“Wait here and help move the bodies,” he ordered Leryc.
The youth nodded, still transfixed by the body on the floor.
Myac walked to the double doors at the end of the hall, behind which he suspected he would find the prince’s chambers. Blood dripped from the blade, leaving a trail of red splotches in his path.
Where most of the rooms were functionally furnished, the prince’s spacious chambers boasted a tasteful touch of luxury. Everything was in varied shades of blue and gray, with silver and ivory worked through. Furniture constructed of pale wood, accented with silver inlay, and windows of flawless ascard-created glass brought the palace to mind. The bed stood on a raised dais with a chaise lounge at the foot. It all reeked of the prince’s annoying refinement.
Myac strode to the bed and lifted the dripping blade over the pillow where he imagined Yiloch laid his head to sleep. With an extra push of ascard, he shoved the blade down through the pillow and deep into the mattress. Blood smeared bright on fine fabric. From a pocket of his cloak he drew a blue stone pendant engraved with the imperial family crest and hung it on the crossguard. He’d taken it from Prince Delsan before his death in the hopes of taunting Yiloch with it someday. If Yiloch returned to the stronghold, it would serve its purpose.
A trap worked into the display would be too obvious and he needed to save energy for his other plans so he swept from the room, slamming the door behind him. On his way out, he caught up with the men moving the bodies.
“Drop them here. I only want the heads.”
The soldiers dropped the bodies and prepared to do his bidding. Leryc vanished into a neighboring room. He didn’t stop the youth. As much as he might enjoy making Leryc suffer, he wasn’t enthusiastic about him vomiting again.
It took two strikes to remove the head of the strange man. For Dalce, it took four. He might have helped with ascard, but he enjoyed seeing Yiloch’s men mutilated. The soldiers followed him out with their grisly trophies. In the courtyard, Myac used ascard to reform splinters of iron and wood from the gate into two small cages. On his orders, the soldiers placed the heads in them and hung them on either side of the courtyard entrance.
The many ascard exertions were beginning to sap his strength, but Myac took time to work a trap into each cage so they would explode in a violent spray if anyone tried to open them. Weary, he sat on the stairs leading into the stronghold, resting while his soldiers completed their search for supplies and information.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Several days ground by. The High Council spent mornings in laborious discussion with Prince Yiloch. In the afternoons, the king and High Council reconvened for private discussion. Today they brought Yiloch and Adran back in after only an hour of private discussion. The time for open debate was ending. The king was nearing his decision.
The majority, including Caplin and his father, supported the alliance and were willing to provide healers with explicit stipulations. Unless Caplin misread him, the king leaned in that direction as well. Lord Serivar, acting predominately as headmaster of the Healer’s Academy, was a staunch opponent, especially to the request for healers. Arguably, he was most qualified on that subject, but the final decision was King Jerrin’s to make. Despite the headmaster’s outward calm, Caplin sat close enough to see the way he wrung his hands under the table every time he spoke against the idea and the prince’s icy gaze settled on him.
Caplin watched the prince. A certain coolness beneath that unnaturally perfect exterior made it easier to believe him capable of the cruel acts that earned him his reputation as the Blood Prince. Yiloch managed that aspect of himself well though. As the prince’s appointed escort, Caplin spent more time around him than most and was growing to like him despite what secrets might lurk beneath the surface. He yearned to ask about the massacre, to learn the truth behind it, but he got the feeling it was a subject the prince preferred to avoid.
Adran appeared to hold a special place in Yiloch’s regard. If he could catch the captain alone he might learn something from him, but the man was rarely away from his prince’s side long enough for Caplin to get beyond exchanging formal pleasantries.
When he first met Yiloch, his hackles had gone up, but he recognized the reaction for what it was. The man was remarkable, extraordinary in appearance and powerful in presence. No man could help the instinctive territorial defensiveness that came with feeling so outclassed. The Divine help them all when the prince got a chance to charm noble women at the feast. Caplin hoped that instinctive reaction wouldn’t lead to trouble. Maybe they could talk the prince into dressing down for the occasion.
Not likely. Caplin held back a grin. Might as well ask a falcon to clip its own wings.
Yiloch glanced at him and a flicker of amusement lit those icy blue eyes as if he were privy to Caplin’s thoughts, then his gaze returned to Lord Cardess who was making a statement in support of the alliance.
Another fresh convert to the prince’s cause.
From the start, Yiloch set out his plans and expectations in precise detail and with confidence that bordered on arrogance. He explained precisely what he wanted and what he offered in return. The council faltered before his straightforward approach, as if they’d expected deception. Whatever they anticipated based on his reputation was not what they got and it left them scrambling. Yiloch forged ahead boldly from the start while they raced to catch up.
“And the slave trade?” Lord Davrick asked in a momentary silence.
“We’ve agreed that the slave trade will continue, Lord Davrick.” There was a hint of a growl in the king’s deep voice.
“I’d like to hear the prince say it,” Davrick pressed.
Caplin watched for a crack in Yiloch’s impeccable emotional armor as his pale eyes locked on the older lord. His expression remained calm, but a chill spread through the room like a wave of cold water. King Jerrin opened his mouth to speak, but fell silent when the prince lifted a hand. The reaction was so automatic, Caplin wondered if the king even realized he had done it. Yiloch gave the small deference no notice either. Perhaps he was so accustomed to obedience that the possibility of a different reaction never occurred to him.
Yiloch held Davrick captive with his eyes. “The slave trade serves a purpose and, as I have stated here more than once, is not intended as part of the negotiations.”
Beside the prince, Adran’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening the way it always did when the subject of the slave trade came up. That they disagreed on the subject was evident, but he wouldn’t speak up against Yiloch, at least not openly. What happened behind closed doors remained a well-kept secret, but in public, his deference was absolute.
Lord Davrick gave a nod and broke away from Yiloch’s intense gaze.
“Good,” King Jerrin rumbled. “If you’re done being rude to our guest…” Lord Davrick shifted in his chair then nodded again in the weighty silence that followed. The king’s dark eyes swept the table.
“Based on our discussions, I’ve decided that we will be offering an alliance to Prince Yiloch. Tomorrow is the Wakening Festival. The day after, we shall reconvene and sort out the details of that alliance. If we are all in accord…”
Another heavy silence. The words implied an opening for further discussion, but the king’s tone warned that it had best be the most compelling of arguments. No one spoke and the whisper of a smile curved Yiloch’s lips.
“Very well. I‘m adjourning this session. Lord Caplin, if you would be so kind as to see to Prince Yiloch and his companions.”
Caplin stood and bowed. “Yes, your Majesty.”
“Lord Serivar. Lord Gavin. I would like you to remain.”
Caplin rose and the rest of the table, excepting the king and the two men he had singled out, rose with him. Though not everyone appeared pleased with the decision, they were content to adjourn early. After a few appropriate words of parting, Caplin led his charges from the room. When they were clear of other council members, he stopped and regarded Yiloch.
“My lord, your first day here you expressed an interest in sparring. I wondered if…” He trailed off. Yiloch’s welcome grin was all the answer he needed.
“Nothing like politics to get aggression flowing,” Yiloch commented, a faint predatory gleam in his eyes.
“Do you mind if I retire to my room, my lord?” Adran asked.
Yiloch turned to his captain, a flicker of comforting concern in his cold eyes, the first solid evidence that the two men were closer than their official relationship required. “Are you well?”
Adran nodded, his lips curving in a tired smile. “Yes, my lord. Simply weary of debate. I choose to unwind in other ways.”
The momentary tightness in Yiloch’s shoulders eased. “Go then.” His gentle tone also hinted at a softer side.
Oh, to be privy to their private conversations.
Adran started to walk away then paused, glancing back at them. “Promise not to damage one another while I’m gone.”
Caplin met Yiloch’s eyes. They both grinned.
Adran shook his head and walked away.
“This way.” Caplin led the way to a practice ring around behind the palace, his nerves dancing with anticipation and a touch of dread. Gossip colored the prince an exceptional swordsman. He might be sorely outmatched. “We’re less likely to draw attention back here. I don’t want to be accused of encouraging competition between Lyran and Caithin soldiers.”
Yiloch nodded accord.
“You and Captain Adran seem rather close,” Caplin commented conversationally.
Yiloch glanced sideways at him, a thin veil of frost rising between them for an instant. The question was born of honest curiosity and, while it might be strategically beneficial to understand their relationship, there wasn’t any malicious intent behind it. Caplin tried to keep his expression open and friendly before that wary regard and, after a few seconds, the cold faded.
“Adran has always been with me. His father was a favored captain of the guard and good friend to my father when we were children. He and his sister often stayed in the palace and were allowed to attend lessons with my brother and I. Adran is perhaps a little sensitive for politics, but he’s a good fighter and one of very few people I would trust with my life.”
“A rare thing indeed. Your father doesn’t sound like he was always so bad,” Caplin prompted.
Tension rippled through the prince. When he spoke, there was loathing in his voice. “My father is no longer that man.”
“Yes. It would seem not. We received news not long ago that he put your brother to death. You have my condolences for that loss.”
Yiloch shrugged. “We were never close.”
The dismissive tone chilled Caplin. “There was also rumor that you were dead for a time, but that would appear erroneous given evidence to the contrary.”
They reached the practice ring, a sandy circle devoted to combat tucked away in a vibrant garden of bright, sweet smelling flowers and decorative trees that brought to mind thoughts of lazing in the shade on such a warm day.
Yiloch smirked at the setting as he walked to the rack by the palace wall where a selection of practice swords waited. He tried several swords, his swings easy and confident, before selecting one and walking into the ring. Caplin took his preferred weapon, a sword marked with a red x on the pommel so he didn’t have to test them all every time, and moved out to face the prince. Apprehension rose, sparking in his nerves and bringing a faint metallic taste to his tongue.
“If those rumors are true, I think you’ll find me a rather lively opponent for a dead man.” Yiloch smiled slyly.
Caplin grinned, though the expression didn’t come quite as easy this time.
Setting aside other thoughts, he took measure of the man facing him. Yiloch was taller, which meant he had longer reach, but not enough to make a difference if their skill was comparable. Still, Caplin had a feeling he was outclassed in this case, a feeling strengthened by the catlike grace with which the prince moved and the easy way he held the unfamiliar double-edged blade, a weapon much different from the curved single-edged weapons his people favored.
Yiloch spun the sword in his grip then shifted into an aggressive stance, every motion fluid as flowing water. Caplin adjusted his position as well, taking note of differences in their posture and the way they held their weapons. Yiloch advanced and they exchanged a few testing strikes, parrying one another easily.
The first several engagements were straightforward, almost polite, then they became more aggressive. Soon practice swords were clashing with jarring force and Yiloch began to exploit flaws in Caplin’s techniques. He pressed in hard with swift and varied attacks, not giving Caplin time to look for openings. Then he caught Caplin’s blade with his own and twisted it neatly from his grasp.
Caplin’s muscles trembled. He was almost relieved to surrender and have a moment to rest.
“You’re quite capable,” Yiloch commented.
Caplin took a few seconds to catch his breath, pleased that the prince sounded a little winded. “That must be why I couldn’t get an attack in.”
“I’d have been surprised if you had.”
Something in his tone gave Caplin pause and he gave Yiloch a shrewd look. “You’re not an adept, are you?”
Yiloch gave him a long calculating look then picked up Caplin’s practice sword and handed it back to him hilt first. “I am, but I wasn’t using ascard.”
That answer didn’t comfort. “We were told there might be a creator in your group. It isn’t you, is it?”
“I am no creator,” the prince answered, neither confirming nor denying the creator’s presence in his retinue, which was confirmation enough.
“Then who?” Caplin asked, though he knew better than to expect a straight answer.
“I would prefer not to single out any of my men for special attention. Having a creator along makes it easier to travel undetected, something that was rather necessary given the circumstances.”
Knowing the Lyran retinue had a creator and at least one adept among them made Caplin nervous, but it was something the prince would give little thought to. For him, it was normal to have that unrestricted power around at all times.
He forced himself to relax. “Will you at least tell me what kind of adept you are?”
Yiloch responded with an enigmatic smile and moved into a fighting stance. Recognizing that for the refusal it was, Caplin altered his own position, adjusting for the style of combat he now expected. When they clashed this time, he managed to get in some attacks, gaining ground if only for a few strikes. Then Yiloch changed his approach, going from the fast aggressive style to an even swifter, more evasive technique that was dancelike in its fluidity. Suddenly, he dipped down and swept Caplin’s legs out from under him. Caplin hit the ground hard, clinging to his sword as breath burst from him on impact, leaving him dazed.
Yiloch stepped back, giving him room to recover.
Caplin sat and squinted at the prince where he stood haloed by the light of the sinking sun, his silver hair glowing in brilliant light. “You aren’t much good for my ego.”
Yiloch laughed and offered him a hand up which Caplin accepted, letting the prince do most of the work in order to get a feel for the considerable strength in the Lyran’s lean frame.
“I’ve been wielding a sword almost longer than I’ve been walking,” Yiloch offered in consolation. “I have training in six Lyran styles and three Kudaness styles along with less formal experience in several others. The sword is my weapon of choice and my preferred pastime. You’re one of the more challenging opponents I’ve had in a while outside of my top officers so don’t underrate yourself. You adapted well enough to the style I used in our first round that I found it prudent to change things up. That’s admirable in itself.”
Caplin searched his face and found nothing to indicate that he was anything less than sincere in his comments. He swallowed his pride. It wasn’t as bitter as he would have expected. “I don’t suppose y
ou’d teach me a few things?”
Yiloch grinned. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we.”
At his gesture, they moved to the center of the ring again, and Yiloch began to work Caplin through moves in the most common Lyran style. The more they worked, the more Caplin realized that this man would be a very dangerous enemy indeed.
Were they fools to help him to power?
Only time would tell, but odd as it was, the growing respect in the prince’s eyes made him giddy with pride.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Indigo sagged into a chair in the headmaster’s office. Long days of training and the effort of balancing lies with forced shows of affection to appease Jayce left her exhausted.
In a few hours, the Wakening Festival feast at the palace would start. There was no mention of the visiting prince in the invitations, though rumors had leaked out of a Lyran dignitary staying in the palace, spread, no doubt, by palace staff. Those with too much time on their hands spent long hours speculating over who it might be and why he was visiting. She knew who he was. Interestingly, that knowledge didn’t come only from Caplin. Serivar divulged the prince’s presence to her earlier in the week for reasons yet unknown to her.
This morning he had sent a messenger requesting her presence in his office. She sat across from him now, trying not to let irritation at her interrupted morning dictate her behavior. That he hadn’t yet looked up from the document he was reading to acknowledge her didn’t help her mood.
She coughed softly. “Serivar.”
He glanced up.
“You wished to see me?”
“When did I give you permission to address me informally?”
Dissident (Forbidden Things Book 1) Page 17
