The Bloodsworn (3 page)

“Just so I'm clear,” he said quietly, “is that because he gave me my name, or because he gave me my wife?”

“Gave you . . . ?” The rage bled away, leaving her insides scoured and empty. For a moment, she couldn't find her voice; when she did, it seemed to whistle through the cracks. “No one
gave
me to you, Liam.”

“No? He never fought for you, not really. Tell me the truth: if Erik hadn't stepped aside, would you have . . . Would you and he . . .” Even now, he couldn't finish the sentence.

“How can you ask me that?” she whispered tremulously. “
Why
would you ask me that?”

They'd never spoken about it openly, not since the night Alix had made her choice, the night she'd come to Liam's bed and told him she loved him. Why would they? What possible good could come of it? Alix had proven her love again and again. At least, she'd thought so. But now here was Liam, standing before her in the apartments they shared as husband and wife, questioning whether she'd really made a choice at all. Whether when all was said and done, she wouldn't rather be with Erik.

“You almost married him,” Liam said.

“But I didn't. I married you. That was
my
choice. No one else's.”

The anger drained from him now too, but Alix could see that it left behind the same bitter residue. They both knew what they'd done. Some words, once spoken, can never be taken back.

Liam passed a hand over his eyes. “I don't even know why I said that. It's just . . .”

“You don't trust me,” Alix said. “You don't trust
us
.”

“That's not true.”

But it was true, at least on some level, whether he admitted it to himself or not. Alix had thought the past was behind them, but she saw now that she'd been naïve. Liam had been carrying it with him all this time, an invisible weight around his neck. Or worse, a slow poison in his veins.
Maybe we can never be free of this. Maybe the only reason we've made it this far is that there are so many more important things going on around us.

She looked at Liam and saw her thoughts mirrored in his eyes. And for the second time that day, Alix's heart broke.

It's behind us, love.
So Liam had said little more than an hour ago. But nothing was behind them. Not now, and maybe not ever.

She turned away from him. There was too much to do and too little time. She withdrew, feeling as though she'd left more behind in that sitting room than her husband and his silence.

She felt it all over again the following morning when she rode out under cover of darkness with Ide and Dain Cooper, leaving a still-silent Liam on the steps of the keep.

“I
think it would be best,” said Albern Highmount, “if you allowed me to do most of the talking, Your Highness.”

Big surprise, that. Highmount barely trusted Liam to dress himself, let alone run a council meeting. He obviously thought his prince an irredeemable idiot—which verdict, to be fair, Liam probably wouldn't dispute just now. After all, he'd just let his wife ride off into mortal peril without him. Again. Only this time, he'd sent her forth not with a love letter, but with fatal doubts about their marriage. Bloody brilliant. Happy endings sure to follow.

“I sense I do not have your undivided attention, Your Highness,” Highmount said.

“Yeah, well, you'll have to forgive me,” Liam said tartly. “I've had a bit of a rough morning.”

The chancellor was unmoved. “Her Highness is exceedingly capable. If anyone can accomplish this task, it is she.”

“For what it's worth,” Rona Brown put in, “I agree.”

Liam sighed and shoved a hand through his hair, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand. His gaze roamed over the oratorium, all stately pillars and polished stone and stained-glass windows. He could scarcely fathom a more
intimidating room, yet Erik had always commanded it from the moment he walked through the door. Liam would have to find a way to do the same, even if he was only half the man his brother had been.
Half the man he is
, he corrected himself. Erik wasn't lost, not yet. Alix would fix this. Liam needed to believe that on so many levels.

The guardsman Pollard appeared at the door. “Ready, Your Highness?”

Liam looked at Highmount and Rona, the only two council members who knew the truth about Erik's condition. Could they hide it? Glancing from one steady gaze to the other, he thought,
Who are you kidding?
A chancellor and a banner lady, born and bred at court. He, on the other hand . . .
If anyone's going to cock it up, it's you.

Green was the first to enter, as always, the rest of the lords and ladies following in the strict order protocol demanded. Liam found himself taking them in as if for the first time, measuring them up, deciding if they'd be friend or foe in the days and weeks to come.

Raibert Green.
Cousin to Liam's fallen mentor, Arran Green. First among the banner lords. Green, at least, Liam knew he could trust.
Or can you?
Green was a good man, fiercely loyal to the king.
If he thinks you've betrayed Erik . . .
Next came Norvin Gold. Liam knew nothing about him save his rank as banner lord. Still less of Lady Stonegate, or Lord Swiftcurrent . . .

And then there was Sirin Grey.

She met Liam's gaze from across the room. Curiosity lit her blue eyes, but it was a cold curiosity, unpredictable and dangerous, like sunlight on a glacier.
Doing some measuring up of her own
, Liam thought. He had no idea where he stood with her. They didn't have much history together, but what they did have could hardly have filled Sirin with warm, cuddly feelings. Liam had been there the day her lover was executed—her lover, Tomald White, brother to Erik and traitor to the crown. It was Liam who'd caught her when she swooned, overcome by the sight of the Raven's blood running in rivulets between the flagstones. It was Liam who'd taken the Raven's place as Erik's heir. Meanwhile, her brother Roswald's role in the plot had cast Sirin's family into disgrace. Half their lands
had been confiscated, their men-at-arms disbanded. By the time Erik and Highmount were done, their banner was all the Greys had left—and they were lucky to keep that.

Sirin Grey, Liam decided, had no reason to love him.

Which meant he had two, at most three, firm allies on a council of eight. Bad news.

“Thank you for coming, my lords,” Highmount said when they had taken their seats. “Before we begin, are there any other items to be added to the agenda?”

Sirin Grey arched a delicate eyebrow. “You mean besides the absence of the king?”

“His Majesty sends his regrets,” Highmount said. “Unfortunately, he has a touch of fever left over from his voyage to Harram.” He might have been reporting the weather, so banal was his tone.

“A touch of fever?” Sirin's eyebrow climbed to perilous heights. “Is that why you have the corridor to the royal apartments sealed off?”

Cocked heads and bemused frowns rippled round the table. Lady Sirin was obviously better informed than most. Bad news, volume two.

Raibert Green glanced about as if noticing something for the first time. “And where is Lady Alix?”

“Sick,” Liam said—maybe a touch too quickly.

“Hardly surprising,” Highmount said, “given how much time she spends with His Majesty. Difficult to say which of them infected the other, but the illness is unmistakably contagious, which is why we have sealed off the royal apartments.” He flashed a bland smile. “A precaution, at His Majesty's own insistence.”

Norvin Gold harrumphed, as if personally inconvenienced. “Who has the Blacks' proxy?”

“I do,” said Highmount, “as before. Now, if there are no more questions, perhaps we can begin—”

“I'm sorry, Chancellor, but I'm afraid I do still have questions, if you will indulge me.”

Sirin Grey again. Liam forced himself not to react. Highmount, for his part, adopted a mildly annoyed expression, and Rona Brown looked just plain bored.
Professionals, these two
, Liam thought.

“Sealing off the royal apartments seems a bit drastic for a
touch of fever
, don't you think? In fact, I'm surprised His Majesty would forgo the first council meeting since his return for such a trifle. King Erik is not known for being delicate with his health. If anything, he tends to push himself too hard.”

Liam cursed inwardly. Sirin Grey had been engaged to Erik for years; she knew him better than just about anyone in the room.
She's dangerous, this one.
Fatal, even, were she to expose them. He and Highmount had locked the king in his chambers and usurped his crown. How would they ever explain that to the council? They couldn't possibly, not before Erik had their heads off. It wouldn't be the first time he'd executed a brother for treason.

The image came back to Liam, as vivid as if it were yesterday: the Raven's blood on the flagstones, Erik's bloodblade buried deep in the wood block that had cradled his brother's head . . .

A sheen of sweat broke out along Liam's scalp.

“He does tend to push himself too hard,” Highmount said smoothly, “which is how he fell ill in the first place. To be frank, had Her Highness Lady Alix not also succumbed, I suspect we would not have been able to convince him to remain abed. In the event, however, I was able to appeal to his reason, by pointing out how very irresponsible it would be to risk infecting the entire council.”

“That,” said Rona Brown, “would certainly have been a disaster at a time like this.”

“Indeed,” said Lady Stonegate. “I have only just recovered from my own illness of last week. I thank you, Chancellor, for sparing me a repetition of that.”

Sirin Grey started to say something, but Liam decided at that moment he'd had enough of being a spectator. “My lords,” he said, cutting her off, “I've got rather a lot to do today, including looking after my wife, so if we could get under way?” He didn't mind playing the part of Petulant Prince. These people barely knew him; he could cast himself in any role he liked and no one would know the difference. A trick he'd picked up while playing the diplomat in Onnan, slithering around with the rest of the vipers. At least
some
good had come out of that gods-cursed trip.

“I do apologise, Your Highness,” Highmount said, sounding almost sincere enough to give himself away. The chancellor had never apologised to Liam in his life. “I will endeavour to keep this meeting moving smoothly. And now, my lords, if we may begin . . .”

Liam watched Sirin Grey as Highmount unfurled the agenda and began reading it aloud. She sat perfectly poised in her chair, spine straight, silk gloves folded primly in her lap. Dark braids framed a face as coolly beautiful as a statue, a gaze as coolly calculating as a moneylender's.

As though sensing she was being watched, Sirin looked over. Her eyes met Liam's, and she did not look away. He held her glance just long enough to make it clear that he had nothing to fear. Then he looked back at Highmount, straining to hear the chancellor's words over the dull roar of his own blood.

*   *   *

“Really,” Liam said disgustedly. “In the rose garden. You couldn't wait half a heartbeat until we were back in the courtyard.” Rudi just looked up at him, nub of a tail wagging, apparently finding nothing amiss in leaving a nasty gift on the sparkling white gravel.

Liam was trying to decide what to do with the mess when the wolfhound's ears perked up and he took a halting step forward, growling. Liam tensed, hand going instinctively to his bloodblade. Ridiculously, his first thought was of Sirin Grey, but it was not her slender form that rounded the rosebushes; instead it was an unfamiliar figure in a dark hood. Rudi's teeth flashed into a snarl and the figure froze, one hand raised in a warding gesture.

“I should be grateful, Your Highness, if you could keep that beast at bay,” said a rasping voice.

“Why should I do that?” In spite of his words, Liam rested a hand on Rudi's head. He'd seen what the wolfhound could do to a man, and he didn't fancy scraping guts off the gravel as well as shite. “Whoever you are, I'm fairly certain you're not supposed to be here.”

“True enough, but I flatter myself to think your lady wife would be somewhat put out by my untimely demise.”

Liam scowled. “Name?”

“Forgive me, but I would rather not say. Besides, I suspect you've already worked that out.”

Liam thought so too, but just to be sure, he said, “Saxon?”

The man winced. “It is little better if you say it, Your Highness, the objective being that it isn't overheard.”

“
My
objective is to know whom I'm talking to.”

“And now that you do, perhaps you could see fit to quell your hound?”

Liam hadn't even noticed that Rudi was still snarling away. He had to give the spy credit; not every man would stand his ground in the face of those fangs. “Quiet, you.” The wolfhound subsided, though he kept his yellow eyes riveted on the spy. Liam did the same, taking in the man's unremarkable form—middling height, medium build, commonplace clothing. Alix had always had trouble describing her spy, and Liam could see why. Aside from his grating voice, the man was utterly ordinary. “If there's someone nearby to overhear,” Liam said, “we've got bigger problems than your name.”

“True enough, I suppose.”

“What do you want?”

“To remind you of my presence, Your Highness, and my devoted service.” His tone wasn't sarcastic, exactly, but there was something vaguely mocking about it. Alix had mentioned something about that too, Liam recalled.

“Your service to my wife, you mean.” Considering Saxon's role in the assassination of Varad, Liam didn't fancy himself part of their little arrangement.

“Were my notes on Onnan not helpful to you?”

“I guess,” Liam said, a little ungraciously. “Didn't keep me from flaming out—literally. I'm sure you heard what happened to the Onnani fleet.”

“Torched, down to the last galley.” The spy nodded gravely. “I heard. Though I doubt there was much you could have done. From what I've been told, the dockies had been planning that action for months. The only reason they delayed as long as they did was to try to exact concessions from the Republicana. That”—his mouth twisted wryly—“and they wished to put on a show.”

“Yeah, well, they did. A big, fiery show. And for an encore, they got themselves thrown in the dungeons, leaving a bunch of inexperienced whelps working the docks. So if we're lucky, the fleet might be ready in, oh, eight months. By which time we'll all be speaking Oridian.”

“So pessimistic?”

“Haven't had a lot of good luck lately.”

“I am sorry to hear it, Your Highness, especially since it seems I must add to your woes.”

Wonderful.
“And how's that?”

“This morning's council meeting was the flipping of a timeglass. The sand is running, and it will not last long.”

“What are you talking about?”

“His Majesty's condition.”

Liam stiffened. Beside him, Rudi growled.

“A loyal beast,” Saxon said dryly. “He is most attuned to you.”

“Why should Erik's fever add to my woes?”

The spy's mouth took a sour turn. “Please, Your Highness, don't insult me.” He dropped his voice until it was barely above a whisper, a rasp of flint on tinder. “We both know His Majesty is not suffering from fever.”