Blood & Bond

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  “Will you kill him, too, mage?” The voice seemed to echo aloud Hazelrig’s thought. He turned to the first cell, where a Ryuven hunched over his knees without looking at them. “What torture or death awaits him?”

  Tam looked at the remaining Ryuven for the first time. He left Maru and went to the cell, crouching to peer between the rusted bars. He looked dazed, as if trapped in some terrible dream. “You too...”

  The prisoner raised his head with a sullen glare. “Leave us or kill us cleanly. What experiments do you practice upon us? Do even you assist in our torment, slave boy?”

  Tam looked as if he desperately wanted to speak but could find no words.

  The Ryuven blinked and looked uneasily at Tam, his glare giving way to wary wonder. “Who... who are you?” he asked suspiciously, rising into a defensive crouch.

  Tam’s throat worked visibly, and then Hazelrig felt a minute shift in the atmosphere. For an instant, power thrummed through the air, a single quick pulse, and then it faded.

  It was enough for a sensitive Ryuven. The prisoner’s eyes widened. “Pairvyn,” he breathed. “Tamaryl’sho, what are you doing here? How are you in such a form and place? How did they—‍”

  “I haven’t time to answer,” Tamaryl answered unhappily. “But understand, I am no prisoner. My strength will return.”

  The Ryuven lowered one knee and knelt. “Parrin, Tamaryl’sho.”

  “Parrin’sho...” Tamaryl seemed suddenly to recall the iron keys he held numbly. He lifted them and began searching for the cell key. “Come with us—‍”

  “No.” Hazelrig’s voice was unexpectedly loud against the stone. He winced, wishing it had not sounded so sharp. “I’m sorry, but we cannot risk it. Taking one prisoner can be explained, but taking both that remain will invite questions we cannot afford. It will endanger all of you further.”

  Tamaryl turned flashing eyes upon him. “But he is—‍”

  “We cannot draw suspicion! There are no experiments now. The safest place for him is here.” Hazelrig sighed, knowing he was right but hating his words. “We will come for him later. We can find a way.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  Maru looked at the floor uncomfortably. Tamaryl turned back to the imprisoned Ryuven, his shoulders drooping. “I am sorry. I trust his judgment. We cannot risk suspicion.”

  The Ryuven looked over Tamaryl’s shoulder. “He is the White Mage.”

  “He has not failed me yet.”

  The Ryuven took a slow breath. “Pairvyn ni’Ai, I am yours to command, if you have need of me.”

  “Not yet. But I hope soon to order you out of this cell.” Tamaryl clenched his fists against the floor. “Wait a little longer, Parrin’sho. I will not forget you. I’m sorry. But wait.”

  A clang above them indicated the guard’s return. Tamaryl rose with obvious aching reluctance and, slowly, turned from the cell and the kneeling Ryuven. He looked at Maru, who took a step toward him.

  “My lord mage?” The guard tramped down the stairs. “You still down here? Is that one giving you trouble?”

  Tamaryl blinked and stepped behind the White Mage, subtly becoming nothing more than the slave Tam.

  Hazelrig shook his head as the guard drew near. “No trouble. Take back your keys. We’re going.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  SHIANAN DID NOT HAVE to wait long; Connor Kudo was not important enough to keep him waiting. “My lord commander?”

  Shianan took a seat at his desk. “How are the audits progressing, my lord?”

  Kudo exhaled a long, exasperated breath. “We very much appreciate your discovery of the fraud, of course, and it’s all to the good, but that is a lot of accounting to check.” He rubbed at his eyes and gestured at the ledgers stacked on the end of his desk. “I’ll be reconciling numbers into my grave.”

  Shianan produced a sheet of paper and spread it upon Kudo’s desk. “Would it help if you knew exactly where to look?”

  He had recopied Jarrick Roald’s incriminating list so that the man’s handwriting could not be recognized. It would do no good to send Luca home to a family just before their arrest and collapse.

  Kudo held the paper at arm’s length and squinted at it. “Is this a list of defrauders?”

  “These are the merchants I am confident you should look at most closely.” Shianan leaned conspiratorially over the desk. “And as I did not learn this by my own accounting and I should like to protect my source, I ask that if you should add any name to this list, please confirm it with me first to avoid exposing my informant.”

  Kudo nodded eagerly. “Given the months of effort and headache your informant has just spared me, I will gladly spare him. As far as I am concerned, this list is complete.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Shianan returned to his office, glad of his strike against the murderous alliance but also freshly wounded. Jarrick’s list had not been Luca’s price, but it was too near the loss.

  The outer door opened without a warning knock, and Shianan raised his head from his paperwork, prepared to snap at the soldier who entered without permission. But it was Ewan Hazelrig who came through the door, swathed in his white cloak, and Shianan bit back his rebuke. No matter his mood, he could not vent it on the White Mage.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Hazelrig offered by way of greeting, raising an eyebrow.

  Shianan smoothed his expression into what he hoped was a polite mask. “Not at all, my lord mage. Please sit.”

  “Thank you.” Hazelrig seated himself, settling his official robes. “Blasted things,” he complained amiably. “Such a nuisance. Show every little speck.” He raised his eyes to meet Shianan’s. “Have you a few minutes, my lord commander, for us to speak in private?”

  Shianan’s spine stiffened. “My lord?”

  Hazelrig did not so much as blink. “Have you? Or should I come another time?”

  Shianan swallowed, nervous for no reason he could define. He rose and locked the door behind the mage. “We won’t be disturbed. What may I do for you, my lord mage?”

  The mage looked at him steadily. “I thought you might have something to say,” he began mildly. “I came to make it convenient for you, if you wished.”

  “Convenient?”

  “To ask your questions, your lordship, without danger of being overheard in the Wheel.”

  Shianan took a breath. “It is not the place of a commander to question the White Mage.”

  “I believe it was you who said we could not afford to stand on formality.”

  Shianan bit back a curse. “Then, if we must be blunt, that was when we shared secrets, my lord mage. We traded one secret for another, and that concluded our contract. I did not even know you had such a prize in your hands now.”

  Hazelrig shook his head. “You observed that I had a guest—not a prisoner.”

  Shianan clenched his fist. “Pairvyn ni’Ai is no guest in this land.”

  “The Pairvyn ni’Ai has been a guest in my home for much of your lifetime,” the mage replied, a hint of acidity creeping into his voice, “and I owe him the life of my daughter twice over—which is once more than I owe the same to you, my lord commander, grateful as I am.”

  Shianan could not answer.

  Hazelrig settled again in his seat. “Tamaryl returned to our world to seek a missing friend,” he explained, his voice smooth again, “who is now found. I owe Maru my gratitude as well, as it was he who nursed Ariana through her illness in the Ryuven world.”

  Shianan swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I do not disregard the service to you and your daughter,” he muttered. “But there are Ryuven raids happening around the countryside.”

  “I assure you that Tamaryl is not leading them.”

  “The Circle seems to believe that they are isolated bands of Ryuven trapped within the shield.”

  “They do.” Hazelrig’s face was impassive.

  Shianan clenched his jaw. “I am sworn to defend this land against the Ry
uven—as are you, my lord mage.”

  “Then when my guests show themselves a threat, we will respond together,” Hazelrig answered. “Until then, I am more concerned about why the only pitcher in my workroom is filled with a bunch of wilting flowers.”

  “My lord mage?”

  “You were a more frequent visitor before you risked your life to give my daughter a chance at coming home. After proving your friendship and admirable devotion, you have been to the Wheel only rarely, and to our home not even once. Why?”

  “Why?” Shianan looked down, growing warm. “You need ask? There is a Ryuven in your workroom, which I cannot condone, and more, your daughter loves this Ryuven. Why would you have me come nearer to witness my defeat at the hands of my bitterest enemy? There is enough cruelty in this world, my lord mage.”

  “Of course she loves him. Why should that stop you?”

  “She sheltered him when he breached the shield,” Shianan said angrily. “She risks her life every day he is here, just to watch over him! She is committing treason for him! I can see that she loves him—there is no need to make things more difficult for us all.”

  Hazelrig looked at him gravely. “There are different kinds of love,” he said after a moment. “The slave you sent to me, Luca—he risked himself in leaving his rightful master and going to you while you were under guard, all for your sake. He loved you, but not in the way you love Ariana.” He gestured vaguely. “She grew up beside Tam. He is like family to her. She loves him, in one way, and I think she could grow to love him in another. But you are a military commander, your lordship—would you leave the field to your opponent and then merely hope for victory?”

  Shianan stared at the inky surface of his desk, the grain marred by scratches and stains. “I would not enter a battlefield without a reasonable hope of success.”

  “If you are looking for promises and guarantees, my lord, then there are few in this world. And I do not pretend to know my daughter’s mind. But there is a makeshift vase of flowers in the very room where she hosts your rival.” He rose and drew his white cloak about him. “There will be two Ryuven staying with me for a time. The second is a prisoner of war, perfectly legal, so you needn’t worry about that. I hope they will both be safely gone soon. In the meantime, consider yourself invited to supper.” He went to the door and nodded toward Shianan’s speechless form. “Good day, my lord commander.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  LUCA TURNED IN THE blankets so that they wrapped about him. His fingers clenched on the pillow and he made himself release it. Cole would eventually return, and there would be time enough then to—

  There was a quiet knock at the door. “Master?”

  Luca thrashed as he twisted to face the door. “Cole! Come in.”

  The door opened, admitting the muscular slave. “I left before dawn, knowing you were waiting, master. Here is the return message.”

  There was a hopeful note in the voice, and as Luca sat up and stretched for the message he nodded. “Thank you, Cole. You did well.” He wet his lips. “I only hope this note...” He hesitated. “Did you have something to eat? Marla should be in the kitchen, I think.” She undoubtedly had been up for hours, while he had been wasting time here, trying not to think. He squeezed his fingers, denting the folded paper, as Cole made a short bow and left the room.

  The reply was written across the bottom margin of his own letter. It was Sara’s handwriting. He smoothed the creased paper compulsively.

  My dear brother, I think I, too, was not wholly prepared for our reunion. But, like you, I believe we are capable of better. Please come to supper tonight. Jarrick invites you, too. Tonight we dine as a family again, a family of five.

  She had signed it simply, Your loving sister. He had not lost her. She still wanted him.

  Luca slumped with relief. He took a slow, deep breath, the sunlight warm across his shoulders. He would see her tonight.

  He would see all of them tonight. A family of five, she’d said. Sara, and Jarrick, and Thir, and their father. He would see them all.

  He slid out of the blankets and reached for his clothing. He would need to leave early, to give himself plenty of time to—he stopped and looked at his clothes, the new outfit Jarrick had bought. It needed washing, and it would need time to dry. He wished he had something that would cover his arms more fully, to hide the remaining marks on his wrists, but there was no help for that.

  “Marla?” he called, descending the stairs. “Marla, is there—‍”

  She stepped out of the kitchen. “My lord?”

  He hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. “I want to wash my shirt... Is there something I can wear in the meantime?”

  Marla looked startled. “I can do the washing, my lord.”

  “I know that. But then I would have nothing to do but wait, and...” He grinned nervously. “You’d find me scrubbing the roof again, and naked.”

  She laughed. “We can’t have that, my lord. I’ll find something of my master’s for you to wear.”

  The robe she brought him was clearly that of a traveling merchant, an exotic tight weave which managed to feel silky and warm at once. He undressed in the storeroom, tying the robe about his waist, and carried his clothes into the kitchen.

  Marla glanced at him sitting between the fire and the squat washtub. “It’s good news, then?”

  “Yes. She’s invited me to supper.” Luca could taste the words. “I said I would be in your debt if you helped to reconcile us.”

  “That was only my just service to my master’s friend.”

  He gave her a serious look. “No, Marla. I sincerely thank you.”

  She kept her eyes on the blade she was sharpening. “My lord.”

  The clothes were not filthy or stained, and it did not take long to soap them. Luca hung them evenly near the kitchen fire where they would dry without becoming smoky and then bailed the washtub water into the garden. “And now a bath,” he told himself. He could not present himself looking like a slave. He set water to heat, glad of the snowmelt-fed fountain which provided fresh water for each task.

  He scrubbed every inch of his skin, wishing for the perfumed salts of the Kalen baths. He ducked his head and scoured his scalp until it stung. He was not satisfied until the water cooled. Finally he rose and wrapped himself again in the warm, silken robe, squeezing water from his hair.

  There was still time to fill after his bath, and he doubted his clothes would be dry. He went into the sitting room and watched his fingers jump restlessly from chair arm to lap to handful of robe.

  Isen had several books shelved neatly against the wall. Luca reached for one, reveling in the feel of its leather binding. He had longed many times in his servitude for the solace of a book, once his constant pastime, but he had only the children’s schoolbooks in his tutoring and then of course, nothing at all. He opened the unmarked cover, finding a short treatise on military history.

  But he could not make his eyes sit still on the page. Though history had been his passion, the words jumbled together and made no sense to him. He worried briefly that he had lost the habit of reading but quickly corrected himself. He was merely too nervous to focus properly. Sitting still would not relieve him; he needed movement. He set aside the book. Had he left the staff on the roof? He couldn’t remember. He went to the storeroom and retrieved another before climbing the stairs.

  The drills Shianan had taught him were simple and repetitive, but the motion helped burn the nervous energy which had plagued him. As he concentrated wholly on each repetition, immersing himself in the movement of the moment, the worry eased, and by the time the shadows had moved across the floor, his muscles were loose with work. He paused and sat on the sun-warmed tile, leaning on one arm and resting the other on his knee. The loose robe shifted and gaped over his chest, but the cool air felt good and he did not move, closing his eyes.

  Sweet Holy One, thank you for this chance. Thank you that I’ve come this far. Please give me strength and wisdom fo
r this night.

  “My lord?”

  He opened his eyes and raised his head as Marla came across the rooftop. He got to his feet without thinking.

  She held folded fabric in her arms. “My lord, I must beg your forgiveness. I was clumsy enough to jostle your drying tunic and it fell into a basket of cut fruit for preserving. I was able to wash it clean, so it will not stain, but it won’t be dry in time for your departure.”

  Luca pulled his robe closed, self-conscious. “It’s a long enough walk that it should dry.”

  “I went into my master’s storage, my lord, and found a replacement. It is of an older cut, rather than the new style, and I apologize, but if you wish...”

  She lifted the tunic in her arms, letting the folds tumble out, and held it for him to see. The body was very much like the current cut in Ivat or Alham, but the sleeves were longer than the ridiculous Ivat fashion, and one showed the overlong fabric turned back and buttoned in place, concealing the entire arm and probably part of the hand, as well.

  Luca stared at it a moment. His back and wrists would be wholly covered. There would be no physical sign of his shameful years, no marks demonstrating he was less than his siblings. He would not be the former slave, he would be merely Luca. And she had done this for him.

  Impulsively he moved forward and embraced her. “Thank you,” he breathed as she stiffened in surprise. “I am twice in your debt now.”

  “My lord,” she protested, drawing back, “I only rectified my own error—‍”

  “Did you?” He grinned and took the garment, holding it against his chest. “Did you really? Or is my own tunic stored safely away?”

  She flushed. “One sleeve is a little damp. For truth’s sake. But only a little.”

  “You’re a jewel, a shining ruby. No, a sapphire. An emerald!”

  “I’ll take half in coin,” she answered, smiling. “Please, it was a simple thing. I did not want to embarrass you by suggesting... I only hope I was able to air the storage herbs away.”