Path of Blood

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Still, he had promised Metyein, and if there was a soul in this world Soka did not want to disappoint, it was Metyein.

  He set his teeth as the guards swung the doors open.

  Animal heads lined the walls. A half dozen iron chandeliers reigned over four rows of trestle tables and a dais at the end where people of importance sat. Two enormous hearths on either side contained roaring fires. Fresh rushes covered the floor in a thick carpet, and dogs yipped and chased between the benches.

  Though the tables were full and the ale flowed freely, the dinner had not yet begun. The company paid little attention to Prefiil and Soka as they walked toward the dais.

  Thevul Bro-heyek sat in the center. He’d aged well. His sandy hair was threaded with gray, his face more lined. But he remained lean and powerful, radiating an air of energy and power. Soka could feel it halfway across the room. He still commanded the worshipful respect of his liegemen and retainers.

  Despite himself, Soka had hoped to find his father mad or decrepit—some weakness to explain why he’d abandoned his son and heir. The fury Soka had kept tamped down since he was nine rose scaldingly. All this time and his father had never come. Never tried to free him. Suddenly his empty eye itched like it was being gnawed by ants.

  He walked stiff-legged to the front of the dais, his gaze locked tight to his father. The sounds of the room faded. All he heard was the thunder of his heart. His father turned sideways to talk to the woman next to him. He laughed, his teeth white against his sun-bronzed skin. He lifted his cup to his lips and drank.

  Prefiil and Soka halted at the foot of the dais. Thevul Bro-heyek turned curiously, raising his brows at his Huntmaster. And then his gaze flicked curiously past to Soka.

  There was a moment when nothing seemed to move, when sound ceased and the air corroded inside Soka’s lungs. For the space of a breath, his father’s expression melted into dumbfounded shock. Then he caught himself and straightened, his face solidifying into basalt.

  “Soka. I did not expect you.”

  “Didn’t you?” Soka said, his voice taut. “I thought maybe you would. I came to get my eye back.”

  Chapter 22

  At Soka’s announcement, his father stiffened. His cheeks blotched red as his jaws knotted. He stood, pushing back his chair with a loud scrape.

  “Let us take this to my office.” He spun about and strode to a nook behind the dais, where he pushed open a door hidden by the drapery.

  Soka was conscious of a sudden hush and the ripple of muttering voices spreading across the hall, and the might of more than a hundred eyes screwing into his back. He ignored them, following his father out through a passage ending in a long stair. At the top was a set of carved doors that entered into an expansive office suite. The walls of the outer office were covered with weaponry and hunting trophies and shelves of bound records. Four tables littered with papers, maps, nibs of pens, and charcoal pencils crowded the floor.

  Thevul Bro-heyek led the way to an interior office. It was furnished with heavy walnut chairs upholstered in red leather and brass. The floor was covered in a thick green carpet patterned with artful images of trees and vines picked out in yellow. The walls were bare of ornament, except for the Bro-heyek coat of arms inlaid above the fireplace in copper, silver, and gold. Behind his desk a bank of mullioned windows overlooked the bailey.

  Soka’s father closed the door and went to stand behind his desk, pouring a glass of black Gueltan whiskey and drinking it in a gulp. He poured himself another, then looked up at his son, examining him from head to foot, his gaze lingering on the eye patch. Soka resisted the urge to squirm, resenting that he cared about his father’s opinion of him.

  “I hadn’t thought Geran would let you leave the court,” his father said, sipping from his whiskey. “Given the reports, I figured you would be more useful there.”

  Soka went rigid. Useful? For years he’d imagined what his father might say when at last they came face-to-face. Nothing he dreamed up ever seemed adequate. But this . . . His father didn’t even bother to try.

  Something ugly clawed to life in Soka’s gut.

  “I thought you ought to have the chance to admire your handiwork,” Soka said, touching his eye patch.

  His father flicked an eyebrow up, reminding Soka of himself. “Gaudy, isn’t it?”

  “True. But I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’d forgotten, would I?” Soka reached up and hooked the eye patch with his fingers and tossed it on the desk. “Of course, it was a fairly memorable occasion. I doubt I’ll forget.”

  His father swigged the rest of the whiskey, setting the glass on his desk with a hard click. He picked up the eye patch, turning it over.

  “Bro-heyek is grateful for your sacrifice,” his father said at last, dropping it back on his desk. He sat down and leaned back, his gaze sharp.

  “So you didn’t get permission to come to the wedding. Should I expect Geran’s troops on my doorstep, ready to drag you back?”

  Soka frowned. That was the second time his father had mentioned the Iisand. Didn’t he know? How could that be possible?

  His father continued on, his fingers tapping on his desk. “He could very well call it treason, leaving without permission. He already took one eye—do you want to lose another?”

  A slow, disbelieving smile spread across Soka’s lips, bitter as arsenic. “If I am caught, Father, it will not be running away that wins me a romance with the torturer. It is the least of the things I’ve done.”

  His father snapped straight. “And you scuttled to Bro-heyek for safety? Explain yourself,” he demanded harshly.

  The ugly thing inside Soka thrashed. He reached for the whiskey and a glass. “Do you mind?” he asked, not bothering to wait for an answer. He poured himself a drink and dropped heavily into a chair, slouching down and crossing his ankles. He took a pull of the fiery liquid, savoring its smoky, woody flavor.

  “Why, by the Demonlord’s warty horn, would you think I’d come here for safety?” he asked derisively.

  If Soka expected his father to flinch from the none-too-subtle accusation, he was disappointed. Thevul Bro-heyek merely scowled impatiently.

  “Are you saying the Iisand has sent troops after you? What have you done?”

  Soka set down his half-finished whiskey, staring. “You really don’t know.”

  “What? What don’t I know?”

  “The Iisand—he’s . . . gone. Aare was made Regent more than four months ago.”

  “Gone? What do you mean?” His father sat forward. There was an implacable, relentless quality to him. This was the man who’d let his son be tortured. This was a man who’d invaded his neighbors. A conquerer.

  Soka licked his lips, once again feeling the urge to squirm. His thoughts scattered and he grabbed at them, forcing himself to think. Few knew the truth about the Iisand. If Aare should learn his father had become a nokula, he would be free to take the crown. When he did, any resistance that Metyein’s father made to Aare’s dictums would cease. Worse, Lord Marshal Vare would be forced to carry out Aare’s commands. Something Honor could ill afford. The longer they could delay that inevitability, the better.

  Soka looked at the crumpled eye patch on the desk. Trusting his father was out of the question. Soka could no more trust him than he could Aare. They were cut of the same cloth.

  “He’s gone missing. About four months ago. The ahalad-kaaslane named Sodur disappeared at the same time. Some say they went together, others that he was kidnapped.” Soka spoke matter-of-factly, enjoying the shock and consternation pinching his father’s expression. “When it was discovered, Verit Aare had himself declared Regent, and then sealed the gates of Koduteel—to help get hold of the plague. Shortly after, he began hunting down the ahalad-kaaslane and locking them up. He’s also allied himself with three Scallacian sorcerers.”

  He paused, taking a slow sip of his whiskey, well aware of his father’s glowering impatience.

  “Is there more?”

 
; Soka shrugged. “Well, some of the ahalad-kaaslane escaped with the Vertina Emelovi and gathered what loyal people they could. They established a rebel camp outside of Mysane Kosk.”

  “Rebel camp? At Mysane Kosk?” His father shook his head. “Why there?”

  Soka rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the dry roughness of his skin beneath the stubble of his beard. There was so much to explain, and he had to, if he hoped to get the metal Honor needed. But he couldn’t give too much away. He had to be careful, careful. . . .

  “You know the wizards attacked there during the war?”

  His father nodded, eyes narrowing.

  “Have you heard of Reisiltark?”

  “She’s ahalad-kaaslane, isn’t she? With wizard powers.” His father’s lip curled in repugnance. “She refuses to use her magic to heal the plague. Some say she caused it.”

  He knew that and not the rest? Soka bared his teeth without humor. If he were his father, he’d relegate his spies to the fields. They were worthless.

  “That’s what Aare would have you believe, anyway,” he said mockingly. “It’s true she cannot heal the plague. But she’s looking for the cure. The wizards caused it with whatever they did at Mysane Kosk. They caused the plague and the nokulas—you have heard of them?”

  His father nodded, sitting back again in his chair, his fingers tapping slowly. He radiated fury at Soka’s insolence. Soka smiled again, touching the poison bead with his tongue. But he must not antagonize his father too much. He sobered, sitting forward earnestly, his elbows on his knees.

  “According to Reisiltark, Mysane Kosk must be protected. If it falls into the wrong hands, if it is destroyed, the consequences for Kodu Riik will be dire.”

  “You believe her?”

  If he answered yes, his father would call him a fool. Soka could read it in the disparaging lift of his eyebrows, the way he relaxed into his chair, as if his concern had been for nothing.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your proof?”

  “She’s ahalad-kaaslane; do I need more?”

  “If you’ve got any sense.”

  Soka tsked. “I hope the Lady doesn’t overhear.”

  “The Lady can—” His father broke off, swallowing. “The Blessed Amiya does not reward stupidity and blind obedience to folly.”

  “Your estimation of my intelligence is flattering.”

  “Once again, what’s your proof?”

  A snake, a witch, a gold hand tattoo, and a nokula that used to be the Iisand. Not to mention a coal-drake and a man from another world. Even if his father would believe it, Soka wasn’t willing to tell him. Still, he needed to say something. Metyein was counting on him.

  He sat back, considering.

  “Tell me you have some proof for this . . . tale,” his father said contemptuously.

  “I do.”

  “Well?”

  Still Soka hesitated. Then, just as his father opened his mouth again, Soka spoke. “I have seen evidence that the nokulas and the plague come from Mysane Kosk. I have seen other proofs to convince me of the rest.”

  “Tell me,” he ordered, as if to one of his retainers.

  The thing inside Soka howled and writhed.

  Soka gritted his teeth together. Cool, unfamiliar air rubbed at the exposed eyelid of his stolen eye. It itched. He reached up and rubbed at it, feeling the fine lines of the scars.

  His father’s gaze followed the movement. “If you were one of my men,” he said, “I’d turn you out. Your insolence is reprehensible.”

  “If I were one of your men, I’d still have my eye,” Soka retorted, jerking to his feet. “And if I told you what you want to know, I’d be ensuring Honor’s destruction. You’re about as trustworthy as a whore with the pox.”

  His father’s face purpled and he leaped to his feet, bracing his hands on his desk as he thrust forward, his voice lethal. “Honor? You ride in here with your tail between your legs, looking to hide from the Regent’s wrath, and you speak of honor? You disgrace your name.”

  Soka leaned over so that his nose was only inches from his father’s. His voice shook with rage. “I am not here to hide, Father. I am here on business. And since I am well aware that your integrity is malleable, I know I can count on your greed and ambition to silence any qualms you might have in dealing with me.”

  He straightened, reaching into the interior pocket of his vest, and removed the letter from Emelovi. It was wrapped in an oilcloth pouch. He slapped it down on the desk.

  “Read that. It will tell you all you need to know. If you want more, get better spies. You’ll have nothing from me.”

  His father’s nostrils flared, his lips turning white. “Don’t be so cocky, boy. If I truly want the answers, I can get them.”

  Soka smiled venemously. “Torture? Try it.”

  The absolute surety of his words took his father aback. His gaze narrowed, and he pinched his lip consideringly, but he made no reply. Instead, he picked up the letter and opened it, perusing it in silence.

  Soka reached for the decanter and poured himself another whiskey. Fury stitched through his flesh with threads of fire, tightening until he felt like he was about to choke. He grimaced at the tremble in his fingers as he set the glass back down.

  His father finished reading and folded the parchment back up.

  “Geran thought keeping you at court would put polish on you, while affirming your loyalty to the crown. He was very angry to have to take your eye.”

  “He overestimated your interest in my welfare,” Soka said, crossing his arms over his chest. All of a sudden he felt like the boy he’d been when he’d left—young, gawky, gullible.

  “And yet you come here, looking for help from me,” his father said scornfully. “Though you think I’m the worst kind of scoundrel, still you come begging.”

  “Oh, no, Father. You are mistaken. I have not come begging. I know exactly what you are. That letter offers you a chance at power and prestige in the new government. It’s a bargain you will be loath to pass up. You let the Iisand cut my eye out for your ambition. You have little to lose. If we win, you will profit. And if we lose, then it won’t matter. We’ll all be dead. We may all die anyhow, if Reisiltark doesn’t succeed.”

  “So you say. But if you fail, then Geran will be severe with me.”

  A long moment passed and then Soka spoke, choosing his words carefully. “It is not believed that the Iisand will ever return.”

  This time his father did not ask for proof. He rubbed his chin, lost in thought. He did not appear particularly disturbed by any sentiment he might harbor for the Iisand. But then, Soka knew better than anyone that his father didn’t make a general habit of letting his attachments interfere with doing business. His father sat slowly back in his chair. Soka followed suit, feeling the tension of the moment lessening.

  “Are you going to win?”

  The question startled Soka so much his mouth dropped open.

  “What did you say?”

  “Are you going to win?”

  “Getting the metal will help.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question. Are you going to win?”

  Soka thought of the nokula attack, of the wizards and the Scallacians. He felt for the ward tucked under his shirt, and thought of Reisil’s annhilation of the raiders.

  “Pray we do. Because there’s nowhere to hide from what’s coming if we lose.”

  His father was toying with his dagger, turning it in his hands. The hilt was made of elkhorn inlaid with the Bro-heyek crest. It gleamed and flashed in the light.

  “Yours is the first information I’ve had in some time. There’s a pack of raiders south of here—an army really. Of late, every man I’ve sent down that way has vanished. The same with those shipping down the coast or those traveling the mountains. Everywhere there used to be peaceful villages, there are now nests of raiders. They are like anthills. It speaks well of you that you made it through.”

  “You don’t need to concern
yourself about the rabble near Millcote anymore. They’re gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “They raped and tortured children. Reisiltark put an end to it.”

  His father’s expression darkened. Soka knew the cause: fear of her power and the urge to stamp it out, twined with an opposing craving to own her leash.

  “How?”

  Soka leaned forward. “She shredded them like meat in a grinder and spattered their guts for leagues. I’ve never seen such slaughter. Enough to make you soil your pants.

  “But here’s the thing, Father, and it’s the only thing that matters in the end. Kodu Riik is going to be destroyed. The only way to save ourselves is to protect Mysane Kosk until Reisiltark can stop the storm of magic the wizards unleashed with their spells. To buy her the time she needs, we have to arm ourselves with better than rocks and sticks. So we need you to give us the metal we require. It’s up to you. Reisiltark isn’t going to come here and twist your arm for it And I don’t have the time or army it would take to murder you in your sleep, inherit, and take care of it myself.

  “There’s not a lot for you to lose. I know you don’t care about being called a traitor. If you did, I certainly would still have my eye. But you are hungry for land and power. You can have both, if Honor wins. You’ll even be called a hero.” Soka sat back, tossing out his hand. “It’s a gamble. You may not want to risk it.

  “But there’s one more fact you should know. This map”—he touched his vacant eyelid—“this is Aare’s work. A message for you, just from him. Now I don’t expect you to take revenge for my sake. I plan to get Aare myself, one day. But you should know that when he becomes Iisand, he isn’t going to look kindly on you. He’ll very likely strip you of your title and lands. And that would be the least of it.”

  His father stared up at the vaulted ceiling, his hands steepling together. At last he stood. “I must return to the Hall. You are invited to join us. I will have someone show you to a place where you can clean up. I’ll think on this other and give you my decision later.” He came around the desk, pausing to examine Soka, who had risen to his feet as well.