Traitor to the Blood

by Barb Hendee

  "Nothing," Emêl replied in kind. "He is Darmouth's bastard son."

  Magiere stood up straight. "What?"

  "Darmouth brought back some woman from a raid into the west, the province of Lukina Vallo," Emêl said, and waved aside any more questions. "I his was long ago, and I do not recall her name. He put her up in a cottage and eventually lost interest in her. One night I went with him to her home to reclaim personal items left behind. We found only the boy, Omasta, for his mother had died of fever. I persuaded Darmouth to take the boy to the barracks, let him live there as a servant for the lower officers. Years later he distinguished himself in the ranks, and he still sees Darmouth as a savior… because of what I did. Any mention of assassination will set him to protecting his father at all costs. He will close the city down and start making arrests, including any outsider who warned him."

  Magiere closed her eyes. "That's the end of it. We are on our own."

  Leesil turned away. It wasn't surprising for a bastard son to crave any favor or position of note in place of a father's open recognition.

  "We can't go after Byrd," Leesil said. "Once inside, we'll do what we can to leave a warning or stop him ourselves. First we find Wynn… and Hedí Progae."

  Chap was quiet during this whole exchange, and Leesil found the dog sniffing about the tunnel's end.

  Rather than a hinged door, the entire end wall was thick solid wood beams held together with iron straps lightly marred by rust and age. It seemed too solid, perhaps having been replaced over the years. A quick inspection revealed that it slid down along grooves in the tunnel's side walls and was raised into a ceiling slot by a set of chains dropping out of holes in the ceiling's stone.

  'Too easy," Magiere said over Leesil's shoulder.

  "No," he answered. "Just a draft-door… something to pass through quickly… and maybe block off afterward."

  He knelt down with the lantern and heard Magiere step closer. He tipped the lantern to direct its light to the lower left corner of the wooden portal. A bar of aged steel was mounted against the bottom. It was so dark it melded with the wood and stone without the light shining upon it.

  "Slide bolts," he explained. "On both sides. Easy to kick into place and seal the door. Most wouldn't notice these, if they didn't already know they were here. Pursuing forces have to batter down the portal from the inside, should they find it." He ran his hand over the wood. "The passage beyond is likely steep, narrow stairs leading up, making it difficult to use even a small ram to bring it down. A simple and efficient design."

  Leesil stood up, gripped the dangling chain, and pulled. It came down more easily than expected, and the wooden portal scraped along the wall channels up into the ceiling. Somewhere in the ceiling or walls there was a counterweight doing most of the work.

  As he'd guessed, a steep stone staircase on the other side led upward and was just wide enough for one person. Each step was deep enough for only his boot, from toe to heel. He climbed upward, and Magiere followed. Farther behind he heard Chap's claws on the steps and glanced down once to see Emêl's glowering face in the lantern's dim light as the baron followed last.

  At the top, Leesil came upon bare stone blocking his way.

  "Now what does your expertise tell you?" Emêl whispered.

  "Just wait," Magiere replied, and her slipping patience was plain in her voice.

  Leesil traced the mortared stones with his fingers. However it opened, it had to be simple for anyone fleeing the keep. Any mechanism had to stand the wear of moisture over the years. Rails, hinges, and mechanized devices wouldn't work, and would be visible from his side of the wall. He pulled out a stiletto and tested the cracks.

  The stones were chiseled to fit like huge bricks. He found a crack between two at the left side where there was no mortar at all. He checked the top of the wall. The line between the top row of stones and the ceiling was completely unmortared.

  Leesil handed Magiere his lantern, and she pulled his toolbox out of its makeshift rope straps on his back. He removed a thin hookwire from the foldout panel lid and handed the box back to her. She tucked it into the ropes again. Leesil slipped the wire into the crack above the top row of stones.

  The wire strut slid all the way in until he held its end with only his fingertips. He worked along the crack, slipping it in and out again and again. Then it jammed to a stop, sinking only an inch or more near the wall's midpoint.

  Leesil shifted the wire back and forth, feeling it scrape on something metallic. He pulled the wire out and tucked it into the back of his wrist sheath.

  "It pivots," he said. "Get ready. We won't know what's on the other side until it's too late."

  Leesil put his shoulder against the wall's left side and pushed. At the sound of grating stone, Magiere reached around his chest and flattened her hand against the wall to assist.

  It pivoted at the center, just as he'd expected. A thick metal rod must have been run through the wall's midpoint. The side he pushed spun inward while its opposite end turned outward. He dropped to a crouch, stiletto in hand, and looked through the opening on his side.

  There was an empty room with more stone walls. It was so small there was barely enough room to lie down on the floor. In the far wall was a stout wooden door with a metal-shuttered peephole. This room was most likely a cell for prisoners.

  Magiere leaned out the opening on the rotated partition's other side. She stepped into the small room with her falchion drawn. Leesil followed, heading straight for the door, and found it locked or somehow barred. Even worse, there wasn't a keyhole.

  "Now what?" Magiere asked.

  Byrd shortened his stride so no change in the rhythm of his steps would be heard. When Emêl had slipped from sight around the tunnel's gradual curve, Byrd headed back the other way.

  He listened carefully with each step. When certain that no one noticed he was gone, he picked up his pace. He reached the tunnel's end, climbed up the rungs in the stone wall, and crawled through the hole in the dead tree. He'd barely emerged when two tall figures seemed to materialize from the darkness.

  Both wore cowls over their heads and wraps across the lower halves of their faces. They'd tied the trailing corners of their cloaks across their waists. All of their attire was a blend of dark gray and forest green.

  I hough Byrd knew them, he moved cautiously until close enough to see their large amber eyes. Strands of silvery hair hung down across the leader's dark-skinned forehead. Brot'an was Byrd's main contact.

  "You have a way into the keep?" Brot'an asked.

  Though elves were reputed to be tall and lanky, Brot'an was solidly built for his height and almost a full head above Byrd. Even in the dark, faint lines around the mans large eyes marked him as an elder of his people. His most distinguishing markings were the ridges of straight and pale scars upon the right side of his face. Four lines ran through his feathery eyebrow, skipped over his eye, and continued through his cheek, disappearing under his face wrap. Staring into the elf's eyes, it was if those large amber irises burned through cage bars made of scarred flesh.

  Byrd had seen Brot'an's companion only twice. He was younger and slight of build, and the few tendrils of hair visible beneath his cowl might have been light blond. Daylight would likely lighten them further. Byrd had never caught the younger man's name.

  "Yes," he confirmed at Brot'an's question. "How did you escape the city?"

  "At your signal, we intercepted the wagon and crawled underneath. We were with you for most of the passage into the forest."

  The younger elf stepped up to the dead tree, leaned into its hole, then looked back to Brot'an. "Bithâ cœilleach slighe vo Ihohk do dân’gneahk. "

  "Where does the tunnel come out?" Brot'an asked.

  "Somewhere in the keep's lower levels," Byrd said. "There's already one of you inside. Well, not exactly… he's the half-breed of an elven woman who—"

  "Cuirin'nen'a?" Brot'an whispered.

  Byrd paused, for the name was only half-familiar.
"If you mean Nein'a, then yes. Her son's name is—"

  "Léshil, "Brot'an finished.

  "If you mean Leesil," Byrd added, "then yes.'

  Ac the mention of Gavril and Nein'a's son, Brot'an's companion stepped closet, casting a suspicious glance at Byrd before silently watching his superior. 'Brot'an's gaze drifted away, and he looked about the dark forest as if lost in memory.

  Byrd saw only the mans eyes, but was certain a nicker of hardness passed over Brot'an's expression beneath the scarf. Apparently this elder Anmaglâhk knew of both Nein'a and Leesil. Byrd hoped this wouldn't affect the many years of work that had led to this night's good fortune.

  "Why is he here?" Brot'an asked suddenly.

  "He's trying to discover what happened to his parents," Byrd answered. "And I'd guess he might try to stop you as well.

  Brot'an let out a sigh and sagged under some hidden weight.

  "Do you know something about Leesil's parents?" Byrd asked, and it was a slip he immediately regretted.

  Brot'an glared back at him, and Byrd wondered if he saw an instant of pain in those amber eyes—just before they hardened with a hatred that put Byrd further on edge.

  "Uilleva mi so oran Aoishenis-Ahare," the young one said to Brot'an. "Ge mi jaoa faod vorjhasij leanau ag tru, , Léshil!"

  "Na-fuam!" Brot'an snapped.

  His companion flinched and did not answer, but apprehension was plain in his stance. The final word the young elf had spoken was far too close to Leesil's name, and Byrd suspected these two argued over how to deal with Leesil. Brot'an clearly didn't care for whatever fervent suggestion his subordinate had made.

  "Is Leesil's presence a problem?" Byrd asked, careful not to let his anxiety show.

  Brot'an looked into the tree's dark opening. "No. Darmouth will die tonight."

  "Then my people thank you." Byrd nodded and grew more businesslike. "It's become harder over the years to bribe information from servants, but from what I've heard, Darmouth will go to his family crypt in the lower level if he needs a secure place. I don't know more than that. Perhaps it is the best-fortified room."

  Byrd casually backed away while he spoke, as if all this were but part-ing comments he thought of as he was leaving. Brot'an watched him with eerie, slanted eyes, and Byrd's sense of danger grew.

  Without another word, Brot'an crawled into the dead tree, and his companion followed.

  Byrd trudged through the forest beyond sight of the lakeshore, heading toward the city. Come sunrise, he could slip in with some band of merchants or farmers. He would rouse the Vonkayshi, the rebels of his cause, and word would spread quickly to prepare for a better day.

  Secrecy was essential to Brot'an and his kind, but it didn't matter to Byrd how many servants or guards died this night, should the elves encounter such accidental witnesses. A higher purpose had to be served, and freedom never came free of cost. Unfortunate deaths didn't weigh against the lives of a whole province. Darmouth must be removed at any price.

  That was why Byrd had first become part of the tyrant's far-reaching eyes and ears. In turn, he watched and learned Darmouth's ways as much as he could. The Vonkayshi fought for the people as a whole, and anyone unfortunate enough to fall in their cross fire was a casualty of the silent war waged here for many long years. What Byrd did, he did for all the people in this land.

  Byrd shivered in the slow-falling snow, but he warmed himself with the image of Brot'an's slim stilettos piercing Darmouth over and over. If only he could be there when it happened.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Wynn flattened against the wall next to Hedí in the small alcove at the head of the north-side corridor. Fortune favored them more than Wynn hoped, as they met no one along the way, even when sneaking off the main stairs and through the keep's wide entryway. They kept to the side of the staircase and inched along the rear wall down the north corridor, all the way to the corner.

  "Take that scarf off your head, Hedí whispered. Crouch down and peek around the corner. I saw guards by the end door the other day, and they appeared less than attentive."

  Wynn sank to her knees, still holding the candlestick and bag, and kept her head near the floor as she looked. Two guards stood before a door, apparently talking, but the corridor was so long that she could not catch what was being said. She pulled back and stood up.

  "They will see us the instant we step out," she whispered.

  Hedí gave her a hard glare as she handed Wynn the key taken from the young guard.

  "Then we will let them," Hedí returned. "Follow me like any attentive servant. When the moment comes, be ready with that candlestick. If you still want your freedom and your life."

  Before Wynn could reply, Hedí tucked both hands behind her back, still holding the dagger, and stepped into the corridor.

  Wynn's breath caught in her throat and her thoughts froze upon the only plan Hedí could have in mind. It was too dangerous, but Wynn could not stand there alone in the corridor. She tucked the candlestick behind Korey's bag and followed.

  Hedí stepped smoothly down the corridor, and Wynn could not help but duck her head. She glanced up every few steps, until Hedí halted just out or arm's reach of the guards.

  i he one to the right appeared the most tired, with the half-closed eyes of someone too long on duty. Tall and lanky, he wore a leather hauberk that was at least clean and well made. The other on the left was an overweight, bristly-jawed soldier who smelled of ale even before he spoke.

  "Lady?" he said. "Did you lose your way?"

  Wynn saw only Hedí's back and the dagger behind it. Hedí turned her head toward the fat soldier, and the tall one became nervously alert. He straightened to attention with a worried side glance to his partner, who swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

  "Lady," he repeated. "No one goes below without us being told to allow it. And there's nothing down there anyway."

  Hedí lunged at the heavyset guard.

  Wynn dropped the bag, and a muffled yowl came from within as it hit the floor. She glanced down, remembering Korey was inside. When she raised her eyes again, everything happened too quickly.

  The bristly-jawed soldier toppled toward the corner with a strangled yelp. Hedí followed so close that she leaned into his chest. Her hands were tucked between herself and the soldier. His eyes filled with shock—then pain. Sharp whimpers escaped through his gritted teeth, and he clawed at something between himself and Hedí.

  The lanky tall guard took a fast step toward Hedí's exposed back, reaching for his shortsword.

  Wynn cocked back the candlestick with both hands. He turned toward her as she swung. For an instant the candlestick's wide base arched straight for his head.

  It passed before his face, never touching him.

  Wynn's good eye widened. The pain in her swollen one brought a sinking realization. Panic and hampered vision made her misjudge the swing.

  In one movement the lanky soldier jerked out his shortsword and swung hard with his free hand. Wynn did nor see the fist that caught the blind side of her head.

  Magiere stepped back from the stout door to let Leesil study it further. Emêl had already shoved the twisting wall section back into place. She glanced at it repeatedly, half expecting it to grate open again with gray-clad Anmaglâhk lunging out, stilettos in hand. Foolish, since Byrd had to get back inside the city before he could even contact them. She tried to shake the feeling off.

  "I do not recognize this place," Emêl said.

  Leesil didn't look up. ''Most who see its inside don't live long enough to return for another look."

  "I meant I have been in the lower levels but not here," Emêl growled back.

  Magiere studied the door once more. There was no lock, only a peep slot with its metal panel closed from the outside. The door would swing outward, and so the hinges weren't accessible either.

  "Shouldn't the keep's occupants have easy access back inside if needed?" she asked.

  "Yes," Leesil an
swered, then sighed. "I'm missing something here."

  He was frustrated, and Magiere wished she could help, but she didn't have his experience and skills. Even Chap could sniff about the room, checking every corner and crevice. All she could do was wait, and keep Emêl from breaking Leesil's concentration.

  Chap rumbled and traipsed over to Leesil's side. Two low woofs said he had found nothing worthwhile.

  Leesil dropped to his knees and fingered the doorframe's stones. He finally sat back on his haunches, clenching his fists. When he reached around behind his own back, Magiere crouched to help him pull the toolbox from its makeshift harness.

  "There has to be a proper way through this door," he said, opening the box. "But we've no time."

  Magiere still didn't care for the sight of the silvery garrote lying therein amid his spare stilettos and a thick curved blade. She heard a muffled curse from behind her. Emêl had seen the box's contents as well. She looked over her shoulder at his feet rather than into his eyes, making certain he kept his distance.

  "If I can't open it from within," Leesil continued, "then I'll have to reach out somehow."

  He took out the thick, curved blade and folded the box closed. Magiere returned the toolbox to its harness as Leesil stood up. He set the blade's point against the door above its handle and gripped the hilt with one hand over the other.

  "Time to call attention to ourselves," he muttered.

  Emêl stepped close—too close for Magiere's taste.

  "You are not serious?" he asked. "You will never cut an opening with that thing."

  "Better hope otherwise," Leesil answered, and threw all his weight behind the knife.

  He pulled the blade sideways toward the frame. The blade scored into the wood, and it made more noise than Magiere liked as it tore through the grain. Leesil cut a line slightly longer than the width of his hand. He repeated this several times, deepening the cut with each stroke, then moved up to work another cut a hand's length above the first one. Finally he used the blade's tip to chip and peel the woods top layer with the grain, digging out a rectangle between the two cuts. The process was difficult and noisy, and Leesil's brow began to sweat.