Shattered Throne (Book 1 of The Shattered Throne Series)

by Cate Dean

  Relieved, he started eating, and his stomach reminded him he had not eaten anything since the announcement. As inconspicuously as possible, he devoured his meal, and asked one of the passing servants to fill his plate again. When he looked up, several of the ladies closest to his table smiled at him.

  Gods protect him—Liam used to complain about this. Being the center of attention, hounded by girls of the marrying age. He decided he would have to make another announcement, this time concerning his unavailable status until Liam’s return.

  Raine’s face filled his mind. With an effort he pushed it out, but the pain of thinking about her twisted his gut. He thanked the servant for his second plate, and started eating again. Anything to distract himself. Halfway through, he couldn’t stand the pain, and knew he needed a distraction that would immerse him completely.

  He stood, startled when the entire room pushed to their feet. “Thank you,” he said. “For making me feel welcome, and supporting me at such a difficult time. Please enjoy your evening.”

  For the first time, he realized he didn’t need permission to leave the table. It was a heady feeling, and the delight of it carried him through the dining hall.

  His stomach didn’t start bothering him again until he was outside the door to his workshop. Then the pain doubled him.

  He fell to his hands and knees, too far away from one of the summoning bells to call for help. A warm breath brushed his cheek, and he inched his head up.

  “Kres,” he whispered. The fire drake stood in front of him, dark eyes narrowed. “Find—Raine. I’m sick. Please—find Raine—”

  Agony tore through him, and he understood, as he collapsed, that this was more than a bad meal.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ari pounded his practice sword against the wood dummy. Sweat slid down his bare torso, even with the cold night air. He pushed through the exhaustion, his muscles burning under the weight of the sword, and took his frustration out on an opponent that couldn’t complain.

  Ten years in the Arena gave him power, speed, and the discipline required to survive. It did not give him patience.

  He wanted to be the one riding after Liam, because he knew he would survive the desert. He spent most of his life there, and he understood it. Damian was a decent second choice, but—

  Enough.

  He’d destroyed any hope of returning when he killed the Arena master during his escape.

  Angry at himself for dredging up a past he couldn’t change, he raised his sword—and swung it at the shadow headed right for him. The fire drake rolled in the air, avoiding the sword with inches to spare.

  “What do you want? I thought I made my feelings about you on my training ground clear.”

  The drake landed in front of him and snorted. It looked—distressed. Ari spent enough time around his brother’s pets to read the often inscrutable emotions.

  “Show me, drake. And it had better not be a waste of my time.”

  The creature flapped its wings and flew back toward the castle. Ari propped his sword in the rack, grabbed up his shirt, and followed after, not caring about his lack of protocol. It was late enough, and if some virgin maiden was out of her room, she deserved an eyeful of muscles and scars.

  When he realized where the drake was headed, he picked up his pace. Micah left the formal supper early, and Ari cursed himself now for not checking on the boy.

  The door to his workshop was open. Ari sprinted forward, skidding to a halt just inside. Micah was huddled next to the woodstove, curled around the arm pressed to his stomach.

  “Micah.” Ari knelt beside him, laid one hand on his pale, sweat soaked cheek. “Talk to me.”

  “Help me—get rid of—” A pained gasp cut him off.

  Ari understood his request, and hauled him up, aware that every movement must hurt him.

  “Chamber pot?”

  “Table,” he gasped.

  Ari spotted it, and left Micah long enough to grab the metal pot. He had two ways to purge Micah’s stomach—punching may do more damage, so he used the more invasive, but less painful method. He pried Micah’s mouth open and stuck one finger down his throat.

  Micah gagged, fighting Ari, but it had the desired effect. Ari held him as he emptied his stomach, and over the stink of half-digested food, he smelled it.

  “Son of a bitch.” He pulled in the rage, kept it behind a wall of calm, and picked Micah up, carrying him out of the workshop, heading for his rooms. Carefully, he laid Micah on the sofa that faced his fireplace, and checked his forehead. The boy was feverish. That he was alive at all after being poisoned with eldar was a question for later. “Micah. I need you to open your eyes.”

  He obeyed, the normally clear blue dark, shocking against his white face. “It was—poison,” he whispered.

  Ari didn’t believe in hiding the truth from anyone. “Eldar. You should be dead.”

  “I would feel—better.”

  A smile tugged at Ari’s mouth. The boy had spirit. He would need it, if someone in the castle was trying to kill him.

  “Maybe. But you’re not dying on my watch. Can I leave you long enough to fetch the physician?”

  “Yes.” He gripped Ari’s wrist, with more strength than Ari expected. “I sent Kres to find Raine. Is she here?”

  “I haven’t seen her. I’ll pass the word, my lord,” he said, pushing Micah back down to the sofa. “You stay put, focus on breathing. I’ll return as quickly as I can.”

  Ari stopped long enough to grab up his shirt from the floor of the workshop, tugging it over his head as he strode toward the wing of the castle housing the staff. He cared little for appearances, but the physician would demand to examine every scar, and Micah didn’t have the time to spare. Most of the poison was purged, but his fever told Ari that some of it had gotten into his system, and he needed purging Ari couldn’t do.

  He would get Micah sorted, find out who tried to kill him, and return the favor.

  Fifteen

  Damian pulled up when he saw the landmarks that indicated the border.

  Xander reined in, moving to his side. “Why are we stopping?”

  “We’re near the border.” He pulled a package out of his pack, one he asked Raine to acquire for him. “You’ll have to start wearing this.”

  He opened the package, handed Xander a head scarf and robe.

  “We’re going to try and blend in, I take it.”

  “You are going to try. I will blend in.” With his light hair and green eyes, he would be mistaken for one of the desert people. From a distance. Xander had no chance, but at least Damian could downplay his differences. “You’ll welcome both once we hit the desert. Even this time of year, the sun can wear at those foolish enough not to protect themselves from it.”

  “Sounds like you’ve had experience, gambler.”

  “Enough.” No need to get into his past, unless it became necessary to their survival. He secured his horse’s reins to the saddle horn, quickly wrapped the head scarf, and slipped the robe on over his clothes. “Ready?”

  “As soon as you tell me how this damned piece of cloth is supposed to stay on my head.”

  Smiling, Damian leaned over, and did a simple neck wrap. “You can pull the excess that is under your chin up, to cover your mouth.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Necessary, if we run into any windstorms.”

  “All this is not endearing me to our destination.”

  With a sharp laugh, Damian gathered his reins and gently urged his horse forward. “Wait until you spend a day or two there.”

  “Only for my lord Duke, gambler.”

  “Then let’s go and bring him home.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Damian waited until they made their first rest stop to reveal his plan to Xander.

  The guard stared at him. “You want me to what?”

  “You don’t know the language. It will mark you, Xander, more than your eyes or your hair. This way, we can avoid getting our throats slit in the night.”
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  “By me playing servant.”

  “Mute servant.” Damian fought the smile threatening at the murderous look on Xander’s face. “I’ll try not to order you around more than necessary. And it would be best to pull your head scarf up over your mouth now.”

  Xander’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I’m going to tell anyone who asks that you were injured, and can’t speak because of it. The alternative would be to have an actual injury showing.”

  “Fine. You’ve made your point, gambler.” Xander did as requested, and instantly looked less like a Westerner. “These may be my last words for some time, so I’d like to say this now. When we find the Duke, his life comes before ours.”

  “That was understood when I took this suicide mission. Let’s go.”

  They had their first potentially fatal encounter right after they crossed the border.

  Half a dozen men seemed to appear from nowhere, crossbows and—gods, they had pistols, aimed right at their horses. A horse was life in the desert.

  Damian reined in as the huge man who was obviously their leader approached, a pistol in each hand, pointed at them.

  He waved the pistol toward Damian. “Your business?”

  “Personal.”

  “Delta?” Damian nodded. “Long way from home.”

  “On my way back. Will that be a problem?”

  “Depends.” His pistol waved at Xander. “Why the Westerner?”

  “He saved my life, and it cost him. I’m taking him with me, since it’s my fault he can no longer call the West home.”

  “He can’t talk for himself?”

  “No.” This was the test. He neglected to tell Xander that if they were caught in a lie, their lives were forfeit. “His injury prevents it. A soldier who can’t talk isn’t much good, according to the Duke.”

  The reactions were subtle, but Damian was used to watching for subtle. They had seen Liam, knew who he was.

  “You saw the Duke?”

  “Not personally. I don’t have enough money or prestige to earn an audience. But his captain was happy to inform my companion that his services were no longer required.” Damian had hoped his words would be enough. Being surrounded told him otherwise. “Is there a problem?”

  “Your story. I don’t like it.” The man moved in, until the pistol pressed against Damian’s stomach. “I don’t like you.”

  “Perhaps some coin to share among your men. A bit more for you, as their leader.” He did not want to give up some of his stash so early, but the unexpected appearance of the pistols convinced him.

  The gleam of greed in the man’s pale eyes told him he gave the right answer. “I will do the sharing.”

  Damian nodded, and glanced down at the pistol. “I would prefer to offer it without risking a hole in my gut.” Relief flooded him when the pistol lowered. He moved slowly, fighting to ignore the headache that threatened. Stress often snapped the pain into life, and this qualified as stress. He gave the man a clear view as he pulled a leather pouch out of his pack. “My friend and I are grateful for your generosity in allowing us to pass unscathed.” He slipped a smaller pouch out, and dropped them both in the outstretched hand.

  He nodded at Xander, and walked his horse past the men, slowly, his shoulder blades twitching. Even with the bribe, they could be attacked at any time. Xander kept pace, eyes straight ahead, but Damian saw his hand inch toward the knife in his belt.

  Endless minutes later, they reached the first low dune, and Damian decided to up the odds of their survival. He spurred his horse into a gallop and swung on to the path between two sand dunes. The roar behind him had him riding harder, hunched over his horse’s neck.

  He sent up a silent prayer that the mercenaries didn’t have horses nearby and snapped the reins, urging more speed.

  Sixteen

  Pain jerked Micah out of sleep. He lay still, every inch of his body aching and stiff.

  It took a long minute for the events of last night to work their way through the pain. When they did, he tried to sit. A strong hand gripped his shoulder.

  “You’d best keep still, my lord.” Ari’s quiet voice surprised him. “You’ve had a rough couple of days.”

  “Days?” Micah whispered, his throat so raw he didn’t recognize his own voice.

  “Do you remember anything?”

  Micah nodded, and even that movement hurt, lancing pain through his head. “I shouldn’t be alive.”

  “Whoever slipped the eldar in your food is repeating that, as a curse. Why and how you survived are questions I’d like to explore, once you’re feeling better. Until then, Thomas will be your constant companion. Eat or drink nothing that he doesn’t give you.” Micah nodded, feeling his life narrow more with each word. Ari stood, ran one hand through his blonde hair. “And one more thing, my lord, while I have you as a captive audience. Sword lessons begin again as soon as you are well enough to hold a blade.”

  Micah flinched. His miserable lessons with Thomas had shown him that he would never be a swordsman. Thomas must have told Ari of his failure.

  “I don’t—”

  “I am well aware of your view on your limitations.” He leaned in. “I knew fighters who had more handicaps, and became champions in the Arena. Stop underestimating yourself, my lord.”

  “I will be there. Ari.” He swallowed, feeling his strength fade. “Is there word on Raine?”

  “I sent a message to The Black Arrow. She hasn’t been seen since she was treated here.”

  “Thank you.” His stomach knotted for a different reason. As a bond servant, Raine would never desert her bond holder. Unless she had no choice. “If you hear anything—”

  “You will be first to know. Sleep, my lord. Thomas is right outside if you need anything.”

  Ari strode across his room, every inch a warrior. With a sigh, Micah pushed aside the comparison to his meager skills, and closed his eyes.

  It was time to take a closer look at the proposal Liam complained about. Micah had studied the first one, before he was kidnapped. He had the feeling it was the key to finding the person determined to end the Brachon line.

  ~ ~ ~

  Raine woke, her arm throbbing. She blinked, and the bars of her prison came into focus. Her nightmare was no nightmare.

  Using her good arm, she pushed herself up. The damp that dripped down the stone walls stiffened her injured arm, left her chilled and vulnerable. She spotted a tray on the dirt floor, near the bars, and gathered herself to stand.

  The ration of bread and water wouldn’t have satisfied a toddler, but Raine was grateful for it. She needed her strength, because when they came to retrieve her, she planned to fight.

  She managed to finish her brief meal when footsteps echoed from the tunnel. The figure that appeared nearly shocked the breath out of her.

  “What did you give him?” Joseph stalked to the bars, reaching through them as if he meant to grab her. He looked furious.

  “What are you doing here, Joseph?” Now that Micah knew, stepping inside the castle would land Joseph in this dungeon. “What have you done?”

  “The boy Duke should be dead, but I know he is even now plotting to discover who poisoned him. Get her out of there.” The guard unlocked her door and jerked Raine forward, trapping both hands behind her back as he pushed her toward Joseph. Pain roared up her arm, and she stumbled. Only the guard’s grip kept her upright. Joseph’s voice cut through the pain, forced her to focus. “Tell me what you gave him to protect him from the effects of eldar.”

  Eldar—gods. Joseph couldn’t have chosen a more painful way to kill him.

  “Why are you doing this? Micah has always treated you as family.”

  “I love him, and Liam, as I loved his father.” The fury drained from his face. “But like his father, Liam lives guided by the past. We need to move forward, to push our control beyond the borders of the West, or we will remain small, unimportant, a petty kingdom.”

  “This is about power.”

>   “Change. Necessary change. You should understand, Raine. The Shira expanded their kingdom with the same methods.”

  “By killing anyone who opposed them.” Raine knew her words landed on deaf ears. Joseph had come too far to step away now. And if he admired her mother’s ancestors, people who had sold Raine like a piece of merchandise, any argument was pointless. She decided to try another path. “No one may ever prove it if you kill me, but the silent accusation will always hang over you—that you poisoned Micah, betrayed your Duke. Is that the legacy you want, Joseph?”

  He backhanded Raine so hard his signet ring cut into her cheek. “I want you dead for daring to threaten me, for forcing me to hide like a rat in my own home, and I plan to do it myself, when the time comes. But for now, I need you alive. As leverage. Put her back inside, on full rations, and bring something to bind that arm. I want her healthy when she and Micah have their touching reunion.”

  The guard hauled her around and threw her into the cell. She tried to twist, but she landed on her injured arm. Endless minutes later she managed to roll over. Blood soaked her bandage, and she knew more than a few of the stitches had torn.

  She needed to find a way to regain her strength. Joseph tried to kill Micah once—and she knew he would not stop until he had control of Palamar.

  Seventeen

  Liam watched the outpost appear as the wagon drove through the tail end of a windstorm. Forced to breathe through his nose, Liam spent most of the storm huddled under his single blanket. Now his throat was drier than the desert around them, his eyes gritty from flying sand, and lack of sleep.

  Any chance he had of changing the slaver’s mind slipped farther away with every turn of the wheels. He knew the man would not risk being persuaded, not this close to his goal. Liam’s last two water breaks had been skipped, and he had no expectations of seeing the slaver again, until he was hauled out of the wagon to be sold.