Tyrant’s Blood

by Fiona McIntosh

  “Oh, nothing much at all,” Greven said. He was packing planting pots into a crate.

  “Who did you talk to?”

  “I met Evelyn on the way, I spoke to Innkeeper Junes…no one in particular. All quite boring, really.”

  Piven knew, without any doubt now, Greven was lying. And the lie prompted him to make his final decision.

  That night Piven dreamed.

  In his dream he saw a woman. He recognized her instantly; he had been dreaming about her for the last few moons. She was slim, dark-haired, and exceptionally pretty with fine features that were so angular and precise they looked as if they could have been drawn. In the dream he was hidden but he didn’t know where or why. As was usual, she seemed to sense that she was being observed; kept looking around to find the voyeur. She looked strange. No, that wasn’t right. Where she was looked strange. The setting was foreign to him and one he couldn’t comprehend. She was busy at something but he could make no sense of it. She was in a room that was predominantly white and she was tending to someone who was lying down. There were lots of other people crowded around her, all watching what she was doing. She appeared to be talking constantly.

  He called to her, surprised that he knew her name, holding his breath in the hope that the other people wouldn’t hear him. The woman paused, as if a thought had struck her, and then she looked up, slightly startled, and stared straight at him.

  Piven felt himself falling backward, as if from a clifftop into a great void. He yelled his fear as winds began to buffet him, shake his bones as though he were a rag doll.

  “Piven!”

  He opened his eyes, shocked and alarmed. Greven was shaking him by the shoulders.

  “What’s happening?” Greven asked, looking suddenly old and disheveled in his nightshirt. “A nightmare, I think,” he said, answering his own question. “Rest easy now, boy. No more yelling. You’ve probably already forgotten it.”

  Piven swallowed, alarm still clanging like windchimes in his mind. He had not forgotten any of it…or her.

  “It’s nearing dawn. We might as well call it morning and make a start,” Greven said, scratching his chest absently. “I’ll get some dinch on.”

  He left Piven to surface fully, rub the sleep from his eyes and drag himself upright. Lethargy pulled at him like a heavy blanket and his mood felt bleak. Greven’s bright whistling at the hearth irritated him and an uncharacteristic scowl darkened his expression.

  “You yelled someone’s name. Who were you dreaming about?” Greven called.

  “I don’t know,” Piven replied. “What was the name?”

  Greven returned. He was stirring something in a small pot. Eggs, Piven thought, he’s readying them for scrambling. He was not hungry. “Do you know, I heard you scream it but I can’t remember now. Can you?”

  Piven shook his head. Not only could he not recall the woman’s name but her features were disappearing from his mind. Suddenly he could no longer see her pretty face.

  Greven chuckled. “Ah well, fret not, my boy. Soon you won’t be having nightmares about women. You’ll be dreaming happily about them morning, noon and night!”

  Piven’s sour mood deepened.

  “Oh, would you look at that!” he heard Greven mutter in disgust. “I think the wretched eggs are off.” Piven watched Greven lift the heavy earthen jug and sniff. “Bah! Gone! They’re yesterday’s, aren’t they?”

  Piven nodded.

  “How can that happen?” Greven asked, and although Piven decided his question did not require a response, he had a sickening feeling that he knew the answer.

  Reuth sighed. “Perhaps we sent word too fast,” she said, wiping their son’s face with a wet flannel.

  Clovis grimaced. “Too fast? It’s been a decade!”

  She gave him a look of soft rebuke. “You know what I mean.”

  He finished tying the laces on their daughter’s dress. “There you go. Now you look pretty enough to eat.” He pretended to chew her neck and his little girl squealed with frightened delight. He loved to hear her voice. And far from being embittered by it, he felt blessed by Lo that his second daughter reminded him so starkly of Corin, his first beautiful—now dead—child. Whether it was fact or his imagination, they seemed to share the same tone and pitch in voice; Corin used to squeal in an identical manner when he teased her. He could not risk his precious children—or Reuth, come to that. “We are not wrong. We can’t both feel so strongly about this child and be wrong.”

  Reuth looked over at him sorrowfully. “I worry that we’ve been searching for so long that we just want this to be him so badly that we’ve convinced ourselves it is so. Eat your oats, you two, they should be cool enough now,” she said, pointing to the faintly steaming bowls in which porridge had begun to set. “Your father will pour the milk in, the jug’s too heavy for you.”

  They’d had food for the children sent up. They would eat downstairs in the dining room. Clovis trickled the creamy milk into two small bowls and the children greedily tucked into their first meal of the day.

  “Slowly,” Reuth cautioned their son. “Or you’ll spill it.” He’d obviously heard the same cautions so many times before that he neither looked up nor slowed down; the words had become a meaningless mantra, Clovis could see.

  “Listen to me, Reuth,” he said, once the children were ignoring anything but their bellies. “I could feel his fear. The boy is Piven.”

  “Well, unless we’ve been dancing to a different tune all these anni, Clovis, I could swear that the child we seek is mute, lost in his mind, even mad, some say. You yourself have told me he couldn’t speak, communicate, showed no emotion…acted like a moving statue, you once told me.”

  Clovis nodded, trying not to interrupt her but knowing his senses contradicted everything he knew to be true. “I did. And that is how he was.”

  “And now you accept that he talks, is able, is fully healthy and as normal as our own son?” she demanded.

  Clovis shooshed her silently with a gesture of his hands. “I know how it sounds. I know how incomprehensible it is. But do you deny me that you too felt something when you met Lark?”

  She turned away. “You know I can’t.”

  “Tell me again.”

  Reuth turned back to him, and he watched her quell her exasperation. “I had a vision. Fast, gone in a blink. Doom surrounds him.”

  “Think, Reuth. Interpret that doom for me.”

  She looked lost. “I can’t,” she said helplessly. “It didn’t just spell doom for him, though. I got the impression that it was foreboding for all of us. Where Jon Lark treads, he will bring darkness to the world.”

  Clovis shook his head, and walked over to the tiny window that overlooked the main street of Minton Woodlet. A young woman was leading a cow past the inn. Beyond her, vineyards stretched into the distance. She stopped to talk to an older woman, stroking the patient beast and pointing back up the hill. She had a pretty smile even though she herself was quite plain. At last she nodded, gave a small wave as the pair of them parted and then continued along at the ponderous pace of the black and white cow. He watched her disappear from the limited view the small window afforded him.

  “What are you thinking?” Reuth prompted from behind him.

  “I want you and the children to return to Medhaven.”

  “We’re not splitting up, Clovis.”

  “You saw foreboding. I divined that we were closer yesterday to what we seek than we have been in the last ten anni. I sensed Jon Lark was lying. Now I don’t know who or what he is. Neither do I care. I believe that he loves his son. I think both of us could tell he was protecting the boy, not just being belligerent. But I do think the child he loves is the orphan Piven. I can’t explain Lark’s claim that the boy talks. I can’t comprehend why Innkeeper Junes should confirm the fact that the boy known as Petor is a run-of-the-mill youth. But, Reuth, you and I accept magic as easily as we breathe. We should be able to accept that some sorcery has occurred, something o
f an enchanted nature has affected this child.”

  “If he’s Piven,” his wife reiterated.

  “If he’s Piven,” Clovis repeated with resignation.

  “And we can’t be sure he is.”

  “Which is why I want you to return to our home with our children and wait for word.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find Kirin. He has a different sort of skill. Perhaps together…” Clovis shrugged.

  “You’re walking back into the palace?” Reuth exclaimed. “It’s your own death warrant you’re agreeing to.”

  Clovis shook his head. “I doubt it. I shall dye my hair, shave off my beard. You agree I am only half the man I was when we met and I’m ten anni older. Different clothes, different look, different attitude. I can be someone different. And I doubt the emperor gives a fig about a man who disappeared so long ago.”

  “No, but his evil general might. Remember how he vowed to track down every Vested in the land?”

  “He will not know I’m Vested. No one will know. I will take a different name.”

  “What if they ask for papers?”

  “I’ll have some forged.”

  Reuth looked pained, but remained silent.

  Clovis guessed her concern. “Our savings will be put to good use, I promise. Besides, Freath can probably—”

  “I don’t care about money, Clovis. You are risking your life.”

  “Reuth,” he began firmly. “I was a coward all those years ago. Kirin wasn’t. I have existed with the shame of my fleeing from Brighthelm to your arms. I gave my promise I would find Piven for Freath, and now that I believe I have, I intend to deliver on that promise. The least I can do is tell Freath—our only ally alongside Kirin at the palace.”

  “If that’s him!” Reuth said, her voice almost in agony.

  “It’s him,” Clovis said.

  “And then what will you do? Hunt him down yourself?”

  “If I must.”

  She shook her head with a combination of vexation and anxiety and turned away. He put his long arms around her, and kissed her head, knowing she needed his tenderness. Finding Piven had been the only contentious part of their marriage. She had never fully understood his private crusade, although she had helped him constantly in his mission.

  “Please, my love,” he said, turning her now to face him. “Please understand. I do this not for personal redemption but for all of us. Your vision frightens me. I have lost one child, one wife. I refuse to lose this family and if what you see should be allowed to occur all of us will be under threat—once again.”

  Reuth’s forehead crinkled. “It’s a different sort of threat this time, Clovis.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t really know what I mean. I haven’t seen anything other than what I’ve told you but what I felt when I had that vision was cold. Loethar was ruthless and did take his crown with a bloodied hand, but he has not laid waste to our land. The initial slaughter aside, he has performed somewhat magnanimously as an emperor.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that,” Clovis said, shocked.

  Reuth shook her head. “Believe me, if what I sensed does come true, this new menace will make the memories of Loethar’s overthrow pale. I hope I’m wrong but I believe what’s coming at us lacks a soul. No ordinary man will be able to stop this.”

  They stared at each other for several searching moments as both digested Reuth’s dire counsel. It was she who broke the spell between them. “I’ll pack up our things. The children and I will return immediately south to the ferry. We’ll wait for word from you from Medhaven.”

  Clovis hugged her tight, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of his wife’s hair…as his belly clenched with fear.

  Six

  Freath slowed the horse to a gentle walk. It had been a long time since he’d visited the north and even longer since he’d entered Francham. The last time had been prior to Leo’s birth, when he’d accompanied King Brennus and his new bride, Iselda, on an around-the-realm meet and greet. Brennus had been keen to show off his exotic wife from Galinsea and to silence the mumbling detractors who had begun to spread word that no woman from the Set had been good enough for Brennus. Freath knew the king had hoped that by introducing his lovely young bride to his people in person, they would fall in love with her as easily as he had. His strategy had worked.

  Penraven hadn’t seen anything like it since the coronation of Brennus but, as eligible and handsome as the new young king had been at the time, his “crowning tour” lacked the glamor that a beautiful young woman added. And Iselda understood immediately how to achieve her husband’s aim. She had never complained once about the grueling schedule, Freath recalled. She had chosen her wardrobe with care to ensure that everywhere she visited the people were left in awe of her glittering presence—and, Freath remembered with a soft smile, Iselda had never needed jewels to glitter. Her smile was full and genuine and she had managed to draw all she met into its comforting warmth. She had possessed an unwavering ability to remain cheerful despite her fatigue, and dig deep to find energy that often surpassed that of her stronger, older entourage. It was Iselda who had first climbed down from her horse to pause a while and talk to people, to kiss the foreheads of babies and allow the women to clasp at her gloved hands. At first even Freath had been alarmed but alongside Brennus he’d watched how instantly and excitedly the folk had reacted to this show of generosity that had no precedent. And then word had spread so quickly that Brennus had had no choice but to take the unusual step of insisting the royal couple greet their people on foot everywhere from there on. It had won hearts right around the realm and Iselda’s foreign status had been instantly forgotten, as had Brennus’s unusual step of not taking a wife from within the Set.

  Nowhere had Iselda made greater impact than Francham. Here, hardened men, used to traversing the most inhospitable of regions, had melted in her presence, grinning like loons. Freath was sure Iselda’s popularity in this region was due to the fact that she had grasped just how tough life was on the road through Hell’s Gate, and that winning the hearts of these men would spread word even faster as they were always on the move around the realm.

  She’d agreed to sampling the local liquor known rather dauntingly as “Rough.” To the delight of all in Francham, the new queen had stepped into an inn known as The Lookout and there she had surprised everyone by tipping back her head and swallowing a man-sized shot of the deep amber liquid. If it had burned—as Freath knew it must have—she had not shown it, having had the audacity to suggest the inn-keeper pour her another “for good mea sure.”

  The silence that had gripped the inn had erupted into cheers and whistles. And as Queen Iselda had clinked glasses with King Brennus prior to downing her second shot of Rough, a rousing chorus of the realm’s royal anthem had been belted out noisily by the crowd.

  As Brennus had commented to Freath later that night, “The queen has won more than hearts this day. In a single swallow she has guaranteed a loyalty to the Crown that feels unparalleled.”

  Prophetic words, Freath thought now as he entered the main street. From that day, patriotism and genuine pride in the Crown of Penraven had escalated noticeably and not waned throughout the reign of King Brennus the 8th.

  Next to him, Kirin cleared his throat. “Master Freath, we’re staying at The Lookout.”

  It was fortunate Kirin had noticed he had been daydreaming, Freath thought, jolted out of his memories, or he’d have strolled his horse right by the inn. “Yes, of course, thank you.” He looked around and noticed that the three bodyguards that Loethar insisted be sent along with him were regarding him sullenly through their tatua. “Master Felt and I are sharing a room. I have made arrangements for two other rooms. Work it out.”

  The Green nodded on behalf of his companions. “We’ll take the horses for stabling. Do you need us?”

  Freath shook his head. “No, but your emperor seems to think I do.”
He smiled but it won no warmth in their faces. “The local liquor here is called Rough. Try some. You’ll be pleasantly surprised. I hear the brothel here is lively too. I will be eating in the dining room at The Lookout to night, so I require no supervision.” As the Green began to protest, Freath held up a hand. “I insist. Take your men for some relaxation. I am going nowhere. Tomorrow morning I will meet with the mayor to discuss the emperor’s new tax levy. By noon I imagine I will be hugely unpopular and will require your presence more keenly. Until then, I can survive the odd gob of spittle or harsh word.”

  He thought the two younger guards grinned but then again it could have been a grimace. He knew they considered him a traitor to his own. And therefore the lowest of the low, and they hated that he had the ear of their warlord, besides. He was also sure that Stracker did his utmost to poison his men’s attitude toward any person from the Set. Stracker was still living in the past, believing that every Denovian should perish, or at least be treated like vermin. Although most of the Set had come to realize that it needed Loethar, the emperor’s charismatic hold over his horde—and his blood-hungry half-brother—was all that stood in the way of ongoing death and destruction.

  As the men walked the horses off in search of the inn’s stables, Freath muttered under his breath, “I have to seriously wonder whether they’d even care if a blade was slipped into my gut.”

  “You can be sure they wouldn’t,” Kirin said.

  Freath nodded. “I think you’re right. Come on.” He breathed deeply. “It’s good to smell this fresh mountain air.”

  “Is it?” Kirin grumbled. “I’ve been a city lover for a long time.”

  “Wait until you’ve tried some Rough,” Freath quipped.

  “When is this meeting going to happen?” Kirin asked, looking around to see that they weren’t being overheard.

  “To night, I hope. We have to slip our guard somehow although once they begin drinking I reckon that won’t be as daring as it sounds. By tomorrow I’ll be watching my back.”