“Barsin?” Lord Tinel looked blank. “Oh yes, young Barsin! A delightful boy, Excellency.”
“I’m waiting for your answer,” Caelan said harshly.
“Hard to say—”
“Over a year, Sire,” Dreseid broke in crisply. “According to records.”
Caelan did not bother to shoot the colonel a glance of exasperation. “Long enough,” he asked, “for a bond to form between the two young men?”
The baron frowned. “Really, Excellency, I don’t know.”
“But he was a guest at your home. You entertained him?”
“My son always brings home friends on leave,” Lord Tinel said. “I believe young Barsin comes from a fine, though not prominent family. He’s a second, no, third son and must make his way in the world.”
“Not a wealthy young man, then?”
“To my knowledge, no.”
“A loyal young man, reputedly excellent at his work, lacking enough funds but serving in a regiment notorious for high expenses. Ripe for bribery.”
“Excellency,” the baron said in a bewildered voice, “I do not understand.”
Caelan thought of the vision he’d seen, that wavery image of the wooded stream with Lea kneeling beside a slain officer wearing captain’s bars while her captor stood over them both. “I must tell you that Captain Hervan has been killed.”
All three men started, but it was Lord Tinel who turned white to the lips and staggered back.
“Gently, man,” the chancellor said. “Hold yourself together.”
“But . . . but . . .” Wildly, Tinel glanced from Caelan to Dreseid’s impassive face. “Colonel, how come you by this news? Have they been found?”
“That is for the emperor to say,” Dreseid replied.
“Your son is dead, and my sister remains missing,” Caelan said harshly. “There is no more need to try to salvage your son’s career, no more need to cover up what actually happened. Whatever you’ve said to Barsin, whatever you’ve paid him to keep quiet, I order you to rescind your instructions. We need the truth from him, not your meddling.”
The baron looked stunned. He kept blinking, his usual air of assurance gone. “Oli dead,” he whispered. Grief filmed his eyes. “I cannot believe it. He would go after her, Sire. He would never quit until he saw her safely rescued.”
“Then you insist he was a good officer?” Caelan asked. “When your attempt to conceal his mistakes from me says otherwise?”
“I—I—” Lord Tinel’s gaze darted to the colonel and back to Caelan. “Yes, he is an excellent officer. The very best. Commendations, praise from his superior officers . . . Colonel, please assure His Excellency that my son is a shining example of the finest—”
“Captain Hervan was heavily in debt,” Caelan said.
“A few gaming notes, nothing serious.” Lord Tinel shrugged and wiped his brow with a shaking hand.
“How often did he ask you for money?”
“Frequently! All my sons do.”
Caelan nodded. That answer at least held the ring of truth. “And if he were desperate enough for money would he have accepted a bribe to take my sister to Falenthis?”
Lord Tinel stiffened. “I protest this maligning of my son most strongly!”
“Careful, Baron,” Brellit warned him. “Remember whom you’re addressing.”
Tinel seemed not to hear. “Excellency, this is an outrage! He would never—”
“But he suddenly abandoned his official route,” Caelan said. “His duty was to keep her safe! He failed. You may coat that with every excuse at your disposal if you choose, but the fact remains that my sister has vanished without a trace, and other than the wounded men left behind in Adjutant Barsin’s charge, the Crimsons responsible for her safety have disappeared, too. Whether they have deserted, or perished like your son, I do not know, but let us have no more prevarication. You tampered with the Imperial agent assigned to investigate the matter. Have you also tampered with Barsin’s testimony to protect your son’s reputation and career?”
“Sire, I assure you that I would never—”
“Don’t compound your treachery by continuing to lie,” Caelan said, drilling his gaze through the man. “Or destroy the House of Hervan for the sake of one misguided son.”
The baron turned white. Gasping, he dropped to his knees before Caelan and clasped his jeweled hands together. “Sire, please! Let me explain. Please, hear me!”
Caelan sighed.
“I feared this misconstruing of events,” Lord Tinel said desperately. “That everyone would think the worst, would believe Olivel had gone mad and committed some terrible act. He didn’t. Hasn’t. I know my son. Whatever turned him toward that accursed valley was a mistake, a simple error in judgment. He is loyal to Your Excellency. As am I. On my House, on my very honor, I swear it.”
Caelan stared at him unmoved. “Did you talk to Barsin before he came to the palace?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bribe him to keep him quiet?”
“I—I assured him I would pay a healer’s expenses for the wounded men, and I would see him into another regiment if he loses his commission in the Crimsons. His father cannot afford to help him.” Lord Tinel sent Caelan an imploring look. “Why should I not do what lies within my means?”
Behind him, Brellit sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. And Dreseid began to frown.
Caelan compressed his mouth. “You would not have to ask him to lie, would you, Baron? A boy already known to admire your son, a boy with over a year’s service under your son’s influence, and you, stepping in with such assurances. What else could he do but shield the captain?”
“But—but, Sire, please!” Lord Tinel pleaded. “You’re assuming that Olivel is guilty of—of misdeeds. Can you really believe he would be involved in some plot against Lady Lea? He’s in love with her! He hopes to marry her. There, I realize I speak rashly, but a young man’s love is rash. How can he possibly withstand her beauty?”
Again Brellit stirred as though longing to warn Tinel to be quiet. Caelan felt his temper blazing through his body and throbbing in his temples. He wheeled away, striding furiously back and forth in an effort not to seize his protector’s sword and eviscerate this presumptuous fool.
“Excellency,” Brellit dared say behind him. “You cannot believe young Hervan would shirk his duty, or—Gault forbid—bring Lady Lea to harm in some plot.”
“Indeed not!” Tinel added eagerly. “My son likes his pleasures. He is young and headstrong and too sure of his charm with the ladies. But those are the failings of many young men of his class and station. Hardly grounds for assuming him guilty of—”
“Enough,” Caelan cut him off. “Let us stop trying to believe this officer so doggedly followed her trail that he never bothered to send a messenger, report her abduction, request armed assistance, or generally follow regulations at all.” His gaze swung to Dreseid. “We’ve had this conversation before, Colonel, and I’m weary of it. Is there any explanation for this lapse of procedure?”
“Not so far, Excellency.”
“No, indeed. And Barsin, who should be clearing up the mystery, has nothing to say except some mad chatter about ghosts.”
Dreseid drew a breath. “Sire,” he said reluctantly, “it’s possible, as you’ve said, that Hervan and his men have deserted.”
Lord Tinel averted his face, his throat working. For an instant Caelan felt compassion for his distress, but then he thought of Lea—gentle, sweet, and lovely—who’d come to jeopardy because of Captain Hervan’s blunders. There were too many unanswered questions remaining, too much rushing to escape blame instead of finding explanations. As for Lea’s part in this . . . her own complicity . . . Caelan could not consider it without feeling pain. I must not judge her actions until I understand everything about this business, he told himself. Perhaps I should not judge anyone as yet.
He lifted his gaze to the colonel’s, and saw there a look of intense shame, as though desertion was w
orse than death. In the colonel’s world, no doubt it was.
Red faced, grim, Dreseid continued. “The . . . reputation of the Crimsons was earned by our loyalty, courage, and accomplishments, Sire. We do not rely on trickery or deceit. But if evil has been done, if there has been complicity in this matter . . . I swear to you that the truth will be uncovered. I personally will question Barsin again.”
“Sire,” Lord Tinel whispered in an anguished voice. “I know my son. He has his faults, but he’s a good officer and a loyal one. Please let him defend himself. He—”
“He is dead,” Caelan said in a quieter voice. “I know this absolutely.”
“But—”
“Accept it. Go and pray for his soul.”
“Excellency, please,” Tinel said, almost moaning the words. “We are loyal. I swear to you that we are loyal. We have changed servants, removed certain possessions, unsworn old oaths. I even had the family chapel’s symbols of Beloth chiseled off the walls. My son never served in the old army. He enlisted under Your Excellency’s reign. He has been loyal to you from the beginning. There is—was no corruption in him, no real vice. I assure you, Excellency, that he feels the honor you dealt him with this mission most profoundly. We all do. We—”
“Lord Tinel, I will consider your situation at another time. You have my permission to withdraw.”
The baron hunched his shoulders as though in pain. Bowing, he left without another word.
In the little silence that followed, Brellit cleared his voice and said, “A harsh way to learn about the death of one’s most promising son.”
Dreseid was frowning, holding himself erect in his bright uniform, saying nothing of what he thought.
Caelan ignored the chancellor’s remark and went on staring steadily into the colonel’s eyes. “Calling the dead. Are you familiar with that practice?”
The colonel’s sunburned visage changed color. He hesitated long enough to make even Brellit stare at him, and then he said hoarsely, “Yes, Sire. An old ritual in honor of fallen comrades, now banned.”
“Did you know,” Caelan asked, “that I have a report that lists the membership of the Talon Cadre?”
Colonel Dreseid blinked. “Former membership, surely. It and all the other secret societies for officers and enlisted have been officially disbanded.”
“You belonged to the Talon Cadre, didn’t you, Colonel?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“It’s my understanding that the Talon Cadre still exists.”
“Probably, Sire.”
There it was, a flash of defiance. Caelan’s suspicions hardened. “Young Hervan was most certainly a member.”
The colonel’s frown deepened. “At the risk of contradicting Your Excellency, like myself, he withdrew membership upon your orders.”
“Are you certain?”
“I discussed it with him at the time. He said . . . his father insisted that he withdraw.”
“What else does the Household Regiment have to hide?”
“Nothing, Sire.”
Their eyes met, clashed, held.
Caelan said softly, “Send out an order to all the provinces for the arrest of Hervan’s men.”
“And if they haven’t deserted? Can Your Excellency not wait?”
“For what? My sister’s plight to become a bigger tragedy?”
“Imperial reprisals against these men will not help her if she’s been taken for ransom. Until their side is heard, until there is a trial, I protest with all due respect the public disgrace of good men.”
The colonel’s remark was dangerously close to insubordination. Caelan flushed. “Your protest can be officially lodged. My order will be sent.”
Dreseid, his face very red, saluted crisply.
“As for Barsin’s dishonorable discharge,” Caelan said, “delay that. See that Lord Tinel speaks to him. Then question him again.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Ask him in particular why the dead were called.”
“I’ve told you, Sire. That’s an old custom of honoring fallen comrades.”
“I’m not interested in your assumptions,” Caelan said impatiently. “Ask him! Or my predlicates will.”
“Excellency—”
“That is all.”
Dreseid’s mouth clamped to a rigid line. He saluted and marched away, his back ramrod stiff, the back of his neck as fiery red as his cloak.
It was starting to drizzle, but Caelan, hot faced and seething, took off his crown and tucked it beneath his arm, shaking back his shoulder-length hair. He made no move to retreat indoors. “None of this,” he said wearily, “helps Lea. Not one interrogation brings us closer to finding her.”
Chancellor Brellit sighed and let his fingers dabble in the bubbling fountain for a moment. “In which case, is it wise, Excellency, to make enemies of the Crimsons?”
“You had better ask Colonel Dreseid if it’s wise to make an enemy of me,” Caelan replied. “I’m not Kostimon, willing to ignore corruption when it suits me.”
“Once you start condemning members of the patrici and confiscating their personal fortunes, where does it stop?”
“Are you saying I’m becoming a tyrant?” Caelan asked angrily.
“Not at all. But why make enemies of your allies? Tinel’s no traitor. An opportunist, certainly, but his loyalty has gone unquestioned until now.”
“He had no business tampering with that boy’s testimony. Or an Imperial agent’s!”
“Certainly not. But consider a father’s grief, a father’s natural desire to protect his son. And his House. Imperial reprisals have been harsh since the Terrors. Many decent men walk in fear, and is it really your desire, Light Bringer, that they do so?”
Caelan fumed a moment, trying hard to control his resentment of this gentle admonishment. “Perhaps we should consider a brother’s worry. If she falls into the hands of my enemies . . .”
“There is no if about it. You know she has, Excellency,” Brellit said quietly. “The only question is which among many. And you’ll know that once the ransom demand comes in.”
Caelan scowled at his chancellor. “Thyrazenes, Madruns, Vindicants, or Ulinians? I would prefer to strike now, rather than wait.”
“And strike at which of them?”
Baffled, Caelan shook his head. “All of them, if I could.”
“That’s exactly what this plot seeks to accomplish. Luring you from the palace to attack, probably the wrong enemy. Result? Chaos, a disordered empire, and a chance for someone else to seize the throne.” Brellit spread out his pudgy hands. “The oldest maneuver in politics.”
“Yes, yes, I know. So you have said before. Elandra agrees with you.” Caelan swept back his damp hair. “But I am a man of action, and Lea is far too precious to risk.”
“They know that, Sire. They’re counting on you to think exactly like that. You must be an emperor now, before you are a brother. You must guard your center of power, and you must outthink them. Make them take the first move and betray themselves.”
“In capturing Lea, they’ve already done that.”
“No, no. You must be patient and strong.”
A chill fell through Caelan. He realized his clothes were becoming soaked. “And while I am patient and strong, being clever and waiting and guarding my throne, what becomes of her, Chancellor? Will you next advise me not to pay her ransom? Because once I crumble to one demand, no one I love will be safe?”
Sympathy filled the old man’s eyes as he lifted them to Caelan’s. But he did not answer those anguished questions.
He did not have to.
Chapter 10
The Golden Cup rang with noise. Travelers and locals jostled shoulder to shoulder in the taproom, calling out for ale and hot zivin—a regional drink made from fermented goat’s milk and unmentionable ingredients. It was Mrishadal, the sacred winter festival for all Ulinians, and revelers sang and danced in the dark streets of Kanidalon, now and then bursting into the jammed tavern on blasts
of wintry air, shouting for drink and food.
In the darkest corner of the taproom, Shadrael sat with his back propped against the wall, nursing a cup of tepid zivin while he fingered the flask of blood in his left hand. The blood—some nasty potion mixed with herbs bought in a grim little dark alley—was supposed to help combat the buzz of imminent madness in his brain. No doubt, Shadrael thought sourly, it was just a quack’s remedy made of spittle, weeds, and dyed water. He swallowed a deep mouthful of zivin instead. The potent drink had weakened his legs and numbed the ache of his bruises, but best of all, it seemed to be holding off the shakes and snakes. No tremors, no agonizing bursts of pain, no hallucinations. Just a happy, warm glow of intoxication.
What more could a man ask for?
Perhaps an uncaring stupor, he thought, and took another swallow.
Shucked of his armor and weapons—now pawned to pay for this drinking spree—and unshaven and sour breathed, he lifted his cup in a silent toast to the Vindicants, who hadn’t stoned him to death after all.
Apparently it had been enough for them to cheat and humiliate him. Protected from serious internal harm by his armor, he’d lain in the dirt for a long time after they left, but he hadn’t died, not even from losing his magic. There had been only the cold darkness of the night, the mountain wind gradually cooling the feverish fire in his limbs, and Fomo crawling cautiously up to him. Fomo, emerging from the shadows, to stealthily loot the corpse.
Surprise, guilt, or perhaps a vestige of military discipline had stopped the centruin from cutting Shadrael’s throat and taking what he pleased. Instead, Fomo had helped him up, groaning and barely able to walk, and urged him along. It had been Fomo who brought him here, Fomo who pawned his armor and weapons, and Fomo who’d kept most of the money.
Shadrael hadn’t seen the man today. He didn’t know if Fomo would return or not. It hardly mattered. When Shadrael had not died that night, he knew he was destined to go mad before he perished. That was the fate of those who lost their souls . . . slow torture, the worst kind, and no more than he deserved.
All he wanted now was to forget everything that had happened, especially the memory of Lea’s beseeching eyes and that little tremor in her sweet voice as she’d begged him for mercy.
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