“Don’t worry, Ren, next one’s for you.” Adin drew an amber-soaked grin.
“I’m not worried about my next drink.” Ren was worried about soldiers, they were everywhere in the city, but they had managed to get this far. He wanted to keep moving, but Adin seemed unaware of the tenuous nature of his escape. Ren glimpsed iron helms in the distance. “Let’s go,” he said, still walking, tugging at Adin’s shoulder. “You won’t be safe until we’ve left Feren.”
They ran, past the grubby, unlit cottages on the outskirts of the city, the hawkers of pots and blackthorn trinkets, past the wagons piled high with logs, only stopping when the crowds started to give way to farmers’ crofts and hunters’ lodges, to the dark quiet of the Gray Wood. At a crossroads where the path diverged in four directions, they waited on the road, looking through the darkness at the way they had come. Hooves beat in the distance. Soldiers approached, riding horses, moving faster than before. The boys hurried from the road, sloshing through ankle-deep mud and waist-high bracken, the green fronds brushing their arms, catching their tunics’ loosely woven fibers. Huddling behind the spiky trunk of a blackthorn, they collapsed aside each other, heads spinning, their breath coming in gasps. They were malnourished, bone-thin, exhausted, but alive. Just as they had been in the Priory.
“Pain makes the man,” Adin murmured. Ren wanted to laugh; his belly shook but he decided it was better to keep quiet.
As they sat in darkness, horns blared and hooves clopped. Ren exhaled in relief while Adin slumped in the pine needles that skirted the blackthorn’s bell, his body so emaciated he looked like a reed bent in the wind. The smell of the starving was everywhere on him: His body was eating itself. Adin was in such poor condition he made the Feren slaves look healthy. He would not have lasted much longer. Ren immediately reached into his pack for a little bread and meat, handing them over to his friend.
“I could kiss you—you lovely bastard,” Adin said, eating greedily but swallowing with difficulty.
“Hush,” said Ren. He checked, but the soldiers were gone. “Save it for the whores.” Ren covered Adin’s mouth to avoid the boy’s stink. “On second thought, start with the slaves. Have you smelled yourself? I sniffed horseshit at the Dromus that was less ripe.”
Adin nearly choked on a bite of bread. “You would know.” He cocked his head. “Prisoners don’t meet whores, though I did smell a horse or two on the road.” Adin exhaled into his palm. “You’re right. Smells like turd. In fact, I smell like turd.” He brushed dirt from his fingers. “Ren.” Adin sobered. “Remember how we thought the Priory was the worst thing that could happen to us?”
Ren felt a chill.
“Well, after a day with the fucking slavers, the Priory felt like a bloody paradise. I ate beetles and bristles in the desert, a rat in my cell. They gave me a bucket to shit in, but they never emptied it.” Adin’s words went quiet, his gaze distant. “It feels like decades since Solus, how long has it been?”
“Weeks.”
“Fuck. I thought it had been longer.” Adin brushed back his hair and raised his eyebrows; he tried not to look weak or sad, though he looked both. “So your father—he’s dead, then?”
“No, the king is not dead … but he may as well be. He was called to Sola, to appear before the emperor.” Ren sighed.
“To gaze upon the Soleri is to gaze upon the sun, and no man can survive that light,” Adin quoted. He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, my friend.” He put a hand on Ren’s shoulder and gripped it manfully.
Ren shrugged. “I barely knew the old man. I cannot say I am sorry, or not sorry. I never expected to meet him. I suppose…” He searched for words. “I suppose I should be happy I had a chance to know him.”
“So you are the true heir of Harkana.” Adin changed the subject. “You actually killed one of those oversized deer?”
“No need.” Ren held up his walking stick, brushed the dirt from it, and revealed the eld horn.
“You’re a king, then? So, why’d you come for me?”
“Are you that fucking dumb?” Ren asked.
Adin shrugged. “Maybe—care to enlighten me?”
“The eld—it’s just some deer. It doesn’t make me a king, not yet, not until I’ve taken my throne. In the meantime, I saved your ass—now, that’s something, isn’t it?”
“So you’re really here by yourself? No kingsguard? No black shields?” It took a while for Ren to figure out that Adin was joking. “Mithra’s ass, Ren. I thought you were leading me to a Harkan legion. We’re really alone?”
“Just you, me, and that piss-soaked rag you’ve got tied around your waist.” Ren stood. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to take the damned throne of Harkana before I came for you, so for now you will have to suffice with my help and no one’s else’s.”
“Fair enough,” said Adin, shivering in the night air. The boy was almost naked. Ren offered his tunic, but Adin just shook his head. He was half-starved and half-clothed, but he still had his pride.
“We should keep moving.” Ren walked to the edge of the trail and glanced in both directions, but saw only darkness. “Which way?” Ren said. They stood at the crossing of three roads. “This is your country, isn’t it?”
“You’ll excuse me if I’ve forgotten the way.” Adin’s voice caught. “I was only eight when I left and I’ve spent the last few weeks in chains.” When he saw the look on Ren’s face he snorted. “I was only pulling your leg, old man. This way.” He pointed down the dim road that led south.
When Ren still looked doubtful, Adin cocked his head in the opposite direction. “Soldiers’re coming from the north—we’re certainly not going in that direction.”
Voices rang in the darkness, men coming down the Rifka road. His friend was right.
“Hurry.” Adin pushed Ren in front of him.
Down the road and past a shabby wreck of a farm they ran, talking as they stumbled through dense bracken and gray trees. “How?” Ren said. “How did this happen—the chains, the soldiers. What happened when you left the Priory?”
“Well…” Adin nearly knocked into a blackthorn. “They caught me in the Hollows. Dagrun’s men surrounded me before I could leave the city, before my father’s loyal men could reach me. They put me in a cage, but my father’s men infiltrated their camp. One of his soldiers passed me a message. My father was dead, but men loyal to him were maintaining the tulou at Catal. There were loyalists in Rifka too. My uncle by marriage, a man named Gallach, worked in the caer and would help me if I could find him. My father’s soldier told me to seek out Gallach, but I had no opportunity, I saw nothing but the four walls of my cell, and spoke to no one.”
“Have you had word since then?”
“No, nothing. I can’t go back to the caer, so I need to find Catal.” Adin ducked into the shadowy gap between two trees. The city was long gone. Darkness covered all of the wood, the trees turning to stone once more. “Should we make camp?” Ren asked, but Adin shook his head. “I don’t want to stop.”
Reluctantly, Ren agreed. Even if he had wanted to he knew they would not sleep tonight. There were soldiers in the forest; he could hear their horses and laughter. “All right.” The shadow-drenched road lay ahead. “I suppose being lost in the woods is still preferable to Feren prison.”
The two boys walked, side by side, Adin talking softly of his life since they had last seen each other. Ren was glad for the companionship, for a familiar voice to keep him company, though sometimes Adin’s voice was like the sighing of a spirit coming in the night, the darkness so thick they could not see each other.
“I thought I had been there for months, Ren. I thought I had gone from one Priory to another. Aside from that first message, no one spoke to me—no guard said my name. Nothing.
“I thought they had left me to starve, then a pair of guards unlocked the door, bound my hands, and led me to the wedding platform. They tied me to the other slaves and left me. I was part of the bridal offering. I was to be a slave, a servant of the bri
de.”
The bride. Dagrun’s wife, my sister.
Ren shushed his friend: He thought he had heard something, a noise behind them—a twig snapping. But there was silence again, enveloping them in its cold comfort.
“I would have strangled Dagrun had he come close enough.”
“The soldiers would have slit your throat before you reached the platform,” Ren said.
“I don’t care. That prick who murdered my father and stole our kingdom. The bastard did not even bother to suffer the Waking Rite. He’s a thief—nothing more. I’ll kill him.”
“You will,” Ren said, trying to sound hopeful, “but you’re going to need help to manage that. Besides, what do you know of Feren? What do any of us know of our kingdoms? Perhaps your father was a tyrant and Dagrun did the Ferens a favor when he took the throne.” Ren recalled the woodsmen’s stories, how they had feared and reviled the old king.
“I’ll find help at Catal,” Adin told Ren. “You’ll see.”
“Catal?” Ren asked. “How can you be certain Dagrun hasn’t taken the fortress and killed your father’s men?”
“They live. My father’s men will be there. And they’ll help me, they’ll know what to do.”
Ren shook his head. “No, that’s the hunger talking. Dagrun would not allow your father’s men to live.”
“So what would you do?”
I’d go to Catal. They needed soldiers.
Ren shifted uneasily in the darkness. He was still getting used to the sound of Adin’s voice. He’d missed his friend. The tall boy was kin. Tye. Adin. They were the only ones who cared about him. He had no one else. It was why he had come back for Adin. If one did not have any family, what did one have? He thought of asking Adin to go with him to Solus, to wait for Tye’s release, but he put the notion aside. He had another week, maybe ten days, before the Thieves’ Moon. He could go to Catal, then Solus, and still arrive before the new moon. It seemed the best course. Adin’s family could provide weapons, provisions, and perhaps a few men. Ren did not want to return to Solus unarmed and alone, not unless he had no other choice.
He thought of his sister Merit, who had sent soldiers to hunt him down, her own husband to cut his throat. There was no family there. For ten years he had dreamed of his kingdom, he had known the path he would take outside the Priory. That path was no longer certain.
He stood up, brushing the needles from his tunic, offering his hand to Adin. “We head to Catal,” Ren said, ready for the journey. “Do you know how to get there?”
35
The wedding done and the dress removed, Kepi’s servants washed and perfumed her, dressed her in a silky frock, this one even smaller than the last, a slip of fine muslin that hung from two straps, open at the chest, the younger girls blushing and giggling as they went about their work, the elder looking grim. Kepi yawned. Her head was only now clearing from the opiate. The servant who had pitied her—the half-blind girl, Dalla—dressed Kepi’s hair with oil and said that she would check on her in the morning, that she would come at first light to see what her queen needed from her. The girls took their time and Kepi did not rush their preparations. They fussed and fretted. Dalla was the last to leave, her bony shoulders disappearing behind the blackthorn door as it closed.
Alone, the cold chamber brought back memories of her first wedding night. Kepi gnawed at her bitten-down nails. In the morning, Dalla, will you find me cowering in some closet? No.
In the hallway she overheard Dagrun’s voice, the sound of his footsteps. “I want Barrin’s heir found,” he said. “Bring me his head, or offer me yours,” he said, dismissing the other man. Footsteps thudded in the corridor. The door opened. She cast about for a sheet to cover herself, then realized she was being silly. He had already seen her. All of Feren had.
“My wife,” said Dagrun, not unkindly. His expression bore something strange in it, something she could not quite read. It was kindness—or at least it was trying to be.
Kepi was unmoved.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
No words formed on her lips.
He came nearer. He was so close now she could feel his warmth against her breasts, against her belly through the fabric of her dress. He picked up her small wrist in his large hand, encircling it completely.
She tried to calm herself, but she could not keep the servants’ gossip from her thoughts.
“There’s no need to be frightened of me. I hope you haven’t listened to the girls’ stories.” He cast her a doubtful glance. “And you were never so scared to meet me in the ring.”
“We were both wearing armor then,” Kepi said dryly.
Dagrun smiled. “Shall I fetch your sword? Will that bring you comfort?” he asked. “Don’t believe the servants’ chatter. Scandal is their currency—am I wrong?”
No. Kepi swallowed. He was right, of course. His words rang true, but did it matter? Dagrun and Merit had tossed her in a cage and ridden her to Rifka without any care for her comfort, or her pride.
When she once more refused to reply, his smile flattened, his teeth abruptly looking strong and white against his face and the darker stubble where his beard had grown in four, five days’ growth, the crook in his nose that had looked menacing in the torchlight now giving him a rough, mannish air. “We are married and might as well speak to each other.”
“We did not speak as we rode to Feren. You locked me in a carriage.”
“The war carriage was made for your protection. If you had stayed within it, you would have been safe. My soldiers told me what happened, how you fought the outlanders. It was unnecessary. The carriage was blackthorn and sturdy. No arrow could breach its walls.”
She nodded ever so slightly, acknowledging that he spoke the truth. “Why was I kept isolated?”
“My men,” he said. “I don’t trust all of them, not yet. On Cutting Day, in the forest, a man armed with a spear rushed the platform. He was trying to kill me. The dead king has loyalists, still. And his heir escaped during the wedding. There are traitors everywhere. In the forest, in the company of soldiers, you were not safe. Kepi, I meant you no harm.”
“I don’t know,” she said, finding it hard to believe him. She retreated, thinking, considering his words. Upon reflection, the carriage, its armor and slotted windows were justified, but those facts hardly mattered. She was here, in Rifka, against her will. Even if he cared for her safety, he ignored her happiness, her freedom. It was Merit he wanted, not her. “Why was I not told any of this?” she asked. “Why was I kept uninformed? Do you know how that felt, and what I thought of you? You protected me as you would protect your property, nothing more. And besides, I know it’s my sister you want.”
He took a step, then another, moving Kepi back and back until she felt the cold of the wall behind her. “Your sister?” he asked.
“It’s the talk of the empire. You and Merit.”
“You know a lot of gossip.”
“Is it true?”
“About Merit?” His brow furrowed. “I have not bedded the woman, if that is what you ask.” He was so close now that Kepi could smell the amber on his breath from the wedding feast, strong and sour. Her heart thudded in her ears. He’s lying. He has to be lying. Everyone in Harwen knew Merit and Dagrun were lovers. “I don’t believe you.”
“Ask her yourself.” He pushed up against her, pulled her close so that he could whisper in her ear. His hands on her shoulders were firm, warm.
Her stomach clenched with revulsion, with confusion. His other hand slid down her back and up her dress. “Ever since we sparred, since I felt your strength, I have wanted you, Kepi. Why do you think I spared you in the ring?”
His hands were on her nipples, brushing them so lightly she was not quite sure they were real. They felt soft, and strong, and sure. Not like Roghan, who had clawed at her body like an animal, who had cared nothing whatsoever for her pleasure. Not like Seth, even, who had been so shy and uncertain that he had hardly touched her. Dagrun moved his ha
nds in little circles down her belly, up the soft insides of her thighs. Her muscles were so tense they were shaking. Her breath came in short bursts.
“No, stop,” she said, and Dagrun’s hands fell from her body.
She looked up wonderingly at him. “You stopped.”
“You asked me to,” he said reasonably.
“But it is our wedding night.”
Dagrun leaned back on the bed. “And?”
She stared at him. “You will not … force yourself on me?”
“I can’t think of anything more distasteful,” he said. “I told you not to believe the stories they tell about me. They are only stories.”
“My first husband, he—” She wavered, wondering how to begin her story. His unexpected kindness compelled her to tell him who she was and what she had endured, so she told him about her first wedding: the cottage in the blackthorn grove, the brief wedding ceremony, and the sad little feast Roghan held after it. She told him how Roghan drank and the violence the drinking brought out in him.
He listened, patient and observant, his eyes never leaving her face.
She told him about her year in Feren, her story, but not all of it. She was not yet ready to share the whole truth, to tell her new husband what she had told no one, so she waited for him to speak, to see how he would respond.
“Roghan was a drunk, a crass and drunken fool. I knew you were imprisoned, but I didn’t know that he had abused you. I am not surprised though. I knew Roghan Frith, but he was no friend. I knew the kind of man he was and how he was with women. I have known animals more clever—kinder too,” he said softly. “I am sorry you had to live through that, sorry that I said kind words about the man at our betrothal in Harwen.” Dagrun lowered his voice and continued. “I am no Roghan. I am not even Feren, not wholly. It is not well known, but my blood is half Rachin. The mountain lords raised me in the highlands beyond the Harkan Cliff. Their ways are harsh but honest. They live by a code, the Chaldaan. They value merit, not birthright. A man must earn his wealth as well as his title. I am a half-blood. By Feren law, I am unworthy of the throne and yet I am king. I earned the blackthorn seat; I fought for my place in the Chathair. I did what no other Feren was willing to do: I killed Barrin and took his throne. The man was hated, despised by even his sworn men. He bankrupted his kingdom and made slaves of those who opposed him. He was Roghan’s cousin—did you know that? The pair were well matched, their appetite for debauchery well known. Neither deserved their power or position.” He squeezed her hand and asked again, “Am I wrong?”
Soleri Page 24
