“Your own arrogance and callous stupidity caused many Atani deaths. No punishment is good enough.”
“Then execute me. Cut my head off.”
Malik drew me close to his face, eye to eye, his expression wide, cunning and cruel. “Oh, Van,” he replied softly. “That’s much too easy for one such as you.”
“Gods –”
“You deserve nothing less than incarceration for what little remains of your life.”
“Send me anywhere but Braigh’Mhar. Please.”
“Why? You sent ninety-nine point nine percent of the Braigh’Mhar inmates there yourself? Right?”
I raised a scoff. “Ninety five point eight, bro,” I snapped, my voice hoarse. “You did your share.”
He shook me again. My feathers rattled from stem to stern. “I never committed treason.”
“Nor did I –”
“You did. Disobeying a direct command from the King or his first-in-command – that would be me – is treason at its highest level.”
“What order did I disobey?” I demanded.
Malik bared his teeth in a pseudo smile. “I ordered you to see me in my quarters after Dalziel, to explain what happened. Instead, you bolted like a rabbit.”
“I had to, dammit!” I shouted, my wings wide. “They were going to kill me.”
“Of course they wanted you dead. You got their brothers blown to kingdom come.”
“I sent them in to save lives, rescue hostages. My intel was sound, they were hot to go in. I didn’t know – there was only one, I was told, only one – you weren’t there. Nor was His Majesty. I did what I had to do.”
“You broke protocol,” Malik sneered. “And it cost the lives of your unit. You live though they died.”
I groaned, shutting my eyes. “I’d trade places with them all in a heartbeat, given the chance. But that matters as much as a flea in a sandstorm. Don’t it?”
“You’re pathetic, Van.”
“And then some. How long?”
“Oh, the boys are wagering you survive anywhere from two days to a month,” Malik remarked agreeably, his smile bright and more predatory than a shark’s. “Among the general population.”
“I demand a single cell. And protection.”
Malik’s face fell. “Oh, gee, sorry. This just bites rocks, bro. Treasonous ex-Atani aren’t allowed special privileges. Treat them like the criminals they are, the King says.”
“Shit.”
“How’s by those souvenirs? A piece of your hide will fund an inmate’s bad habits for a month.”
I groaned.
“Those bad boys’ll take weeks to kill you.” Malik’s soft voice held more malice than a bared sword. “Choose that, or –”
“Or?” I hated myself for it, but I leaped toward the temptation he offered. “Or what?”
“Reclaim your place and your soul by joining with me,” he said. “Help me bring the princess home.”
Bitterness rose like the bad mead in my belly. “Oh, sure,” I tried to scoff. “Trade one sentence of death for the other. You know damn well what’ll happen to me.”
Malik’s brows drew down as though he pondered the implications. “Oh. All your brothers who remember Dalziel.”
“Bastard,” I hissed. “You know they’ll kill me.”
“You’ll be under my protection.”
“No offense, Malik. But that’s as effective of a linen cloth against a sword’s strike.”
His dark eyes met mine. “Take it or leave it.”
“Malik, where’d that cruel streak spring from? I’ve never seen it’s like before.”
Cold oozed from his every pore. “Choose, or I’ll choose for you.”
I sighed, swinging from his fingers like a bat at roost. I wrapped my wings about me as best I could, stilling my shivers. “If I’m to die,” I answered softly, “better I die at the hatred of my own kind than the torments of my enemies. I was yours before. I am yours after. I’m still yours, for whatever life remains to me.”
“Now that’s what I like to hear. Positive and encouraging. You’re a true Atan, Vanyar. Perhaps you’ll redeem your honor on this mission.”
“Honor is a walk on slippery river rocks,” I replied, my tone as cold as I could make it. “Too treacherous for words.”
Casually, he flicked his fist. His motion tossed me up to land, talons-first, on his bare shoulder. His manacles vanished, leaving me free to fly, change forms or do as I pleased. Instead, I furled my sore wings, a tiny falcon perched beside his face, gripping his skin with my sharp talons without cutting him. “You’re a bastard, Malik.”
His deep-set eye met mine the instant he quirked his upper lip. “And then some,” he answered softly.
Striking a gallop, with me stuck to his shoulder with wings half-spread for balance, Malik’s hooves sparked lights from the cobbles. Behind his flowing tail galloped his Centaur unit, two by two, the sound of their hooves like thunder in the almost silent streets. What few folk roamed at this early hour scuttled hastily out of his path, their curses swallowed. Wagons drawn by horses, mules and a few laden oxen trundled aside, their drivers yanking on long reins. Attendant mercs on rearing horses spurred their mounts out of the way, gloved hands kept well-away from sword hilts.
I glanced behind. The mounted cavalry parted in twain and flanked the galloping Centaurs, the King’s banner snapping in the wind. Behind it flew the Atani flag: the grinning Death’s Head skull. Charging across the quarter’s wide industrious center, Malik plowed through matrons and shopkeepers alike. Shouted curses hadn’t time to fill his ears as his hard hooves forced peasants, workers, thieves, whores, or convenient aristocrats aside or risk being trampled by an annoyed Centaur commander and his Atans.
His wild hair cloaked me, enveloping me like a burial shroud. I didn’t try to toss it aside, nor did Malik, though the comparison gave me the heebie-jeebies. Had I the guts, I’d force Malik to send me to Braigh’Mhar, find peace within a sort-of honorable death. Like the coward I was, I sat on his shoulder as he took me into a future I didn’t want. I longed to fly free, flee, as I ran away before. But my past would ever follow like a hungry pup, always there, never satisfied. I’d take their places if I could. I said it, and meant it. I couldn’t and they’re still dead. Perhaps my death might salvage the mess I made. Bring peace at last to all those involved.
Face your enemies.
Sure, I thought. Easier said than done.
CHAPTER 2
By the King’s Command
“Your Highness.”
With an effort, I dragged my eyes from the scantily clad women dancing in the smoky tavern’s great room. Wearing little save silken scarves over their lower faces, their lengths of heavy hair cascaded over their slender shoulders and covered their naked breasts. Gold chains slung about their tiny waists jingled in time to the music from the bells in their hands and the sultry music from the invisible lute player in a dark corner. Around bared, slender hips, silver links held up a single strip of silk covering their loins, their bucking hips and asses bared to the room’s scrutiny or lust.
Seductive and tempting, a dancer’s dark eyes held mine and spoke to me across the tables of sweating, swearing men. She danced for me alone, her hips and arms swaying to the music, her naked bosom half-hidden from me. Ah, but her dark eyes. Those huge sloe eyes spoke of such sweet promise that I knew the sweat trickling down my cheek had nothing to do with the heat from within the room. Within the hour, she’d be mine. I had gold enough for the entire –
“Prince Flynn.”
Sergei’s nasal voice intruded upon my fantasy. I broke from it, breathing hard, my chest on fire. Gods, but the air was stifling in this dank, smelly inn. My dancer pouted, seeing my attention shift from her, and danced for the hulking mercenary at a table to my left. He pounded his fist on the wood, sending ale, food, plates and utensils flying. For a moment, I saw myself lunging from my chair, my sword stabbing deep into the gorilla’s thick, hairy neck. His blood fountained
high, coating me, the dancer and his fellows in thick red spatters. Then my girl would turn her smile on me, her hips swaying in time to the music, her fingers beckoning, her eyes –
I gripped my sword hilt hard enough to hurt, and scowled at my father’s errand boy. “What?”
Sergei bowed low. “Forgive me, my prince, but your father has commanded your presence.”
Beyond the heads of my fellow inn-folk, I glanced at the dark windows. “It’s past bloody midnight.”
“I know, Your Highness.” Sergei groveled in such a cringing manner I wanted to kick him. “Your father –”
“Go on, Flynn,” mocked Jarvik, one of my inn cronies. “Daddy calls.”
Snickers abounded. I glared at them, but they ignored me and cat-called one another, shoving one another’s shoulders, laughing. Amid the male horse-play and rough-housing, I heard ‘daddy’s boy’, ‘prince pussy’, and ‘the royal sissy’ as I rose from my table. My hand itched to put an end to the torment, but I was but one among many who could outdraw and outfight me. Their worst day could defeat my best.
My father called them my friends, but they hardly qualified. When sober, the four of them: Jarvik, Tann, Evsham and Ivard were pleasant enough companions. But when drunk, like a pack of feral dogs, their vicious natures emerged and they banded together to attack the hand that fed. ‘Twas my hand that fed them and lavishly.
“Go on.” I shoved Sergei in front of me, marching him toward the tavern doors.
The bouncer, a huge man with a bald head and frightful scars on his neck and face, bowed me though with the only respect I ever got in that wretched place. I slapped his meaty shoulder in passing, and flipped him a gold crown. “Thank ye, Highness,” he muttered to my back.
Sergei waited with barely stifled impatience at my horse’s head in the lamplight outside the noisy tavern. Bayonne greeted me with a nicker and extended muzzle, ignoring Sergei’s hands on his reins. I took a moment to caress his grey head and stroke his ears, my affection for the dappled stallion overriding my anger. One of the few who loved me, Bayonne accepted me at face value. My first and only horse, I picked the dark grey colt out of my father’s milling herd of royal mares and their offspring. My illustrious sire scoffed at my choice, but fell silent later when Bayonne grew into a stunning stallion who won every race I ever rode him in. Calm, sensible, highly intelligent, Bayonne obeyed my every command with courage and alacrity.
I vaulted into my saddle under Sergei’s withering glare and turned Bayonne about. Leaving Sergei to scramble for his own mount, I loped Bayonne through the darkened streets. Most folks had gone to bed, their hearths banked, shutters closed. Only thieves, vagabonds and whores wandered the hot summer night. I heard the Night Watch chase a miscreant down an alley, and passed under countless street lamps lit to ward off the evil in the darkness.
If I received scant respect at the tavern, the palace, Castle Salagh, wasn’t much better. I handed Bayonne to a stable lad to care for, just as Sergei clattered into the courtyard on his skinny bay. The boy took my reins from me without a glance, a bow or even a yawn. The castle guards in their stiff military tunics and high leather boots nodded as I passed. Their hands gripped halberds, their eyes scornful, they, too, watched my back with hate and derision.
My father, King Finian, the Fair as he was often called, ruled the kingdom of Raithin Mawr with an iron fist. He killed with wanton bloodlust, executed his people for the most minor of crimes. He hanged or beheaded any man, woman, child or farm animal that spoke against his rule or his taxes or his policies. Yet, his people loved him. I still hadn’t figured that one out. The high and the simple folks beat one another for a glimpse of him, or my mother, Queen Enya. They crowded the streets, shouting their names, crying their adoration. Quick to weep at the slightest recognition, they hailed my royal parents as saviors just beneath the gods themselves.
On the other hand, they scorned me, the King’s heir apparent.
They hated me on sight. All things being equal, I hated them back with the same malevolence.
I don’t even know what’d I’d done or how I’d earned their animosity. I hadn’t won any battles, but there hadn’t been any wars to fight. I spoke the nobles and barons with fairness, and ever their eyes watched me with derision and laughter. Learning from the best masters money purchased, I wielded a sword, shot a bow, rode a horse – still, I wasn’t good enough. I stood at my father’s right hand, yet to him they looked for leadership. My mother loved me, but her people didn’t.
I was, and always had been, the kingdom’s whipping boy.
Panting, Sergei led me through the twining corridors, past drowsing guards, dashing servants, a few late courtiers returning from liaisons with the opposite gender they shouldn’t be seen with. Past kings and queens of Raithin Mawr glared down at me as I passed, their disapproval skipping across my very thick skin. I didn’t care what my ancestors thought. I didn’t much care what my father thought. Hell, I didn’t care much what anyone thought save – perhaps one. All right, two.
Sergei led me to the upper chambers of the palace, the high towers, where only the royal family and their closest relatives were housed. I followed, yet I knew every inch of those dank stone walls. I’d lived there since birth, fled from my sire’s anger down their hollow corridors, hid within their shadows when he or his henchmen tried to catch me. Within their granite grasp, I learned that princes didn’t always get the best of everything.
In the west tower, I climbed the steep staircase, the light cast by Sergei’s torch sent huge silhouettes across the dank, granite walls. Down the slick hallways, past the closed doorways guarded by family retainers, I strode rapidly, following Sergei’s quick shadow. My hand ever hovered over my sword, for I never knew who or what may pop out of nowhere to swing a fist at my face.
“Flynn?”
Her voice, soft and fluid, the dulcimer chimes of an angel, called to me from the darkness of a doorway. I halted at the sound, pausing mid-step and turned toward her like a puppet dangling on his master’s strings. To hear that voice, to see her face, to hold her hand for even a moment – I’d surrender my rotten life.
Her tiny frame hugged the shadows as if borne from them, her huge blue eyes uptilted toward mine as she stepped forward to intercept me. I’d no need to say her name, yet I spoke it, for it resounded in my own ears like sweet music.
“Fainche.”
My jangled nerves calmed instantly, as though a soothing balm flowed through and over them, and bring with it a sweet peace I seldom felt. She held a strange power, my sister did, to bring forth a side of me no one knew existed. I reached out my hand. A tiny slip of warm skin rested in it as I drew it toward me. Twelve year old Fainche emerged from the darkness like the devil’s nymph, her eyes oddly shining in the torch’s light. For her I withstood my father’s beatings, the nobles’ scorn, and the commons’ spit. I’d endure it all at the gates of hell if she offered me that one single, loving glance.
Only two people in the entire kingdom kept me sane in this demented world. Without them, I’d long have succumbed to insanity and fled into the wilds to live life as a hermit in a cave. Only they kept me rooted, enduring, hopeful. For them alone I endured the naked hate and scorn on every face. Because of them, I felt hopeful that one day I might live a life as a normal man.
My sweet sister – and my beautiful mother.
Her wild mane of hair, blonde like mine, trailed down her shoulders. Her fetching azure gown trimmed with gold and mink matched her eyes, the same exact shade of blue as mine own. She stepped toward me, her hand quivering within my fingers. Tugging from my grip, Fainche smiled and snuggled close, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist.
“What are you doing up so late?” I asked, bowing over her small shoulder to hold her within my arms. I worked it so her ear rested against my heartbeat.
“I wanted to see you.”
I found a grin and a semblance of real humor. “Lurking in the shadows will do that.”
Fain
che giggled. “I heard Father call for you. So I waited. I knew you’d come.”
“And to think I might ignore such a beautiful maiden.”
“Flynn!” Her shocked laughter brought a grin and a lightening to my heart. “You scoundrel.”
I brushed my lips over her sweet-scented hair. “What does that old boor want?”
My lack of respect sparked yet another surprised giggle from her. “Father will beat you.”
“And if he dares, I’ll dream of you tending my injuries.”
She snickered. “Drama queen.”
I laughed, taking her by the arms and holding her away from me. “Come on, tell me. I know you’re always lurking in corners, hearing things you shouldn’t.”
Sergei sighed and waited with ill-concealed impatience, just out of earshot. I waved my hand at him, yet without my previous animosity. Wait for me and chill out. Sergei pouted and folded his arms across his meager chest.
I held my sister at arm’s length, grinning. “Come on, sis. Out with it.”
Trying to scowl, Fainche’s sweet face dissolved into a grin. She never could feign anger with any success. Her sweet and passive nature prevented it. She seized my bristled cheeks within her small hands. “Father has a mission for you.”
“A what?”
“You know. A special errand. You’re to fetch someone for him.”
My humor dropped by several notches, instantly and coldly. Dread dropped its icy load into my belly and spread its fingers into my blood. “Who am I to fetch, exactly?”
“I can’t remember her name.” Fainche’s brow furrowed as she tried hard to think.
Many palace folk called her thick-witted and slow. Certainly our parents shielded her from the public view, and overly protected her from the coarseness of the world at large. I’d heard the gossip: her Royal Highness Princess Fainche was cute, but an idiot entirely without any substance upstairs. No, Fainche wasn’t stupid exactly, nor had she inherited the family gifts of high intelligence. Fainche was – special.
What she lacked in brains, she more than made up for in sheer sweetness and purity. I knew the gods dropped her on this earth as a gift, as we humans lacked for angels in our midst. Evil touch her? If it tried – well, evil should look to its own self should it dare eye her sideways.
The Unforgiven Page 3
