Allegiance, page 22
part #3 of River of Souls Series
Ilse pointed at the spot near the fire. Damek obediently sat. His eyes were wide, and there was a stubborn lift to his chin. He flinched when Jannik sat up, flinched again when Bela threw off her blankets and rolled over.
“Talk,” Ilse said. “Why are you here?”
“Karel said you ran away.”
Ilse suppressed a growl. “I am going home. Not running away.”
“But Karel said—”
“Karel Hasek is an idiot.”
“He knows about you and the smugglers,” Damek said, his voice low and stubborn. “I wanted to come with you. I know all the trails. I know everything Ilja knows.”
Ilse slapped her hand against her thigh. “You know nothing, Damek. Go home. We do not want you with us.”
It was as harsh as she could make it. Damek shrank back. His gaze flicked toward Bela, who grinned at him sardonically, then Jannik, whose face had turned into a mask. “I only wanted to help.”
Ilse suppressed the urge to say, You can help by going home. She remember herself at fifteen. Remembered her father’s house where they had bartered her to Theodr Galt for better contracts with the shipping guild. Damek’s family was nothing like hers, but she could understand the wish to escape a life she found intolerable.
So it was with sympathy that she said, “Damek. I understand. I truly do. But I must go to Veraene’s king. I cannot take you with me.”
Those were the right words. Damek swiped a hand over his face. “I know. I only wanted— Never mind what I wanted. I’ll go back home tomorrow.”
“Good boy,” Jannik murmured.
Ilse suspected this agreement was only temporary. Tomorrow, Damek might sneak after them to visit the smugglers’ wayhouse. However, that obstacle could wait for the morning. She held out a hand to the boy. “Come with me. We’ll get you settled for the night.”
Damek pushed her hand aside. “I can stand up by myself.”
He had scrambled to his feet when Bela’s head swung up. “Hush.”
Ilse froze. So did Jannik and the boy.
She heard the hiss of pine needles sliding over the ground. Strangers approaching in stealth.
Bela bolted to her feet, staggered, and caught hold of a tree trunk. Ilse had her sword in hand even as the first armed man stepped into the clearing. He shouted at her—a warning, a demand for her surrender? She did not stop to ask. She swung her blade around. Their swords crashed together in a ringing blow. Then she danced backward to catch up a branch from the fire. She threw the brand at her attackers and retreated up the hillside. Bela lunged forward with both knives ready. Jannik had hesitated a long dangerous moment, but when Bela stumbled and one of the attackers seemed about to run her through, he seized his staff and swung it around to drive them back. Bela used the chance to haul herself upright and fling a stone into the banked fire.
A shower of sparks exploded, and the firelight flared, ruddy and hot against the moonlight. Ilse’s mouth went dry at the scene. A half-dozen men and women swarmed into the clearing from all directions. Ilse recognized those uniforms. Not brigands. Soldiers. Guardians of Károví.
No time to think more. She drove her opponent back, caught up the knapsack with her money. She dropped back into the shadows, heart beating fast. Bela had fought off two or three attackers. One lay motionless at her feet. Jannik had not done as well. He had fallen to his knees, blood streaming from a slash over his forehead. Damek was nowhere to be seen.
Ilse’s instincts yammered at her to flee while the confusion lasted, but she could not abandon her companions. Then Bela staggered backward and dropped to the ground a few feet away from Ilse. “Go,” she hissed. “They won’t miss you right away.”
“No,” Ilse said hoarsely. “I can’t—”
“You must. They will take you prisoner otherwise. Besides, my duke commanded me to bring you safely to your homeland. If you go now, that is possible.”
Bela lurched to her feet and charged at the soldiers. Ilse hesitated one moment before she fled into the darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IN THE WEEKS since his arrest, Raul Kosenmark had established a daily routine. He woke at dawn, or thereabouts, to a prison guard shouting his name and banging on the door until Raul staggered upright. The guard brought a water jug and empty slop bucket. He did not remove the old bucket. Raul had learned to breathe through his mouth while he drank down the entire jugful of water to ease the hunger cramps that overtook him on waking.
For two more hours he dozed. The guard returned and rattled his baton against Raul’s cell door. He collected the stinking slop bucket, and left what passed for breakfast—a loaf of stale bread, another jug of water. Nothing more. After the first few days, they no longer offered to sell him better rations. Raul used handfuls from this second jug to wash his face and hands. The water was always tepid, the bread stale. He wondered idly if Markus had instructed the prison cooks to add extra foul-tasting ingredients, because the bread tasted faintly off, and even the water left a sour flavor in his mouth.
After the meal came the long and lonely stretch of an empty morning. Raul paced the circuit of his cell to warm his body and loosen his muscles. Pretending he was back in Tiralien with Benedikt Ault, he drilled with an imaginary sword, fighting against the weight of his chains, and the greater weight of despair. If at times he recalled the episode when he had imprisoned Ilse, suspecting her of treason against him, he did so only fleetingly. Thinking about Ilse, about whether she still lived, was too painful. To remember how he had wronged her was worse.
Three weeks had passed since they had locked him in this cell. The guards came twice a day with bread, several more times with water. They never spoke—orders from the king, or Markus Khandarr—but their sidelong glances were eloquent.
I am a dead man. The only question is when I stop breathing.
He had expected Armand to execute him at once. Then a week had passed with no visitors except the silent guards. Five days ago, Markus Khandarr had appeared to question him.
Raul left off his drill and rubbed the bruises on his arms.
Khandarr used magic to bind Raul—thick strands of magic that held him immobile, while Khandarr paced around the cell, thumping his staff against the floor, asking Raul the same questions over and over in that slurred and halting voice.
“When did you betray. The king. You did. No lies.”
“Where is that bitch. That slut. The one from Morennioù.”
“The girl. What happened to her. Not dead. I know.”
And, “Tell me. Tell me. Speak. Do not shut your eyes.”
Each time, Raul gave the same answers. “I never betrayed Armand. I never betrayed Veraene. I do not know where Valara Baussay is. I have done nothing wrong.”
What he said made no difference. It was as though Markus were deaf to his words. Or that he used these relentless questions to batter at Raul, because true weapons had been denied him. The interrogation was nothing, Raul told himself. He suffered nothing except a few bruises, and after an hour Khandarr stalked away, but each session left Raul sweating and limp.
Enough. He launched himself into a new set of drill patterns, skewering his imaginary opponent. With each thrust, he cursed himself. For hiding in Tiralien three years while Markus Khandarr terrorized court and kingdom. For sending Dedrick to Duenne instead of confronting Armand himself and arguing openly for peace. He was an arrogant coward, and if the gods did not grant him the opportunity to make things right in this life—
He broke off at a familiar thump, thump, thump from down the corridor. Markus. Raul sucked in a breath. The hour was later than he had guessed.
The thumping grew louder, more irregular. Raul wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt hem. As the door opened, he straightened up to face his enemy.
Khandarr stumped inside. He was alone, without even the usual guard. Not that he needed one. The chains and magic were enough.
He gestured. Magic flung Raul against the wall, arms and legs pinned against the stone. He hated this, hated how the man exposed him. He had to swallow several times to keep from spewing onto the ground. He managed it, just, but his belly shivered with the effort.
“Confess,” Khandarr said. “Confess to treason.”
“Markus, I cannot—”
“Confess. Tell the truth. All of it.”
Ah, there Markus had him.
The truth. The truth is that I wanted influence. I wanted to guide the king and his kingdom. I believed myself right. I still believe so. If that is treason, then I am a traitor.
He closed his eyes and hung from the magic bonds. He had no more courage to offer up. If Armand wished to execute him, he would.
He heard the shuffle of feet over stone as Markus approached. A hand brushed over his forehead, pushing the damp hair back. Was he gloating?
“The king believes you guilty.”
“Then why hasn’t he executed me? Why haven’t you?”
The hand paused in mid-caress. “I will. Now if you wish.”
The magic tightened around Raul’s throat. A weight pressed against his chest, and the air turned dark. Above the roaring in his ears, he heard a voice rap out a sharp command.
“Stop.”
Abruptly, the magic vanished. Raul dropped to his hands and knees. Blood pulsed at his temples. He had the vague impression of voices arguing over him. One pair of boots—Khandarr’s—retreated while another pair took its place. The newcomer bent down and wiped his face with a cloth. Other boots gathered around. He was lifted up to sitting.
His vision was blurred, but he distinctly recognized his sister Heloïse, next to his father. Impossible. He had last seen her eight years ago, a skinny girl who declared she would have nothing to do with him or politics. She was more right than she knew. He let his eyelids sink shut and shuddered as the magic leaked away.
A hand jostled his shoulder. “Raul. Wake up.”
His father crouched next to him. Two attendants dressed in the Kosenmark livery hovered in the background, but there was no sign of Heloïse. Perhaps he had imagined his sister. Perhaps he was still lost in a fantasy conjured up by Markus Khandarr.
His father shook his shoulder again. “Listen,” he said intently. “The king has granted me permission to speak with you. But only for one hour.”
He pressed a flask to Raul’s mouth. Wine, unwatered.
“You want me drunk?” Raul said. His voice came out as a hoarse high whisper.
“Hardly. That was autumn wine. Take another swallow and we can talk.”
Raul obediently gulped down another mouthful of the sweet wine. It softened the constant ache he had not realized enveloped him. His head cleared and he could pay proper attention now.
“Tell me who died,” he said. “I need to know that first.”
His father glanced upward, then to either side.
Of course. The cells would have listening devices. They could talk but only with great care.
“Two of your company died,” his father said. “Kappel and Theiss. We nearly lost Ault as well, but the king sent his own physician. He will mend, though slowly.”
“What of…” He dared not mention the names of those other guards, the ones he had relied upon to carry word back to Tiralien, in case his plans failed.
“The rest of your company is safe,” his father said.
“And my friends?”
His shadow court. Emma and Benno. Eckard. Ilse.
His father shook his head. “We can talk about them later. Are you hungry?”
An obvious deflection, but he found he was not ready to hear more bad news. “Starving.”
“So I suspected.”
His father signaled. The attendants came forward with a tray of meat pastries, a flask of broth, and a vast dish of noodles seasoned with bits of spiced lamb. At the duke’s command, they set a tray on the cell floor next to Raul and withdrew. Raul ate slowly, savoring each mouthful, as he listened to his father’s report of the past three weeks.
News of Dzavek’s death had arrived, as expected. Károví was in turmoil, with various factions maneuvering for control. The most disturbing detail was a rumor that Dzavek’s senior general and commander of the armies, Duke Miro Karasek, had vanished days after he received a summons from the council. There were further reports of two women who had attached themselves to Karasek’s household. They, too, had disappeared.
Ilse. Ilse and Valara Baussay. I was right.
“As for you,” his father said. “The king agreed to a public trial.”
Raul paused in devouring the noodles. “He does? He believes me innocent?”
“Oh, no. I had to threaten him before he would agree.” Duke Kosenmark’s lips drew back from his teeth in a feral grin. “Lord Khandarr wants you dead. He’s presented evidence, or so he claims, of your treason. Armand might believe him, but he cannot afford to divide his court or his kingdom. So. The trial starts in ten days. I have insisted on a proper examination of the evidence. Witnesses to your character, and your activities these past six years.” The grin faded. “We have some difficulties, however. We … We cannot act as freely as I would wish. Letters, for example, must be reviewed by Lord Khandarr. All interviews are subject to his approval. And he has rejected several witnesses as unsuitable or unreliable.”
Raul finished off the wine and set the flagon aside. “That is not good. What else?”
“There is not much more to tell. Lord Khandarr, on the king’s authority, has sent out warrants for the arrest of various … how did he phrase it … persons suspected of consorting with the enemy. He intends to hold them until the outcome of your trial. Then there are those such as Lord Joannis in Fortezzien, who deny having had any dealings with you.”
Raul drew a sharp breath. He ought to have expected betrayal. But Joannis. Someone who had written so frequently and so passionately about peace.
Ah, Nicol. I should have guessed you were afraid. You told me as much a year ago. I only hope you have not betrayed anyone else.
“Have any others died because of me?” he asked.
“Many of your friends have seemingly vanished.”
“How many?” Raul repeated. “Three? Five? A hundred?”
His father closed his eyes. His mouth settled in thin unhappy lines, sending a cascade of folds and wrinkles over his face. It gave Raul a sudden shock to see, clearly see, how his father had aged in the past six years.
“No word from Tiralien,” his father said softly. “Khandarr has set a watch on both cities, but I believe all your friends there are safe. I cannot say the same for Melnek or Fortezzien. The king insists there will be no secret murders, but you and I know better. My guess, since you ask, is more than a dozen, less than a hundred.”
Raul bent over his knees, weeping softly for the dead.
His father laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry.”
“So am I. I am sorry I led my people into death.”
“The legacy of the commander,” his father said softly. “I know it well.”
They were silent a moment.
Then, Raul asked, “What of our family? I thought I saw—”
“Heloïse? You did. She and your other sisters are in Duenne. They would visit you, but the king will not allow it. He only permitted Heloïse to accompany me, to see for herself that you lived, and only after a very long negotiation. Your brother remains at home, your mother, too. In case they need to defend our lands.”
He paused, and glanced toward the airshaft, as though he could read the passing hours there. “There is one more thing. Not a public matter, though I care not who knows it. But I must … I wish … Raul, I am sorry.”
Raul jerked his head up. “Why?”
His father kept his gaze fixed on the stone walls of the cell, and when at last he spoke, his voice strained with unexpected emotion. “Because I planted ambition in your heart, even before you were aware of it. Because I did not forbid you to fulfill Baerne’s demands, though I knew how it could … how it would damage your future.”
“It was not your fault,” Raul said. “You had no choice—”
He stopped, suddenly aware of what his father had not explicitly said.
“I could have stopped you,” his father replied. “I could have denied the mage surgeon. I might have sent word to the king, refusing to submit to his demands. Even better, I could have demanded a public audience to announce my disgust and dismay at his tactics. I did not, because I was ambitious, too.”
He bent down and kissed his son on his forehead.
“I love you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
He did not ask for forgiveness, nor did Raul offer it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE RAIN HAD started early that morning, a heavy, soaking downpour that continued throughout the day and well into the evening. Ehren Zhalina had noted its arrival in passing when he breakfasted. A typical autumn storm, which would pass soon enough. He woke long before sunrise most days, but today the skies had remained as gray as a winter’s evening and water streamed without pause over the walls and windows of Zhalina house. Here in his office, once his father’s domain, he had closed the shutters against the damp, but he could not shut out the rill of water over stone. Its silver-dotted song reminded him of water flutes, and of another autumn night three years before, when his father still lived, and his sister …
My father and sister are dead.
He struck a line through his last calculation, then set the pen aside and chafed his hands together. It was the turning point between seasons, here on the border between Veraene and Károví. A chill penetrated brick and stone, despite the generous fires in every hearth, and the air carried a dank, damp scent. His head ached from too many hours bent over these books. If he had returned to Duenne, to university, he would have expected hours just as long, in a bare uncomfortable cubicle. The knowledge did little to comfort him.
Darkness ticked down suddenly. Night already. Ehren lit another branch of candles, then settled back into his chair. Contracts, always contracts. The issue of new fees demanded by the shipping guild, in response to the king’s demands for new fees regarding ports and highway maintenance. The rumors of war, ever present, had intensified in the past few months, and the autumn negotiations reflected the merchants’ fretfulness. Ehren had just recaptured his focus on the subject, when he heard a soft tapping at his door.
