl drew everyone in. “She received no other punishment?”

  The man shook his head. “I received word almost immediately she was to be treated with care.”

  “Word?” Davik’s astonishment was complete. “From who?”

  “The palace!”

  “Who, at the palace?”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t know. I never knew.”

  Davik stared at the wall. “Do you know why?”

  He shrugged. “I assumed she was somebody’s daughter. Somebody important enough to protect her, but not important enough to buy her freedom. That same Somebody sent her books though. Lots of books.” The warden’s eyes traveled behind the Prince.

  Davik followed his gaze to a shelf stacked with manuscripts. He stood and sorted through them briefly, vaguely noting most of them were histories. He opened an ornate little collection of ballads. “All hers?”

  The warden nodded.

  “You kept her books. You could have sold them.”

  “I like to read. A man of my means can’t afford many books.”

  Davik gave the man a scathing look.

  “I thought she might be back,” he admitted without apology. “Might be recaptured. Might get into more trouble.”

  “Were the diamonds ever recovered?”

  “She gave them back. Didn’t you know? That’s how she was caught.”

  “She returned the jewelry? And Fastig still demanded her punishment?”

  The warden made a face. “You know how Fastig is. And he can afford to buy the King’s—.” The man stopped, realizing whom he was addressing. “Well, you know how Fastig is,” he finished.

  “I think she only did it as a lark. According to her story, she went into the house on a dare and was to come out with one of those atrocious red scarves he wears. While she was in his room, he stumbled in half drunk. She crouched behind the bed and watched him open his hidden vault. She didn’t empty the vault; just took the diamonds. Kept them a few days, long enough for him to discover they were missing and to offer a reward, long enough for her to gain some notoriety. Then she thought it would be fun to surprise him with their return—to their original location. Fastig insisted she was returning to empty his vault.”

  “And perhaps she was.”

  The warden shrugged. “She could have done that the first time she was there; of course there was nothing in the vault by the time of her return. Any thief might have expected that.”

  After a moment’s silence, the warden continued. “You know how well guarded his villa is; she got in through his cat door.” He indicated with his hands the small size of this opening. “She was just a skinny kid back then. She’d never have made it after she came into her breasts…and hips.”

  “And all this was revealed at her hearing,” Davik said with sarcasm.

  “Some of it. Some of it she spoke of while she was here.”

  “You visited with her?”

  “My duties keep me too busy for visiting with prisoners,” he said, a rime of frost on his words. “But I’m a curious man. And I oversaw every entry into her cell.”

  “And why was that.”

  “I’ve not so many women here. Few enough I can make sure they’re not abused by their guards.”

  “So she was not mistreated, then?” He had to ask. “Nor was she raped?”

  The man looked offended. “Not at all!”

  “You’re sure. Her guards—”

  “Her guards couldn’t have reached her if they’d wanted to; she was behind bars. I had the keys and oversaw all entries into her cell,” he repeated.

  “She did not suffer then,” Davik gritted. The small volume of ballads crumpled in his tightening fist. He turned abruptly then halted before the door. “Her escape?” His tone was accusatory.

  “I was off the night she escaped.” The warden’s eyes flashed. “But if I were going to help the girl, I’d not have waited five years.”

  The man was too clever and
smug. Davik turned back to him slowly. “Did you know…one of your men jerked himself in her presence? Routinely?” The smug bastard’s expression told Davik the man hadn’t known.

  “These things happen,” the warden returned with flinty expression. “She could have told me of it.”

  But she hadn’t. “No! Not her! She was too fucking noble to complain! She’d not compromise the man’s position!”

  The warden’s eyes dropped to the elegant little book crushed in Davik’s fist, as he met the Prince’s fury with superior calm.

  The storm in Davik’s eyes died suddenly. “I’m sorry,” he said coldly, “but your noble slut murdered my brother, The Heir to Khal.”

  The warden raised his eyes to the Prince’s face. “When you put a child in jail, you run the risk of making a lifelong enemy,” he pointed out; steel edged his words.

  Davik slammed the door behind him. She drew everyone in.

  The warden flinched as the door smacked into the jamb. For several moments, the man stared at the place where the Prince had stood, then he started out of his seat and paced over to pull the door open. The Prince was nowhere in sight. Damn. He probably should have mentioned her wrists. The girl’s wrists. And ankles. It wasn’t fair to say she hadn’t suffered.

  * * * * *

  It was late by the time Davik left his mount in the stables and climbed the steps to Taranis Palace. Too late to bother his father and he planned an early departure in the dawn. His father might have some idea of why the girl was granted special treatment during her imprisonment, or he might not. Most like, she caught the eye of some sympathetic benefactor who pitied the striking fourteen year old. The girl drew everyone in.

  He no longer cared to learn anything more about the whore.

  What difference did it make, anyhow?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mavrik took his ten paces, scanned the horizon quickly and turned to take another ten. It was a miserable, dense, black night and he hunched his shoulders as he burrowed into his clothing. With the wind behind him, he took the next ten paces more slowly. He sighed. Things were not the same since The Heir’s death. The New Heir was fair and equitable; he always had been. But the tone, the mood had changed; the camaraderie lost, the laughter, humor dimmed—almost extinguished altogether. He spat on the ground and cursed the slut who had murdered his Prince, then cursed the weather equally. He turned and looked for the next sentry, but couldn’t find him in the impenetrable—

  Dye drew his steel across the young soldier’s throat. “You’re dead,” he hissed in the lad’s ear.

  The Northman gave the boy a shove and handed him his dagger. With his hand on his throat, the young soldier goggled at the blade. “Take it,” Dye laughed. “Then lead me to your Prince.” Still the youth stared, then slowly drew his hand from his throat and stared at his palm. “Tell him you captured me,” Dye suggested.

  * * * * *

  Although it was gone midnight, Davik sat at the table in the inn, staring sullenly across the room at his mat. It had taken him all of thirteen days to regroup his forces and return to the gates of Veronix. The weather was coming out of the north on the march back, unseasonably cold and biting. The army fought the stubborn headwind and slashing rain every step of the way. Even now, the weather screeched at the shuttered windows like a banshee slut.

  They had lost a little ground, he thought, but nothing that couldn’t be recouped. He would have the city, soon.

  And everyone in it.

  Her.

  He would have her, and his revenge. It was just a matter of time.

  Fighting the weather to close the door, a guard ducked into the inn and crossed the room to whisper in the Prince’s ear. Davik nodded with sudden interest, stood and turned.

  The tall, hard redhead stood just inside the door. “I’ve come to offer you the city,” Dye said without preamble. “My unit will open the gates for you tonight and help you reach Kartin, then negotiate with his army for nonviolence. I’m confident they’ll submit to you under the right conditions.”

  Davik stared at him quietly. Snorted. “I’m to be drawn in again,” he said with disgust. “How can she think—?”

  The man shook his head. “She no longer captains the unit; it’s under my command. And you can keep me hostage if you wish; take me with you to the gates. My men have their orders. Although my absence may make Kartin suspicious. More suspicious than he already is.”

  Davik regarded him with continued disbelief.

  “You needn’t accompany your army through the gates. Follow them after the palace is secured.”

  Davik dropped into a chair and regarded Dye as he stood just inside the door. There was no reason not to suspect a trap. And yet the man’s direct, casual manner was convincing. “And why should I believe you will betray Kartin?”

  Dye shrugged. “The city can’t hold out against you. We knew that before. There was nothing left; hence the plan to capture you. The success of Petra’s mission made us the victors—for a time—until your ‘escape’. This time you’ll win. As before, I intend to be on the winning side.”

  “And what do you expect to gain in return for this betrayal?”

  Dye regarded him quietly, without words.

  “This won’t buy the girl anything.”

  “Yes it will,” Dye returned. He turned to the door, opened it a crack, and squinted outside. “I’ve seen your ‘ballad’. It’s quite a piece of work.” Dye returned his eyes to the Prince. “My men don’t deserve the dishonor. They were just soldiers following orders.”

  Davik considered this for several moments. “Two nights, hence, then.”

  “No,” Dye countered. “Tonight. Tonight, or not at all.”

  “Why?”

  “I have my reasons.” He gave the Prince a grim smile. “All will be revealed in time.”

  * * * * *

  Upon taking the city of Veronix, certain of its capitulation, and satisfied with its occupation, Prince Davik had only one thing on his mind, and a good many orders associated with it. “Man the gates,” he instructed his captains, “the walls. Nobody gets out. Nobody. Post a double sentry line three hundred paces out. You understand? Find the girl. Round up her unit and bring them to the hall.”

  He would fuck her in front of her men.

  Almost immediately, a disciplined, unified tramp echoed in the corridors and Davik turned to watch Dye lead his men into the hall.

  Dye had marshaled his men immediately upon receiving the Prince’s summons. Marching into the hall, they formed a neat array in the center of the room. A hundred Southern soldiers lined the alcove that ran the perimeter of the hall. When the Southern Prince ignored the Northern Unit, the men shuffled restlessly. These were the men responsible for The Heir’s death. Although they had given his brother the city, it might not buy them his pardon. Their eyes shifted to their captain, the only man at ease in the hall. With a careless salute for the Prince, Dye threw himself into a chair. Well, if you were going to die, you might as well do it comfortably. If the Prince turned tables on them, Dye reckoned the man had just provocation. Petra had said he wouldn’t. He’d soon know for himself.

  “The people of Veronix have been hungry a long time,” Dye reminded the Prince casually.

  “Our sheep are being driven in and butchered. I’ve sent out hunting parties. Additional supplies are on their way from Taranis. Don’t—tell me how to do my job, Northman.”

  Five Southern soldiers entered the room and saluted the Prince. Davik’s captain shook his head.

  Davik stepped off the dais and yanked the nearest North Country soldier off his feet. “Where is she?”

  “Sir?”

  “Where’s your Unit Captain?”

  The man’s eyes went to Dye.

  Dye regarded the Prince with nonchalance. “I’m their captain,” he reminded the Prince. “If you mean the girl, I can tell you where she is. Can take you to her, if you wish.”

  A few angry paces brought the two men face to f
ace. “Can you bring her here?” he spat with angry cynicism.

  Negligently, Dye cast his eyes around the room. “If you wish.”

  “Do so!” The Prince motioned his five men to accompany Dye.

  * * * * *

  The Prince paced the silent room while the men of her unit palmed the sweat from their faces—even though the hall was chilly, the sun stubbornly absent in the morning sky. Davik’s heart thundered in his chest. His throat was dry, his palms damp. His eyes met those of his guards flanking the Northern throne; their gazes were accusatory. Angrily, he turned away from them. They were the two men who had stopped her escape from the inn; the guards she had defended when he was upset about her torn skirt. He nodded to himself. The girl drew everyone in. But their attitude warned him to go carefully.

  The door opened with a crash as Dye kicked it open and strode into the hall. In his arms he carried the limp rag that was Petra. When he reached the stunned Prince, he shoved the girl into Davik’s arms.

  The hall was dead silent as her men watched with stony faces.

  “You might have to fix her up a bit, before you can revive her long enough to beat her senseless again,” Dye suggested.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Prince’s expression, as he looked down at the girl in his arms, started out as blank denial, followed by acute loss. As though he were deprived of something he very much wanted, valued, or had looked forward to.

  She was dirty, he thought at first. And she was. Filthy. But most of the dark splashes on her limbs were bruises. What remained of her clothing barely covered her. Quickly, he removed his eyes from her battered face. Her nose was broken, he realized as he stared at the floor. Her nose, the only proud feature in her winsome face. And then he couldn’t think for several moments. “Who…who did this to her?”

  “Kartin.”