Prisoner (4 page)

"Come, Captain. We must ride for a while yet before I feel we are safe."

"Won't they think it strange when you are gone?"

The warm voice laughed again and suddenly, his bitterness and anguish hit him all over again, as though his eyes had been recently torn away and not days ago. More than anything at that moment, he wanted to put a face to that voice, that summer laugh.

He never would.

A hand grasped his gently and tucked it into one of those strong arms, and bitterly Iah realized that for the rest of his life he would be treated as an invalid and not as the soldier he'd been for the past decade. "Careful, Captain. The ground here is treacherous in good weather, and the snow makes it deadly even to those with perfect vision."

Iah allowed himself to be led across the field, until he could smell and hear a horse.  He realized then that he could no longer ride horses; not by himself, anyway. There were so many things he had not considered, simply because he never thought to leave the dungeon alive; the simplest of activities—like horse riding—were beyond him. Now that he was free of the dungeon, he wondered if he was more or less a prisoner than he had been before.

But someone, somewhere, had seen fit to send him a second chance on a summer wind. Whether the wind boded ill or fortune, he would not question now. He let go of the arm that had guided him and reached out to feel the horse. This he had done hundreds of times, morning, noon, and night. Taking a deep breath, Iah made himself move and managed to mount the horse.

A moment later, the man with the summer voice mounted behind him and took the reins, clicking softly. It was unsettling to ride when he could not see. His exhaustion hit him hard and abruptly, every fiber of his body screaming in abject pain. Dizzily he wavered in his seat, but a strong arm wrapped more firmly around his waist and pressed him back against a wide chest.

"It is hard," he said quietly, "to accept help from one of those who took my eyes."

"I am nothing like him," the summer voice took on a winter edge, the contempt and hate so deep it startled Iah into silence. "You are one more transgression for which he will someday pay. If I thought my apologies worth anything, I would offer them. But for what it's worth, I am not an enemy. I am a comrade."

"Are we safe enough that I might know your name?"

"That is a hard question to answer, actually. A name is a precious thing in Salhara, this of course you know."

"Yes."

"There are two stigma which can be inflicted upon a person to make it clear they are not worthy of anything but the lowest of servitude. One, of course, is to be nameless. In being nameless, a person will do anything to earn a name. Because to be nameless in our society—"

"Is  not to exist," Iah said softly.

"Exactly. But the second stigma is to carry several names."

"Why is that a stigma?"

"Because the only thing as bad as not having an identity is not knowing your true identity. Too many names at once and you no longer know who you are. This is the stigma given to criminals enlisted to help with the war as spies. Spies must have several names, several identities, and given that one of Salhara's greatest enemies is a nation of deception… to be a spy is a contemptible thing."

"So you were once a criminal?"

"No, actually." The summer laugh turned slightly bitter. "My father was, but he went and got himself killed before they could arrest him. I was made to take his punishment."

How curious, this rescuer of his. "So what should I call you? Stranger?"

"The Krians know me as Lord Grau, and it is to that country we journey. I have duties there, and you will also have a chance to recuperate. Your people, or at least the Illussor with whom I communicate, call me Spiegel."

Iah gasped. "I have heard of you—but most think it an absurd rumor that a Salharan would betray his own to side with the Deceivers."

"It is no lie. It is how I know who you are. Now, Captain Iah Cehka, I will try to earn your trust. For only my Brothers know the stigma I carry. The rest of Salhara knows me as General Sol deVry."

Iah nodded slowly, hoping none of his astonishment showed. "I recall you. Gray hair, yellow eyes." Of course he knew that face. Fourth General Sol deVry of the Salhara Royal Army. He did not appear often on the battlefield, but he'd always stuck in Iah's mind. The silver hair and gold eyes were such a strange contrast. What a relief, a small, silly joy to have a face to go with his summer voice.

"Polluted eyes."

"I thought Salhara worshipped its artificial magic like most do gods."

"It does," Sol said in a soft voice laced with pain. "I would like to change that. Not all of us are lost to the colors of magic."

Iah felt exhaustion overtaking him again and allowed himself to relax against Sol. Though his mind still rebelled at trusting a Salharan, his instincts were quiet. Iah was willing to trust them, at least for the present. It was not as though he had a choice. "Thank you, General, for rescuing me. I don't know why you did it, but I appreciate it."

"I did it because I will need you. Do you recall why you fought the battle against the Scarlet?"

"Yes," Iah whispered. "It was because General Lysam thought we'd found the Breaker." The General was dead from Screaming, and they had gained nothing by it. A wasted death like all the others. But if Iah thought of his men and his comrades just then, he would lose what remained of his control.

"You might have. He was the personal prisoner of General von Adolwulf. He lives still, though I know not where. But Tawn, bastard though he is, will find him and bring him to me. When he does, you can tell me for certain if he is, indeed, the Breaker."

Iah refused to believe it was possible, that their goal was as close as that. "Then what?"

"Then we will take him to the prince, and stars willing, he will Break."

Beraht woke slowly, wishing desperately to go back to sleep and avoid the ache he could already feel forming in his head. Served him right, burning off that much yellow arcen in one spell.

Of course, if he hadn't he would be dead, but at the moment that really didn't seem like such a terrible thing. Finally forcing his eyes open, Beraht immediately took in the cloak that covered him. It was made of heavy black wool, and the bottom and top were liberally trimmed with gray wolf fur. He threw it off and clambered to his feet, instantly regretting doing so. Stars, he hated winter.

Food was cooking on a spit over a small campfire. Beraht glanced up, noting that the sun was going down. Great, he'd woken just in time for the weather to get colder. If the cloak didn't belong to the bastard general, he would have reassumed it and gone back to sleep.

Where was von Adolwulf?

He was sorely tempted to run for it, but he had no food, inadequate gear thanks to those stupid soldiers taking half his clothes and destroying the rest—stars he was cold—and he had no idea where he was. Except still in Kria.

Surely life could not get much worse.

The sound of something coming through the trees and bushes had him spinning around, tensed to put up whatever fight he could. There was his other reason for not running away. He wanted von Adolwulf to take his name away. Beraht eyed him warily as the general first moved to fetch his heavy cloak, then moved toward him. Beraht looked up as he drew close.

And up.

Just how much arcen had he been on? How exhausted had he been the past few days not to notice von Adolwulf was a good five inches or more taller than he was? He was built as if he had probably killed the wolf on his cloak with his bare hands.

No wonder they'd told Beraht to go after the Scarlet. How had it not turned into a suicidal mission?

Sheer dumb bad luck, that was how. First the Seven Star tattoo and finding out the Seven Star didn't want him. Then being told he had to kill one thousand people—at least—before they'd consider him and give him a name. That it had to be the Scarlet he slaughtered.

Now General von Adolwulf was looking at him as if he would quite cheerfully like to throw Beraht in the fire. The feeling was entirely mutual, and the size of a mountain or not, the bastard was going to know that.

"You're finally awake."

"You're very observant."

Beraht wondered how many soldiers in a day got glared at like that. He sobered, recalling suddenly that they no longer had to worry about the general's glares. Which reminded him—why had the Illussor been after him?

His own people did not want him, the Krians wanted him dead, and the Illussor wanted him…for something, though Beraht could not even begin to fathom what. The next time death came up as an option Beraht was going to take it.

He did not bother to fight when von Adolwulf grabbed what was left of his shirt and hauled him close. Looking up was going to give him a crick in the neck eventually. "You'd do well to remember, Beraht, that you are my prisoner. After what happened to my men, I will not be so kind as to kill you."

Beraht's anger flared anew at the sound of his new, hated name. Damn it, he'd been earning a real name from his Brothers. He would have belonged, would have had a place and a full Star. Instead, he was now worse than nameless, and the star at his back would never be filled past yellow. "It's not my fault!"

"Winter's Tits it's not! Why?!" von Adolwulf threw him to the ground. "Why? Why would the Illussor want a worthless Salharan?"

"When you figure it out let me know," Beraht snapped, picking himself up off the ground.

"If I were you, Beraht, I would cease being flippant." von Adolwulf's eyes were a strange mix of gray and green; they reminded Beraht of a jade pendant he had seen once, around the throat of a woman in a market.

It really was no wonder everyone was terrified of the bastard. Beraht shoved away his own trepidation. Maybe if he angered him enough, von Adolwulf would lose his temper and beat him to death. Not a pleasant way to die, but Beraht would take what he could get. "Sorry, flippant is the only way I know to be. If you don't like it, ignore me or kill me." This time when the general came after him, Beraht braced himself and attempted to fight back, dodging away from the hand that reached out to grasp him.

Fighting without magic was hard to do, however. Especially against a man who made bears look small. Just how far gone had he really been? Beraht hit the ground with a pained grunt, the breath knocked out of his lungs and unable to see clearly for a second. When his vision cleared, he saw all too well the anger and pain that filled von Adolwulf's face.

"My men are dead. All of them. Not through battle defending their homeland or reclaiming lost ground. Not for a cause. But because the Illussor wanted you badly enough they Screamed. "

"That Scream could have killed us too, you know." The heat had gone out of Beraht's voice, though he wanted it back. Every fiber in his body railed against the man pinning him down.

The Scarlet Wolf. His own men had been terrified of him. Salharan soldiers dreaded hearing his name. None of them ever expected to live to see the day after a battle against him.

Now his jade eyes were the color of storm-tossed leaves, dark yet bright, full of anger, but also pain. If Beraht were a weaker man, he might have felt sorry for von Adolwulf.

But no one had ever given Beraht sympathy. He'd be damned if he gave it to a general who scared even his own men to death. "If I hadn't still had yellow arcen in my boot, we'd both be dead, General, so maybe you're angry, but it's not my fault. I'm as ignorant as you."

With a rough, muttered curse, von Adolwulf released him and roughly hauled Beraht to his feet. "Keep your mouth shut," he said, brutally grabbing Beraht's chin and forcing him to look up. "Do as I say. Try to run, and I will cut off your feet."

Beraht narrowed his eyes and dug his nails into the wrist that held him. "General, one day you'll grow sick of me. You'll try to rid yourself of me, but you won't succeed. I'll not leave your side until you take away my name. I refuse to live quietly with the name you've shamefully forced upon me. So don't get your hopes up about cutting off my feet."

Von Adolwulf's grin was nothing less than wolfish when he let go of Beraht, seeming unaffected by the bloody marks left by Beraht's nails. "Do your worst. The more excuses I have to beat you, the better."

"You don't strike me as the type to need an excuse."

"Think what you like." He turned away, dismissing Beraht entirely to examine their dinner, which had singed slightly. "Come. Eat."

For a moment, Beraht thought to refuse, but his stomach growled, and he was forced to admit that a war—even a private one—could not be waged on an empty stomach. Reluctantly, he sat down and accepted what von Adolwulf gave him, eyeing it warily before biting into meat that, though singed, was still the best thing he'd had in months.

"You need clothes."

"Wouldn't you prefer to see me freeze to death slowly?"

"Not until I've paid you back for killing my men."

"The Illussor killed your men." Beraht glared. "I had nothing to do with it."

"You were the motive."

"Unwitting."

"Irrelevant."