by Megan Derr
"You're alive."
"So it would seem."
They spoke levelly, politely, and the general accorded the Kaiser every measure of respect, but only a fool would miss the fine tension resting just below the surface. He was a man famed for his twenty years of service—ten of them as the Scarlet General though all had railed against a man of twenty-six being given such a position. Still he had held it, flourished, had defended the Regenbogen better than anyone.
Yet no one had mourned when he'd been thought dead. No one was happy to see him returned to life.
Why? The question itched at Sol. It mattered not at all to his mission, but still the question burned. Why did a man fight for a country that hated him? A Kaiser who hated him?
For what reason would a Kaiser keep a man he was rumored to despise so close? Give him power? Why not simply kill him?
The silence stretched a second too long, then the Kaiser's voice boomed out. "Welcome our Scarlet General home!" The courtyard flooded with cheers and welcomes, but the enthusiasm was stale. Sol could see von Adolwulf was laughing. He turned and grasped the nameless, who had been sitting silently in the saddle. Whatever he said, Sol could not make it out, but it infuriated the nameless. Von Adolwulf dragged him from the saddle, nearly letting the nameless hit the ground and laughing harder at what were probably curses being hurled up at him.
Not that making him angry was hard to do, Sol recalled.
The crowd parted to let the general and his prisoner—for it was obvious that the nameless could be nothing else—pass by. His wrists were bound tightly together in front of him, and he stumbled as von Adolwulf dragged him along.
He finally fell as he climbed the stairs. Sol started to help him, then froze, realizing his near error. A Krian civilian would never do such a thing.
Von Adolwulf spun around and stooped, hauling the nameless back up. His voice just barely reached Sol's ears as he spoke to his prisoner. "Come, Beraht. We do not want to keep the emperor waiting."
"Yes, we do," was the muttered reply, and then the pair was gone.
The courtyard once more was overwhelmed by the sound of too many voices speaking at once, but emptied quickly as the witnesses fled to share their exciting news with those who had decided to sleep late or eat breakfast. Sol barely noticed. His mind replayed what he'd heard over and over again. The nameless had a name—a Krian name. He'd allowed someone to name him. And it was pretty obvious who had done it.
Why in the stars had he allowed the Wolf to give him a name?
Sol felt sick just thinking about it. At least all his names had been given by people he cared about: the Illussor who had rescued him and were his contacts there; his sister had helped him develop Lord Grau; and his parents had given him his first and dearest name. The one he wished he fit.
But to give someone like the general that much power… Sol thought he would have rather died. He shook his head, storing the thoughts away for later. It wasn't important right at the moment. The Breaker was important, and he'd just walked right past Sol.
He would have to figure out how to get in contact with him and bring Iah close enough to tell him if the namele—no, if Beraht—was indeed their Breaker. Head hurting, both from his fall and all the problems suddenly thrown at him, Sol turned and went back to his room.
*~*~*
Dieter sneered at anyone who worked up the nerve to look at him, smirking when they nearly tripped over themselves in their haste to look away.
Caught in the act, every last one of them. He hadn't expected anything less where he was concerned, but the bastards could be wearing some acknowledgment of the loss of his men. They weren't hated; they deserved some measure of respect.
Sometimes—
Dieter killed the thought before it could blossom and hauled Beraht forward, resting a hand on his shoulder nearly hard enough to bruise. "You'd do well to trust me when I say you'll be better served by keeping your mouth shut. No one here will be as kind to you as I've been."
"Kind?" Beraht repeated. "I wasn't aware such a word existed in Krian."
"You should be," Dieter replied. "You speak it well enough, especially for a filthy Salharan."
Beraht glared. "Fine talk from someone who only speaks his own language." Dieter laughed, and then they were stepping through the heavy doors into the Kaiser's private chambers.
"Lord General," the Kaiser greeted. On his left was a slender woman in a deep blue skirt and undershirt overlaid with a dark yellow tunic. Her hair was pulled loosely back, falling softly around her face in a style clearly reminiscent of the statues of the Summer Princess. A stylized sunburst was embroidered with orange thread across the front of her tunic.
On his right were two men. One was nearly as large as Dieter, with light brown hair and sharp, narrow blue eyes. He wore dark green with a lighter shade for his tunic, the ivy crest of the Spring Prince stitched in palest green across his chest. The man beside him was dressed in gray and blue, the intricate snowflakes of the Winter Princess across the front of his tunic.
His comrades in arms. Dieter managed not to laugh. He threw Beraht to the ground and bent over in a bow, fist over his heart. "Kaiser. I apologize for my late arrival."
"From what I hear, Lord General, there is a great deal for which you must apologize." Away from his people, the Kaiser's hatred was clear in his voice and the cold way he regarded Dieter. "First explain why you are dragging around this sad looking mongrel? Salharan, yes? Did he have a traitorous whore for a mother? He almost looks Illussor."
Dieter didn't let his surprise register. "I wouldn't know, Kaiser. This is the man responsible for killing my men. He is my prisoner."
"No, I don't think he is." The Kaiser motioned Heilwig forward; she was moving almost before he'd finished the gesture. "Take the prisoner and whatever else he has. Lord General, you are suspended until we can determine your level of responsibility in the events that cost me nearly the whole of my Scarlet Army."
The sound of steel against leather was shockingly loud as Dieter drew his sword. Three more swords were drawn, and three generals faced down one. Dieter stepped forward, in front of Beraht. "Back away, bitch. And the rest of you. Do you think you stand a chance against me? Sheep to kill a Wolf?" He laughed. "I think not. The prisoner is mine. You cannot touch anything of mine until I am dead."
"That can be arranged," Heilwig hissed, bringing her sword up in a quick arc.
It was blocked almost without effort by Dieter, who knocked it away and then grabbed her by the throat of her tunic. "Whores belong in the bedroom," he snarled, and sent her stumbling back, then turned to face the remaining two. "Cease. Do you really need to do his work for him?"
"You are treading thin ice, General." Despite his tone, however, he Kaiser, however, did not appear troubled.
"It's been breaking beneath me for twenty years," Dieter said. He sheathed his sword. "The prisoner is mine." His fingers lingered on the hilt of his sword. "It will be mine even when I'm dead."
The Kaiser looked at him hatefully. "Get out. You're suspended until further notice. Be grateful, Lord General, that I don't simply kill you outright."
Dieter said nothing, merely picked Beraht up and strode from the room, his dark cape whirling around him like an angry shadow.
Silence fell wherever he walked, only to burst into noise once he was gone. Some things never changed.
He stifled a sigh as he finally reached his rooms, which he was glad to see had been prepared for him. Recently, but prepared all the same. The servants, at least, knew what they were doing.
"So your own king hates you?" Beraht threw his head back and laughed. "My, my, how interesting." Dieter threw him to the floor. Beraht continued to laugh. "Not returning a hero? And suspended?"
"Be grateful," Dieter said, "that I fought to keep you."
"Why should I?" Beraht asked, sitting up as best he was able. "When are you going to untie me?"
"When you shut your mouth," Dieter snapped. Ignoring him, he moved acro
ss the room to his wardrobe. A large hook was affixed to the wall beside it, sturdy enough that it held his cloak with no complaint.
His room was simple. The rugs scattered across the floor were all black. So too the hangings over the wall and the bedcovers. Even the bed itself was carved from a dark wood, blackish-red in the light of the fire and three lamps. The only spot of color was the banner on the wall—red with the triad of leaves of the Autumn Prince stitched in a blazon of orange, red, and gold.
Hanging his cloak up, Dieter sat to remove his high boots and threw his sword on the bed, then strode through the archway just past the wardrobe, into the private bathing room. If he'd earned nothing else in all his years of service, he'd earned the right to his own bath. Dieter threw his clothes in the corner and began to scrub off, relishing the hot water that had been readied for rinsing. He washed his hair three times, until he was convinced it was well and truly clean. Next he moved to the bath in the middle of the room and slid into the near-scalding water, permitting himself to close his eyes for a brief second. He opened them again and stared up at the ceiling, striving not to linger too long on any one thought.
"So tell me, General—how do you plan to make me suffer my entire life when it's pretty obvious you're not going to have one of your own for much longer."
Dieter laughed. "By leaving you here to survive without me. If you think I am brutal, Beraht, wait until I am dead. Now leave me in peace."
"Untie me."
"When I'm done." They glared at each other.
Dieter hefted himself out of the tub and strode back into his room. He pulled dagger from within his wardrobe. Turning back around, he sliced the ropes binding Beraht's wrists then picked him up and hauled him to the bath, throwing him in.
He slid back into the water, laughing as Beraht struggled up and out. "I hate you," Beraht spat.
"Do you think I care?" Dieter said. "Hate matters little to me. Now bathe properly or get out and leave me in peace." He watched Beraht leave, then settled back down and, this time, allowed his thoughts to focus.
Suspended. The first move had been made. Benno was still trying to get what he wanted without having to kill him. After so many years, Dieter was finally falling through the ice. That would make it more difficult to figure out why the Illussor had been after Beraht.
Did he have a traitorous whore for a mother? He almost looks Illussor.
How had he not seen it? He had thought Beraht's hair surprisingly pale. Dieter frowned. If Beraht's mother had dallied with an Illussor soldier, what of it? He would not be the first such child.
Perhaps that explained why he had been able to kill Dieter's men so easily. Dieter did not deny the level of skill required to execute such a shadow attack. That still did not explain why all his men had died for the sake of one enemy. Or why the enemy had Screamed. Why risk killing the man they were after?
Questions upon questions and not enough time to acquire the answers. It was tiring. Twenty years he had been walking along the fragile ice, and now it was cracking too quickly for him even to avenge his men.
Dieter climbed out of the bath and dressed before the heat of the bath could fade completely. The clothes he changed into were all black, the crest upon his tunic red. If no one else would mourn his men, Dieter, at least, would. "You're looking a little wet. You should get a bath; the water is quite hot."
Beraht glared at him. "I'm really going to enjoy watching the way your people loathe and despise you."
"It gets rather boring ," Dieter replied, "but I guess you don't have much else to do with your time."
"Even if I did, I would put it aside for the chance to watch you get your comeuppance."
Dieter yanked him from his seat and caught his jaw with his other hand, squeezing tight. "Your mouth will be the death of you, Salharan. If you are hoping that your mockery will leave a mark, you may as well give up. The only one who will be bearing marks is you, and you will have many of them if you do not shut up." He let Beraht go and watched as he stood up.
Beraht was up and down more often than anyone he could remember. He almost admired the tenacity—everyone else broke so easily. At times it even seemed that Beraht was not scared of him.
"Get washed. If you're going to continue to plague me—"
"No one said you had to take me prisoner."
"—Then you will at least be clean. I can still send you to the dungeons. They do not come with fires and hot baths and blankets. They barely provide food."
Mention of blankets had Beraht flicking his eyes toward the one bed in the room. "You are not making me sleep with you again."
Dieter laughed. "You are welcome to sleep on the floor."
Beraht stormed off to bathe, and Dieter went into the hall and caught a passing servant. "See that clothes are fetched for my prisoner." He considered the servant. "About your size. Taller, more slender. Also have food brought—and if I so much as glimpse a jug of wine, it will be smashed across your head. Be quick." He let the man go and watched him run off.
He moved to the bed and retrieved his sword, then removed a bundle from a chest at the foot of his bed. Sitting on the floor beside the fire, he began to clean the sword, sheath and belt. A knock at the door interrupted him, and he barked for the servants to enter, not looking up from his work.
"Dieter?"
His head jerked up. "Burkhard?"
"You really are alive!"
Dieter returned to cleaning his sheath. "Yes."
"I am glad."
"Surely you're not so hard pressed for companions, Burkhard, that you would come to me? What do you want?"
Burkhard sat down and regarded him with a frown. "I'm glad you're alive."
"So you said. I don't see what good it does you." Dieter finished cleaning his belt and packed the supplies away. Standing, he returned them to the chest and picked up his sword from where it lay beside the fire. He stared at it, bending it so the fire set off the shimmering from deep within. With a barley-restrained snarl, he sheathed it. The firelight lingered on the blood-red stone in the pommel, making it burn and glow.
"Why must you always be this way?" Burkhard asked with a weary sigh.
Dieter shot him a scathing look. "Be what way? I am what I am. Whatever it is you are hoping to find, old man, you are looking in the wrong place."
"You didn't have to become this."
"Get out. I have enough to handle without the ramblings of an old cripple."
Burkhard's face tightened, and he stood stiffly. "As you like, Dieter."
"I do have a request that might amuse you," Dieter said as he reached the door.
"What might that be?" Burkhard asked cautiously.
Dieter saw movement from the corner of his eyes. "My prisoner. I will be busy in the coming days. I want you to show him around, acquaint him with the palace."
"What?" Burkhard strode back over to the fireplace. "He's a prisoner. Prisoners do not get shown around, Dieter."
"This one does. By my order, and I don't give a damn if Benno himself tries to countermand it. Until I'm dead, he is mine. I want you to show him around, make him familiar."
"Why?"
Dieter grinned. "I want to make him Krian. You will help me."
"As you like, Dieter." Burkhard shook his head. "You and your mad schemes."
"They have always worked."
"Yes," Burkhard said. "I suppose they have. Very well, I will come by tomorrow and show him around. But if he tries to escape, it is not on my head."
"He has a tendency to be mouthy, but he won't run. If he gets too out of line, let me know."
"Very well. Will I see you at lunch or dinner?"
Dieter shook his head. "Maybe lunch tomorrow. For now I intend only to sleep."
Burkhard laughed. "Until tomorrow then." He sketched a brief bow and left.
"You want to make me Krian?" Beraht laughed. "I'll kill myself first."
"No, you won't. Beraht." Dieter said it slowly, with emphasis, as if the name were preci
ous—if not for the cold, mocking undertone. "Nor will you kill me. Should I die, you will still carry my name, won't you?" He laughed.
There came a knock at the door, and he stalked to open it, startling the servants badly enough they nearly dropped their burdens. He saw Beraht run back into the bathing room, obviously chased there by modesty.
Food was set up on a table tucked against the wall left of the fireplace. Dieter sat and began to help himself. The tea, when he poured it, was dark, strong and sweet. Exactly as he liked it. Despite his efforts to stay awake and the revitalizing tea, Dieter felt his eyes grow heavy.
Beraht, when he finally reemerged in black breeches and a red tunic—much to Dieter's amusement—that nearly fit him, looked as tired as Dieter felt. His pale hair was wet and clung tightly to his head. He sat down with a thump at the table and began to eat without enthusiasm. "You're not going to make me Krian."
"But you'll never be Salharan again, either. Best get used to this place because you will never leave it."
"After your king kills you, there will be little to keep me here."
Dieter laughed. Beraht subsided into a sullen silence. When he finished eating, he shoved away from the table and crossed over to the bed. He climbed into the right side, glaring when Dieter smirked. "So you decided against the floor, then?"
"As you said, I've no interest in dying. Not until you take my name away and I see you broken."
Dieter shrugged. "Then you may go wait with the rest of them and live a life of disappointment. No man will ever break me, least of all a filthy Salharan."
"Yet you sleep with me."
"There is an old story, in Kria, about two men. Bitter, bitter enemies, and one day they found their fighting had driven them to the coldest parts of the country. They found an old house and between them their cloaks were sufficient for warmth, but only if they shared. Neither wanted the other to die of cold because then they would lose the privilege of killing the other. So they called a truce for one night. When they woke the next morning, they continued to fight."
Beraht rolled his eyes. "How very depressing that my life has become the Krian concept of a good story." He turned over, putting his back to Dieter.
