by Megan Derr
Strangely, though, they did not seem to want to kill him. Why not, when they'd seemed determined to do so at Wessel's house?
Pain flashed across the back of his head, and the world went black as he dropped to the ground.
*~*~*
When Jader woke, not much time could have passed because he could still see the sled, Tialla's body right where he'd left it.
He tried to sit up, but gave up with a whimper as pain rushed through. There was too much of it for him to sort out what exactly hurt.
"H-hold still, m-my lord," Seredia said.
He turned his head slowly, saw her sitting next to him, face stained with blood and tears, her hair dropping about her face in a messy tangle. "What's going on?"
"I d-don't know," Seredia replied.
"Shattered Wind betrayed us," Jader said, his eyes suddenly too heavy to keep open.
Seredia's voice was barely audible, though he didn't know if that was because she was speaking low or because he was fading. "No, I don't think so. I think they're wearing those tunics to make us believe we were betrayed by Shattered Wind, but they haven't once spoken any Harken language, and people in situations like this always fall back on their native language. All I've heard is Bentan and a bit of Carthian."
Jader tried to reply, but darkness got the better of him again.
He stirred briefly to voices, loud and angry, then passed out once more.
For what seemed hours, or maybe even days, all he did was fade in and out.
When he finally woke properly, he stared blankly around the familiar room before realizing it was the room he'd used at Wessel's house. He started to sit up, but immediately abandoned that idea as various pains flared sharp and hot.
At least this time he could sort it all out: his ankle would probably never be the same; his head had definitely taken a beating; there were some minor abrasions on his arms; and something on the back of his right shoulder had required stitches. There were also plenty of bruises and minor cuts. Clearly he'd missed some of the more important details while he'd been fighting—but that wasn't unusual in the heat of battle. Jader had seen men walking around without fingers—and even limbs—who didn't notice until someone told them.
Bracing himself this time, he slowly heaved up and got his legs over the edge of the bed. His ankle was by far the worst, heavily bandaged and it felt like it had been braced as well. This time, there was a crutch by the bed, and Jader was more than happy to avail himself.
Getting dressed almost proved to be more effort than it was worth. In the end, he settled for breeches and a dressing robe, and if anyone got offended, they'd soon find themselves more offended by being whacked with his crutch.
He lingered long enough to pull on socks, then headed out, pausing occasionally to rest. Surely he was not this weak? He'd come away from battles far more injured than this. Had he been poisoned? That seemed unlikely, though he vaguely remembered Seredia saying something about Carthians—
Shattered Wind. Their assailants had been dressed like Shattered Wind, but Seredia had thought that was a deception.
Tialla was dead. Who else had died? Dread and fear clawed at him, but Jader tamped it down. He was High Commander, and likely the only Harken in Benta who might be able to prevent another war.
Because if Benta was responsible for this attack, and they had launched it by impersonating his guard, then something was afoot and that something could very likely lead to war if the mess wasn't sorted out very soon.
Damn it, why had Sarrica and Allen ordered him here as a politician? He would have fared much better as the soldier responsible for protecting a politician—not that bodyguard was a job issued to the High Commander.
Jader sighed as he reached the stairs, but gritted his teeth and started down them. He had to stop at the landing to catch his breath, but after what felt like hours finally reached the ground floor.
A sharp gasp drew his attention, and he turned to look at the servant gawking at him, her mouth gaping. "Lord Wessel?" Jader asked, too exhausted to muster up his feeble Bentan to ask the question properly.
The woman gaped a moment longer, then gathered herself. Motioning for him to follow, keeping to a pace he could manage, she escorted him down a short hallway to a room Jader remembered was Wessel's private sitting room.
Knocking briskly, the woman pushed the door open, ignoring Wessel's angry words to hold the door for Jader.
Wessel closed his mouth, then rose and apologized to the woman and asked her to bring fresh coffee and something for Jader to eat. She nodded, bowed, and departed.
Jader looked around the room, to where Seredia sat by the fire, a blanket over her lap, a forgotten cup of coffee in her hands as she looked at him with fresh tears on her face. Wessel looked equally distraught. "What's wrong?"
"Lady Krista died not an hour ago," Wessel said, his breath hitching, eyes taking on a wet shine. "She was badly wounded, but it seemed like she might… but she didn't, her wounds and the prolonged time in the cold proved too much for her to overcome."
Jader closed his eyes. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."
A large hand gently squeezed his arm, and he opened his eyes reluctantly to meet Wessel's sad, but kind gaze. "No, High Commander, this was not your fault at all. Please, no one is blaming you. Right now we are terrified. You don't know just how bad the situation is. Come, sit, you shouldn't be standing." He helped Jader to a seat, propped his bad ankle on a small footstool, and spread a blanket over his lap. Reclaiming his own seat, Wessel stared at his teacup and said, "I'm not even certain where to begin."
"Are any of my guards still alive? My secretaries?"
Wessel's mouth tightened. "The only member of your party that day who survived was Captain Tsarana, and 'survive' is generous because, like Krista, he was severely wounded and being stuck in the cold and wet until I could get there did not help. But for the moment, he is alive, and I have healers watching him at all times. The other five are dead, as well as your secretaries. I am sorry for your loss. Those who were at Abernoth Manor are now here, and they are alive and well—and out for blood, but awaiting your orders, High Commander."
"I'm not High Commander while I'm here," Jader said, alarmed that Wessel was very much making a point of addressing him so.
"Yes, well, that has changed." Wessel sighed, and seemed relieved at the knock on the door. He called for the knocker to enter, and two servants bustled in to sweep away the tea setting already there and replace it with a fresh one.
Once they were gone, and Jader had a tray of soup, bread, and coffee, Wessel finally resumed speaking. "Let me start by saying this: you are currently the Duke of Abernoth."
Jader almost dropped his cup. "What in the Mother Ocean are you talking about?" He cleared his throat and repeated the words in Harken. Pardon. What are you talking about?"
"Captain Cherrell has long been dissatisfied with his lot. His ambition has always been greater than his means and ability. Unfortunately, none of us realized he is also one of those few remaining who despises Harken. In you, he apparently saw a chance to both make himself a Duke and deal a blow to Harken—and put us right back at odds with you. But his arrogance meant he never saw that his plans could fail, and that those few assailants who survived were more than happy to sing if it meant they avoided swinging."
"I'm not sure I follow," Jader said. "He killed his mother, his sister, tried to kill the rest of us, and did it by hiring men pretending to be my personal…" He closed his eyes, calling himself ten kinds of stupid. "If his plan had worked, it would have looked like I murdered one of the most powerful families in Benta, and it wouldn't matter if it had been on orders or as a rogue. Benta would have declared war, and he would have inherited the title, and looked like the tragic victim and hero all at once, since I doubt he meant to leave me alive for longer than it took to incriminate myself however he needed." Because he did vaguely remember the soldiers hadn't killed him even though they could have. They'd needed him aliv
e for something. Jader was grateful he'd probably never know exactly what.
"Precisely." Wessel drained his cup.
Mother Ocean. In addition to all of that, what sort of chaos would his supposed actions have caused back home? Jader swallowed, his throat raw, eyes stinging as his mind filled with images of what would have happened to all the Islanders in Harkenesten as knowledge spread of what he'd supposedly done in Benta.
Swallowing, forcing his hands to stop trembling, Jader asked, "So why are you calling me High Commander?"
Seredia who replied, "I went to the frost fair to get help; no one else was alive or capable of moving. When I returned with Wessel, we brought you all here, but it seemed for hours like you were going to die. We sent word to Harkenesten of what happened. The High King said that as the agreement reached with Benta regarding the terms of your stay had been violated—grossly, vindictively violated were his precise words—that you were no longer constricted to playing civilian and were to immediately reassume your full military role and all that comes with it."
"That's… barely one step away from war." Jader finished his coffee and wished badly he could have something stronger.
"It gets worse," Seredia said. "We also had to tell King Desmond what happened. He is currently in Jameth City, where we first arrived in Benta, for their holy ceremonies regarding the new year."
"The Turning of the Lights," Wessel said softly, looking on the verge of tears again. "The most important of all our holidays. It's supposed to be a happy occasion, intended for forgiveness and joy and starting over." He did start crying then, but angrily brushed the tears away. "We were to either take you there the moment you are well enough to travel… or deliver your body had you died."
Seredia looked up. "Harken is sending someone to sort out the mess. The High King's letter did not specify who, but I suspect it will be him or Lord Lesto."
Jader nodded. "I would like a status update on Tsarana. If I am going to travel, I prefer he be able to come along as well. I will not abandon him here, no offense to you, my lord."
"None taken. I would want the same in your position." Wessel rose and went to speak with a servant, the door closing quietly behind him.
Seredia sniffled, started crying again. "I'm so sorry, Commander. I did the best I could, but—"
"You have nothing to apologize for," Jader said. "Please, you acted with amazing skill given the circumstances. I could wish for soldiers who reacted half so well, and they are trained for situations like this. I am sorry that you were forced to deal with such an awful matter. This was meant to be a peaceful mission with a very low priority objective. Nothing like this should have happened. Cherrell is a corpse-fucking bottom feeder who likes the taste of his own shit."
She gave him a wobbly smile. "All the months I have known you, I've never once heard you speak anything but Harken in a polished palace accent, minus that one time at dinner, and even then, you still sounded Harken-born. Now you have a distinctly Islander accent and keep slipping into Islander. It would be endearing if not for the circumstances."
Jader swallowed, not trusting himself to speak because he was absolutely certain the words would come out sobs instead.
Until he remembered the statement that had started the conversation. "So why am I Bentan nobility now?"
"Lady Tialla and Lady Krista are dead. Lord Cherrell is not in much better shape than you, and under arrest, stripped of everything. One of the terms of your stay was that you would be made a dual citizen, which means you're able to inherit the title. That's just one more problem in this whole mess."
"I think that will be one of the easier problems to resolve."
Seredia's expression said he was wrong about that, but before she could speak, the door opened. Jader jumped, and then sighed at himself.
The look on Wessel's face eased some of his anxiety.
"Tsarana is much improved, Commander. They say that if he lasts until morning, he will more than likely survive."
Jader nodded. "Send word to Their Majesties that we will be leaving… what is today?"
"Middle-day."
"One week from today, then, unless Tsarana does not survive, in which case we will leave at the end of the week. And if they don't like that, too bad."
Seredia rose and bowed. "I'll compose the letters now and inform you when they've been sent."
"Thank you." She left, and Jader forced himself to eat his soup and bread. He was going to need all the strength he could muster.
Chapter Seventeen
The initial hearing for the custody challenge went exactly as Kamir had expected: the judge stated that one parent being of dubious reliability did not automatically mean that the other parent was by default acceptable, and there was sufficient doubt to merit a full investigation. The next hearing would be in one month, at the conclusion of the investigation.
Kamir submitted the papers he had prepared ahead of time to hopefully expedite the process and took his leave, grateful the order of holding meant that once again, he left while Theoren was forced to stay—and his parents could not chase him down without drawing attention to themselves, which he knew very well they wouldn't want.
They'd be far more likely to find him later, when they could be reasonably certain of trapping him in a corner without witnesses.
"Are you all right, my lord?" Charlaine asked.
"I'm fine, thank you." Kamir dredged up a smile, but it faded in the next moment.
Sadly, as anxious and exhausted as the hearing had left him, that so far had been a predictable evil.
He was more upset that he'd received not a single letter from Jader in nearly two weeks. As hard as he tried to convince himself that Jader must have gotten busy, or was otherwise unable to write, he had the sinking feeling he'd made such a fool of himself that Jader had lost all interest in writing to him.
Or maybe someone had finally told him the truth about Kamir's pregnancy and the imperial decree, and Jader no longer wanted anything to do with him.
Either way, it was for the best.
That didn't make his heart feel any less broken, but he'd known what he was in for right from the start, even before he'd ruined everything by forgetting to drink a stupid cup of tea.
"Kamir…"
Charlaine using his name was startling enough that Kamir stopped. "What's wrong?"
"That is what I'm trying to get you to tell me," Charlaine said with a faint smile. "You look more distressed than I've seen you since the day we met." He held out his hand, and after a moment, Kamir placed his own in it, and let Charlaine lead him down the hall to one of the countless little nooks that peppered the palace.
Once they were sitting, Charlaine said, "Something more than the hearing is bothering you. As upset as you've been about it, clearly you're facing a familiar evil, so I don't think it's that. What else is bothering you?"
"Nothing important. It's personal and minor."
"It's not minor if has you looking constantly on the verge of tears or screaming. My job is to protect you, and as tense as you are, you're likely to miss something or do something that will increase the chance of danger. Distraction kills faster than swords and arrows."
"Theoren isn't going to kill me. I only agreed to having a bodyguard as an added precaution at Velina's urging. He's likely to corner me and bully me—"
"And if his ego and temper get the better of him, one good hit could kill you or leave you wishing you were dead—or too broken to even know who you are, and that's only the beginning of what someone like Theoren can do."
Kamir closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips to his eyelids. "I know. You're right. But it really is stupid, and entirely selfish." He opened his eyes, stared at the table as he said, "Jader hasn't written to me. He normally writes me two or three times a week, and it's been two weeks now with nothing. I don't know what could be wrong." What he'd done wrong.
"Well, we haven't been in the palace for weeks. I'm certain anything we need to know could be gleaned by
a twenty-minute lunch in the banquet hall," Charlaine said wryly. "Or you could go speak with Lord Lesto. I'm sure he'd be happy to tell you the High Commander has just turned his other ankle or caused an international incident by telling some important person to stop propositioning him."
Neither option was appealing, but at least the banquet hall was a familiar evil. Kamir could not stomach even thinking about the brazenness, the impertinence, of troubling Lord Lesto with his petty concerns. Lesto was kind, but even he would be annoyed by such a thing.
"Thank you," he finally said. "Let's try lunch. Shouldn't be hard to get conversations about Jader started." He rested a hand on his bulging stomach. The whispers would start out ugly and quickly turn nasty, especially since Kamir had long been a target anyway.
Charlaine offered him a hand and helped him up, and fell easily back into step as they walked through the palace to the public banquet hall.
Kamir hadn't thought he would miss the palace, but after weeks away, he could remember the good things without being weighed down by the bad. Harkenesten was beautiful, a mix of the original palace and generations of changes and additions, making it a sprawling, chaotic maze that could never entirely decide to which century it belonged, or even which kingdom or continent. He knew so many nooks and corners and crannies, no two of them remotely alike.
Like the room where Jader first kissed him.
One thing he had not missed was the stress of dining in the banquet hall. The only table with a permanent designation was the High Table. There were informal designations, tables used by particular families regularly, but mostly everything changed with the fluctuations of power. The quickest, easiest way to get an assessment of players and where they all stood was to look over the dining arrangements.
The only time he'd ever enjoyed himself there was when he'd had the luxury of the High Table.
Avoiding it altogether, Kamir skimmed the rest of the hall and settled on an empty table near the middle of the room. Close enough to overhear all the things people would want him to overhear, and if they wanted to approach him, the empty table would make that easier.
