The Bloodsworn (19 page)

“That beast,” he said. “A warhound?”

She nodded grimly. “Trained to kill. If you hadn't pushed me out of the way . . . You saved my life. Thank you, Rodrik.”

The blue eyes focused on her, clear and alert. “Who are you?”

She hesitated. “I'm not sure this is the time . . .”

“You promised me you would explain. What's happening to me?”

Alix sighed and lowered herself down beside him. “I'm not sure where to begin. The Oridians . . . do you know what they were doing to you?”

“Witchcraft.” He shuddered, curling over himself protectively. “They were using my blood for witchcraft.”

“That's right. The man who took your blood—”

“Dargin.” A glimmer of hatred came into Rodrik's eyes. “His name is Dargin.”

“He's a bloodbinder.” Alix paused to let Rodrik process that. “Only he wasn't making weapons. He was performing a perversion of the spell, one that was discovered by the Priest of Oridia. Instead of controlling weapons, it controls men, and—”

“The king,” Rodrik said. “They were using me to control the King of Alden.”

A long silence, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. “You knew?”

“I heard them talking. I was awake a lot of the time, even when they didn't realise it. But I couldn't move.” He shuddered again, and Alix had to fight the urge to put her arms around him. It was unsettling, having to constantly remind herself that
this was not Erik
.

Even so, she was beginning to notice tiny differences, ones that went beyond the beard or his illness. He had a scar near the tip of his nose, and his eyebrows were slightly different. A little more feathered, perhaps, with higher arches. Alix had no doubt these subtleties would be lost on just about anyone, but to her, they were as plain as the beard on his face.

“They spoke of it often,” he said. “I tried to understand, but I was so groggy . . .” He shook his head. “Even now, I can't fathom it. Why me? Why my blood?”

Alix bit her lip. For a fraction of a moment, she debated not telling him—but that wouldn't be fair. “This isn't going to be easy for you to hear, but you deserve the truth.”

He regarded her warily.

“You've probably spent your whole life believing you were born in Andithyri, but that's not so. You were born in Alden. To Osrik and Hestia White.” She paused, but the names washed over him without meaning. “You have a twin,” she continued, and that
did
register; he jerked forward, eyes widening. “Your name is Rodrik White, and you are twin brother to King Erik White of Alden.”

If she lived to be a hundred, Alix would never be able to describe the look that passed through Rodrik's eyes in that moment. The near-instantaneous progression from shock to disbelief to acceptance, as if this missing piece fit snugly into a mysterious gap in his life. The confused jumble of emotions—fear and wonder and anger. Most of all the profound
disorientation
, as though his entire world had just mutated into something unrecognisable. Which, Alix supposed, it had. In that blink of Rodrik's eyes, she watched a man's very identity come undone.

“You must have a thousand questions,” Alix said, “and I
wish I could answer them, but the truth is we only learned of your existence about three weeks ago.”
Dear gods, has it only been three weeks?
It seemed an age since she'd left Erroman.

Rodrik's gaze dropped to the ground, and there it stayed for a very long time. When finally he spoke, his voice was surprisingly devoid of emotion. “I do have a thousand questions, yet you still have not answered my first.” He raised his eyes to her. “Who are you?”

“My name is Alix Black. Well . . . Alix White, now.”

His glance flitted over her face, as though truly taking her in for the first time. “You are my sister?”

“Sister-in-law. My husband is Liam White, your half brother. And Erik . . . King Erik is my . . . that is, I'm his . . .” She stumbled ridiculously, as though there were anything complicated about it. And yet somehow, there was. “I'm his bodyguard,” she managed at last.

He nodded as if he understood, but Alix could tell he didn't, not truly. He was too numb and too weak; already, his eyelids were drooping again, his shoulders wilting. Then he surprised her by saying, “I always wanted a brother. And now it seems I have two.”

A simple sentiment, and yet it undid her. Tears sprang to her eyes. It was too close to the bone. To Erik's lifelong search for closeness, first with one brother, then another; to Liam's secret fantasies of adventuring with his brothers. Even Tom and his doomed quest to overcome whatever chasm separated him from Erik, and from their father. Four brothers, kept apart by so much, yet all nurturing virtually the same heart's desire: for family.

“I should very much like to meet them,” Rodrik murmured through a haze of pain.

Alix helped him to lie down. “You will,” she whispered, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. “I promise.”

T
he blade bit deep into the wood, sending chips flying. Liam didn't let it linger; he jerked it free and spun his wrist, bringing the sword down on his left side to meet the next target. The horse tilted obligingly—a little
too
obligingly, throwing Liam's timing off. He nearly skewered himself on the dummy's spear, but he managed to arrest his momentum, holding his body upright in the saddle just a fraction longer before leaning out to cleave the wooden head from its shoulders. Pressing his left leg into the stallion's flank, he canted right to meet the final target, rising a little in his stirrups for a better angle. He judged it perfectly, driving a clean, hard thrust deep into the wood; had it been flesh, he'd have buried it to the hilt. As it was, he was forced to release the blade as he rode by, turning the courser in a loping arc to survey his handiwork.

Two headless, one limbless, and a couple of nice torso hits, plus his sword quivering satisfyingly in the throat of the final dummy.
Not bad for a single pass
, he thought smugly.

Then he heard Arran Green's voice in his head.
A boastful stunt, leaving yourself weaponless like that. On the battlefield, it would be the end of you.

Liam sighed. Even in death, Arran Green wouldn't let him have any fun.

“Nice,” said a voice, and Liam turned to find Kerta Middlemarch leaning against the wall of the armoury. “Though that last bit didn't seem very practical.”

Liam swung down from his horse, grinning. “It
looked
brilliant, though, didn't it?”

“You always look brilliant,” she said obligingly. “Though I prefer watching you on foot.”

“You and me both. I still haven't quite got the hang of this thing.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the stallion. A gift from Erik, he was an exquisite animal, but a little too soft in the flanks for Liam's liking. He'd grown up riding brutes, not sensitive, high-strung coursers like this. “Not sure fighting on horseback is my cup of tea, to be honest. At least when it's just me, the only clumsiness I have to worry about is my own.”

“Clumsiness indeed. You're a dancer with that sword and you know it.”

“Hmm. Can we agree on a manlier metaphor?”

“A poet, then.”

“Funny.”

Kerta smiled up at him, all freckles and blond curls and daintiness. She looked out of place in the yard, surrounded by dirt and horseshite. But Liam knew better. That sword on her hip wasn't for decoration. “In the scouting leathers, I see,” he said.

Her smile grew strained. “Off to the front in about an hour. That's why I'm here—I came to say good-bye.”

“Oh.” Liam felt his own smile falling away. He hadn't seen much of Kerta these past couple of weeks, but it still felt like a loss. The gods knew he had few enough friends in the capital right now.

“I hear you're making a speech today,” she said. “I'll be sorry to miss it.”

“Not as sorry as the poor sods who'll have to listen to it.”

“You'll be wonderful,” she said, putting a reassuring hand on his arm. “I know it.”

“I'll be lucky to make it all the way through without throwing up.”

Kerta laughed. “Oh, Liam, I will miss you.” A shimmer came into her eyes. “Take care of yourself, will you?” Squeezing his arm one final time, she left.

Liam was on his way back to the keep, head swimming with half-memorised bits of speech, when a servant collided with him.

“Profound apologies, Your Highness,” said a rasping voice. Hands fluttered over Liam's clothing, as though to smooth it. And then the man was on his way, moving fluidly through the ever-present bustle of the bailey.

Liam blinked after him in mild astonishment. Then he turned back toward the keep—and raked his hand across something sharp. Sucking in a breath, he looked down and found a rose tucked into his pocket. It was the thorns that had attacked him, leaving a string of bloody beads from thumb to wrist. Nor was the flower the only thing waiting to ambush him: Reaching into his pocket, Liam found a folded note.

Your Highness,

This rose is a subtle way of asking you to join me in the rose garden at your earliest convenience.

A friend

Liam scowled at the patronising bit of paper. Then he made a hard right and headed for the royal gardens.

He found the spy waiting for him on the bench by the duck pond. “You know, I'm fairly certain I could have worked it out without the note.”

“It pays to be certain, Your Highness. You are new at this, after all.” The ever-present hood tracked from left to right as the spy scanned the ranks of rosebushes.

“There's nobody here,” Liam said. “The gardens are closed, remember?”

“And yet here I sit.”

Liam grunted. “Fair point.”

Saxon continued to survey the garden, fingers twitching anxiously at his sides. He was a far cry from the cool, wry figure Liam had spoken with last time—which had to be a bad sign.

Liam sighed as he lowered himself to the bench. The fear that settled over him was as familiar as an old suit of armour by now: still heavy, but no longer capable of setting his heart
racing. It was just too commonplace. “I'm guessing whatever's got you so worked up is the reason you called me here.”

“You are in danger, Your Highness.”

“Yeah. Not news.”

“
Imminent
danger,” the spy said impatiently. “Something is amiss in the council.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“No, and that's what worries me. A pall of silence has fallen over them, individually and collectively. They have convened in secret, twice now, to unknown purpose. Meanwhile, my tick refuses even to meet with me. That is unprecedented, and a very ill omen indeed.”

Secret council meetings. Without the prince or the chancellor. Rona must not have been invited—she'd certainly have said something. Which meant they didn't trust her, either. Liam cursed inwardly.
Ill omen
didn't begin to cover it. “And you have no idea what they're discussing?”

“All I can tell you is that the meetings were convened by Lady Sirin Grey.”

“Shocking,” Liam said dryly. Still, maybe that wasn't entirely bad news. “We told her that Erik had gone to the front. Alix too. As far as I know, she believes it. Maybe that's what she's telling the council.”

Saxon considered that. “It's possible. In which case, though it might not earn you the affection of the council, your neck would at least be safe.”

“That must be it,” Liam said with a confidence he didn't feel. “Otherwise they'd have confronted me by now, right?”

The spy said nothing.

“Either way,” Liam said, “there's not much I can do about it.”

“You could find someplace else to be, Your Highness.”

“Run?” Liam shook his head. “That'd mean leaving the kingdom headless. The council means well, but when it comes to military matters, they're hopeless. Raibert Green is the only one who knows a sword from a gardening trowel, and he's too mild-mannered to impose his will on the likes of Sirin Grey.” He sighed. “No, I'm here to the end, one way or another.”

A stretch of silence. Then Saxon said, “If things do not develop as we hope, Your Highness . . . that is, if they go badly . . .”

“You'll need to find someplace else to be.”

The spy looked at him; for the first time, Liam could see the colour of his eyes, black as pitch. “I hope you understand.”

“If it weren't for this whole running-the-country thing, I'd probably be right behind you.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Liam rose. “I'd better go. I've got a speech to make.” He started up the gravel path toward the keep.

“Good luck, Your Highness,” the spy called after him.

Liam started to ask what he meant—good luck with the speech, or good luck staying alive—but decided he really didn't want to know.

*   *   *

A chill wind darted up the Street of Stars, collecting in whirls of dust at the corners of the temple square. The crowd shifted and huddled deeper into their cloaks. They looked miserable, fearful expressions gazing out from under hoods, from above white knuckles clutching at collars. Try as he might, Liam could not meet those gazes, even though he knew instinctively that was what Erik would do. He would connect with one pair of eyes after another, lingering just long enough to snuff that cold flame of fear before moving on. Liam had seen his brother do just that on the morning of the Battle of Boswyck, though he must have known the Kingswords couldn't possibly prevail. You did that when you were king—gave people confidence even when you didn't feel it. But as Liam stood on that dais, banner lords arrayed on one side of him, clergy on the other, confidence felt as far beyond his grasp as the Holy Virtues themselves.

Rudi stirred at his feet, nearly as uneasy as his master. Liam would have preferred to leave the wolfhound at home, but Highmount had insisted. Apparently, the chancellor didn't think Liam looked royal enough on his own; they needed a symbol of old King Rendell at his side to remind everyone that Liam was, in fact, prince of the realm.

He resisted the urge to glance one final time at the speech Highmount had prepared. He looked over at Rona Brown instead, but even that didn't help; the sight of her in brown silk, instead of her customary White Wolf armour, only served to remind him how grave an occasion this was. As did the
presence of Alithia Grey. For the past several weeks, the holder of the Grey banner had been content to delegate matters of state to her daughter, but not today. Sirin, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen, which had to be a bad sign.

But Liam couldn't worry about that right now. The crowd was getting restless. He cleared his throat again.

“Good people of Erroman. These past two years have been the darkest in our history. The flames of war have scoured our lands. Robbed us of our sons and daughters, husbands and wives. Left our children hungry. We have been forced to flee our homes, to abandon our hard-won livelihoods. And yet, through all these trials, we have been strong. We have endured.”

He paused, awaiting the applause Highmount had told him to expect. Instead, he was slapped with a grim wall of silence. The crowd might have been spectres, so pale and motionless were they. Swallowing, Liam continued.

“We have endured because our defences are strong. Our Kingswords are the mightiest army in all of Gedona, trained professionals equipped for war. Our walls are the thickest and sturdiest, having been crafted by our imperial forefathers centuries ago. Even today, entire quarters of our great city remain unchanged by the whims of time, every stone placed just as it was at the height of the empire's glory. These great walls shielded us when the enemy came to our doorstep last summer. Though the Priest threw fifty thousand men against us, his armies broke like a wave over the rocks.”

More or less, give or take a few thousand deaths, some shattered gates, and enough rubble to repave the Imperial Road.
Liam kept that bit to himself.

“The walls of Erroman are our greatest protection,” he went on. “Greater even than the citadel at Pir. And that is why, in our hour of need, we shall call upon them again. We will lure our enemies here, to our great walls, and here we will break them!”

Again Liam paused, and again he was met with terrible silence. He forged on.

“We will evacuate the city. Not because we are weak, or because we are afraid, but because we wish the Warlord to think so. Let him leave the safety of his positions at the border, thinking us easy prey. It will be a deception. We will be waiting for him, ready to meet him where we are strongest and he
is most vulnerable. And by the time he realises his mistake, it will be too late.”

A smattering of applause followed these words, but it was a far cry from the roar of triumph Liam had been hoping for. A sick feeling reared up in his gut. He glanced at the banner lords but found no help there; Raibert Green looked troubled, and Norvin Gold wouldn't even meet his gaze. Highmount stared straight ahead, hands folded behind his back. Rona Brown, for her part, had an almost desperate look in her eyes.

Liam surveyed the crowd. They stared at him, as if to say,
Is that it? Is that meant to inspire us?
He felt naked before them, just like in his nightmares. He felt like a
fraud
.

Silence coiled around him like a serpent. The rest of the speech fled from his mind, evaporating like mist under the searing glare of the crowd. His pulse skittered, on the verge of panic. Then he felt a nudge at his hand: Rudi had risen to his feet, either from boredom or tension, and gazed up at him, nub wagging, as if it were just the two of them on a leisurely stroll in the rose garden. Liam scratched the wolfhound's ears. Drew a long, deep breath. The next line of the speech came back to him; in his mind's eye, Liam held the scroll before him, Highmount's meticulous script flowing across the page.