"You could have even stuck her into a barrel headfirst, but what if the lady was on a mission? What if her task was to seduce His Grace? What if someone of a higher rank had promised her something in exchange?"
"You think that Avester is behind the abduction?" Hans asked, realization on his face.
"Avester rather than the baron," Bran replied, nodding.
For a few minutes, everyone was silent, digesting the information.
Her Majesty spoke up first.
"I think you're right. Lilian was the baron's mission. I know that he was quite friendly with Lady Almayne, too, and a few more women had his attention."
Richard stood up, walked up to his queen, and kissed her hand.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Maria blushed with delight.
She was finally starting to understand Lilian's words: she wouldn't be just a wife for Richard but also a friend.
"The baron wasn't interested in the countess as a woman, but he was courting her. Yes, this reeks of Avester," Angelina agreed.
The men exchanged glances.
Richard summed it up.
"Well, sooner or later, it was bound to happen. Lilian is too conspicuous, too attractive a target. We'd never be able to hide her. I'm not surprised, but I will deal with Entor. He'll pay for his insolence."
Nobody commented on his words. Of course, he would deal with the king of Avester as an equal...and Entor would regret ever messing with Ativerna.
"The Prancing Mermaid sailed out three days ago, but a captain I know saw it just off the coast not far from Taral," August Brocklend announced.
"Oh, really?" Richard narrowed his eyes. "Hans?"
"I will make inquiries, Your Majesty. If you'll excuse me, I'll give out orders at once. We'll check the other ships, too, but if it really is the Mermaid, it will simplify things. I will send out messengers..."
"And come back," Richard said, nodding.
Hans bowed and left the room.
"Your Majesty, I suggest informing the Virmans," Bran spoke up. "Her Grace is a welcome guest in Virma for all clans."
"All of them?" Richard asked, stressing the first word.
"At the moment, there's no hunger," Bran replied simply. "It's not the first time, but knowing that someone is watching your back and whatever happens, your children won't starve...it's important. If not for Her Grace, the treaty would have never been signed. Everyone understands that."
Richard abruptly shook his head, which made him look like an angry lion.
"Well, send a message to your people, Gardren."
Bran bowed.
An implication hung in the air, unspoken.
Eric was a loner. Leif had enemies in Virma. They would sail out with their men, but those numbers wouldn't be enough. However, crossing a priest of Holosh who had the ruler of Virma, Olav Hardring, indebted to him, was something that no Virman would dare to do unless they wanted to say goodbye to their island.
If anything happened, Bran could assure they would get their due.
As soon as a pigeon reached Virma, Virion would turn into an upset anthill. Nobody would take to the sea unprepared. There would be more Virmans than fish, and none of them would care about international complications—those people were accustomed to paying their dues. Such was life on the island: you either grew up to be a complete and utter bastard or a man of honor. Most ended up as the second.
"Why do they need Lilian?"
Alicia was wringing her hands, genuinely concerned for her daughter-in-law, the same as August.
"So she could do the same for Avester that she did for us," August replied. "I know the state of matters in Taral. Even I was offered a lot of money simply for arranging a conversation with Lilian."
"And?" Jess asked, curious.
"Did I take it?" The shipwright looked hurt by the question.
Jess almost shook his head. He had no doubts about the money. The rest of the story, however...
"That's not what I'm talking about! What happened to that idiot?"
"Oh...nothing, really. We threw him overboard. He might have even made it—it was only half a day's trip to the shore."
Nobody asked how that "idiot" had managed to sneak aboard. There was no need to, really.
"Lily won't do it," Jess concluded. "I know her. She'll never agree."
"Too bad," Richard replied, shaking his head. "I'm afraid that Entor will go to any lengths to get what he wants."
Prison. Torture. Death.
Those words weren't said aloud, but they were no less frightening.
"I believe in Her Grace," Leif declared, slamming his fist against the table. "She's no fool. She'll find a way to wriggle out of this."
He still remembered her back in the tavern, deathly afraid but nevertheless walking forward. He also remembered her defending his men from Avermal, negotiating with Eric, treating the wounded... If fate gave Lilian Earton at least a fraction of a chance, she would make it. She wasn't the kind of person to give up and drown.
Jess spent a few minutes thinking but finally made up his mind and decided to share the secret revealed to him by Lilian.
"We were expecting... We are expecting another child."
"Papa!" Miranda exhaled. "Is this true?"
"Yes, Mirrie. You're going to have another brother or a sister."
"Yay!" the viscountess yelled, genuinely excited, and immediately gasped and put her hand to her mouth, realizing what it meant for Lilian. "Oh..."
"She simply won't be able to fight or escape." Jess shook his head.
"I wouldn't underestimate the countess," Ingrid said. She always spoke quietly, but when she wanted to be heard, everyone did. A Torsveg was a Torsveg to the end, both in blood and self-perception.
A daughter, a sister, and a wife to warriors, she didn't know how to give up. Lilian Earton came from the same breed—that's why they had become fast friends.
"It will be hard for Mama," Miranda objected. "And she'll never risk the baby, I know her. With her own life, she does what she pleases, but when she got me to care for... And back in Wellster, she also did her best to protect the children; she told me that. For her, children always go first, whatever might happen. And now, she will depend on the child."
"Lilian thinks that if a baby is healthy, it will be born no matter what," Ingrid explained. "When she was carrying her firstborn... Your Grace, how far along was she when she stopped riding to Taral?"
"Nine months," Jess replied.
"Exactly. Her Grace isn't weak, and I believe in her."
"It's all we can do," Jess said, sighing. "Keep the faith."
Hans Tremain returned so quietly they barely noticed him.
"Your Majesty, ladies and gentlemen... I gave out the orders."
"Thank you, my friend," Jess said, relaxing a bit. "Richard, I have a request..."
"No," His Majesty replied flatly, unwilling to even listen.
“But why?”
"Because it's still too early to go to Avester," the king explained. "And if you run off there alone, I'll lock you up. Be patient. First, we have to find her. After that, you can go. You must understand: in Avester, you'll be a hostage too."
"And they will use you to blackmail Her Grace," Bran Gardren added, unfazed by Jerisson's glare. Actually, it was amusing. He could glare at the priest of Holosh for all he wanted, even going cross-eyed, but Bran wouldn't care. "I'll send a pigeon to Virma. Holosh willing, the Prancing Mermaid won't make it to Avester. And even if she does, we'll know everything."
"It might make it," Eric said, gritting his teeth.
The Virmans looked at each other. The two of them were sailors, and Bran and August knew enough about seafaring to realize that it would take a while until the pigeon reached the island and the men there set sailing. Lofrayne had a good chance to evade capture.
On the other hand, after that, he shouldn't try traveling by sea—ever.
If any Virman got their hands on Anthony, he would envy the dead a
nd pray for an easy death.
"I'll order my men to gather information," Richard added. "As soon as we learn anything, you can go at once."
"I'll lose my mind here," Jess said, almost groaning.
"You won't. She needs you."
Nobody could object to that.
Still, waiting and realizing his powerlessness was torture for Jess. He felt depressed and dreary. Fear pulled at his soul, fear not for himself but for the woman he loved. The people he loved.
Oh, Lilian...where are you?
***
His Majesty finished the council and dismissed everyone.
That said, "dismissed" was a strong word. Everyone had been given chambers in the palace, and they simply went there. Even August—Richard asked him to stay in Laveri, in the palace.
He knew how much Lilian depended on her loved ones. If anyone tried to blackmail her with another life...
Lofrayne had made one mistake. If he abducted someone else together with Lilian—Roman, Jacob, Mirrie, anyone—Lilian would have stayed quiet, afraid for their lives. At that moment, she was alone. It wasn't good, but it could save her, too. Lofrayne would never get to keep her,
Richard was sure of that. Lilian Earton would do everything to get home, and they would help her.
***
"Bran?"
Angelina watched her husband prepare. He dressed in black, checked every buckle and every clasp, fastened a weapon...
“Yes, dear?"
"Um..." Angelina wanted to ask where he was going but changed her mind. Instead, she asked, "How long will you be gone?"
"Hopefully, not long."
"Then, I will wait for you?"
Bran kissed his wife's hand.
"You should get to bed, sweetheart. If you want, I'll wake you up when I'm back."
Angelina smiled.
"I’ll think about it. But if I do fall asleep, be sure to wake me up."
"I'll try. I promise."
He didn't want to keep her waiting long.
Bran smiled at his wife, charming despite his hunched back, his blue eyes radiating love and the warmth of their home, even if that home was currently inside the royal palace. Angelina smiled in return.
It felt so nice, having a place where you were wanted.
***
There are many ways to wake up. From your loved one's kiss, from the smell of coffee taken to your bed with a bevy of treats, from the sound of the alarm or a doorbell... Still, in any of those cases, you woke up in peace and quiet, even if you might not want to.
But what would it feel like to wake up from being flayed—literally? When a blade cut your flesh along the clavicle, carefully pulling the skin up... It hurt. You would arch your back, trying to scream, but the unknown vivisector was quite cautious.
While you were sleeping, they had bound you hand and foot to the bed, spread-eagled, unable to move.
Would you scream? Humanity had long since invented mouth gags, and your assailants knew that tool well enough. How had they managed to do all of that, really?
In truth, Bran had simply pressed the vein on the diplomat's neck and did everything necessary while the latter was out. Quite enough time to tie him up and gag him.
So what was left for him to do? Only cry. Still, he suspected that it wouldn't really help.
The blade slipped upward, traveling across Alden's body. The diplomat was afraid to breathe—that's how close its edge was to the carotid artery.
"Let's talk," the silence hissed.
The diplomat grunted something through the gag in agreement.
Of course, let's talk! Just pull out the gag, and I'll invite the whole street...
The darkness pushed closer.
"No, boy. You misunderstood me."
Horatio looked at his tormentor with wide-open eyes, but what could he see?
A broad cloak enveloped the miscreant like a cloud, with a hood, deep and completely hiding the face. The attempt to peer further didn't do anything, as everything under the hood was jet-black.
The blade slid further, drawing a bloody line just above the forehead along Alden's hairline.
"A sweet lady once told me about an interesting tradition. You must agree that killing men is a dirty business."
Alden grunted.
Yes, it is! It's disgusting!
And really, no need to kill him! Please!
The ambassador was brave enough, but a situation like that would have broken even stronger men.
The stranger, meanwhile, continued.
"That's why you shouldn't kill people. It's better to make them dream of death, to disfigure them to the point where even the most undaunted would recoil in fear...if any of them can be found in a madhouse, of course."
Horatio trembled. Now that was a place he really didn't want to visit! Yet the stranger continued, his tone dry and dull.
"This tradition allows one to keep a memento of their enemy. That's how it's done: you cut the skin here and here..." Horatio felt the cold blade touch him in several places, leaving scratches. "Then you raise it and pull it away like a hat. Do you want me to show you?"
Horatio didn't, but he doubted that his opinion really mattered.
"I will keep a nice hat of hair as a souvenir. It's called a scalp. Isn't it cute?"
Horatio didn't find it cute.
"There are other options, too. Have you ever heard of the blood eagle, perchance?"
He hadn't, and he didn't want to. But who cared?
"I'll cut you here and here... It's better to do it on the back, but the chest will do, too. Or I'll just knock you out and tie you up the way I want to. After making the cuts, I'll carefully remove the skin to open your ribs and start prying them out...
The voice kept talking of horrors, but the scariest thing was its cold, impassive tone.
That's what made you believe that he would truly do that—and not just that but something even worse.
He wouldn't just do it; he would take pleasure in it, and nobody would hear a thing. In the morning, Horatio would be found...alive? Quite possibly. And he would beg for death, because living in a state like that would be impossible.
Aldonai!
Why?
I don't want that!
Horatio writhed on the bed, tears flowing out of his eyes, and the voice kept whispering, while the blade danced on his skin.
Bran held his victim in a tight grip.
Scaring him to death?
That wasn't that hard. Priests of Holosh could drive people mad just by talking. That one had already crapped his pants. Were all Avesterians that weak?
Still, very few people Bran knew would stay strong in his place, and even they had a weak spot.
Breaking a man was an art that was not to be defiled by hate, bad blood, or any other emotional crap. It should be done slow and steady—only then it would succeed. There was a solution to every puzzle, an approach to every victim. Some snapped quickly, while with others, you had to take your time. Some had to bend before being broken. It was all very personal.
The main thing was to remain calm and watch any response of your target, no matter how disgusting.
Gardren knew what he was talking about, too.
He had done a lot in his lifetime, oh, he definitely had.
Priests of Holosh sometimes made sacrifices, and sometimes, they meted out justice. Bran's record was two months: two months of slowly killing a...human?
No.
A piece of trash who had raided a Virman coastal village, robbed it, set it on fire, killed everyone, and escaped. Unholy creature. Scum of the earth.
A few witnesses stayed alive, and the bastards were caught and brought to Virma...well, those who survived the trip. And then, they envied the dead. He wasn't going to do that to Alden, of course. Not yet.
That night was just a small thing, in truth. Was that really a problem?
He slipped into a house guarded both by Avesterians and Ativernans—and the latter hadn't just let him through but a
lso pointed out the Avesterian postings. Bran simply walked forward.
Inside, he knocked out the butler, tied him up, and hid him under the stairs so they wouldn't find him right away, then snuck past the servants, most of which were already asleep. The only thing that was left to do was to slip into the ambassador's bedroom, press the right spot on his neck to knock him out—just for a few seconds, enough to bind and gag him—and wake him up.
And then, he would break him.
Bran wasn't joking; he didn't just promise to do everything he described—he was prepared to do it. And the Avesterian gave in.
Yes, he shat himself...that was the hardest part for Bran. Why were people so weak? They always broke wind during torture. Maybe he should plug his nose? Bran would have done that, but that wouldn't make his voice all that terrifying. That just wouldn't do. He was supposed to inspire terror, not laughter. And thus, he had to tough it out.
Slowly and methodically, Bran drove the Avesterian into a state when fear would overcome any reservations, allowing him to ask questions.
He was already on the verge of a breakthrough, and finally, Alden wavered. He broke and melted, just like the substance he had recently excreted. Bran didn't condemn his victim, though. He knew his skills well enough. Sooner or later, anyone would have broken.
As Bran asked his questions, he became grim. Everything was very bad. How was he to tell it to Richard?
And he had to; he had no other choice. He also couldn't cripple that weasel; he was to stay safe and sound to avoid starting a fight with Avester too early. There was time for everything.
And so, Bran once again pressed the vein on the count's neck, resisting the urge to keep his fingers there a second longer, which would turn a temporary sleep into eternal.
All in good time. Eventually, he would get his payback. Bran gave himself a promise and left, his movements quiet, graceful, and calculated.
As a farewell gesture, he untied Horatio and collected the rope and the gag. The only reminders of Bran's visit were the painful cuts on Horatio Alden's neck, forehead, and chest.
For some reason, the count was in no hurry to complain to anyone. He had his own skeletons in the closet, anyway. At least he was still alive...for the time being.
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