Freath led the way into the front door and his belly responded immediately to the aroma of roasting meat. Ah, he remembered now—the local delicacy.
Kirin gave an appreciative sound. “What a delicious smell,” he commented, pulling off his hat and traveling cloak.
“I’d forgotten how unique the north can be, especially this town that feels the full effect of the various cultures brought in by the merchants and the folk who travel regularly. That smell just gets better, by the way. It’s called ‘Osh.’”
“Osh?” Kirin repeated. “Please don’t tell me it’s mountain bear or something.”
“And if it was?”
“I couldn’t resist it, I don’t think.”
Freath gave a half-smile. “Nothing so exotic. It’s goat, ox, sheep, chicken, pig, deer. Slabs of meat are pinned onto huge skewers and roasted upright over woodfires made of flaxwood, whose embers release a special spicy fragrance that permeates the meat. The meat, I might add, is rolled in spices that we hardly see in the city: toka, ferago, leem and peregum.”
“I’ve heard of leem.”
“I’ve even seen leem, but not the others. The rest are found only in the mountains. When the meat is cooked, it is sliced off onto trenchers of herbed honey bread, and drizzled with oil. It’s magnificent.”
Kirin nodded. “I’m already hungry for it from your description.”
Freath looked over Kirin’s shoulder. “Ah, you must be Innkeeper Woolton?” he said to the ruddy-faced man crossing the large reception area toward them.
“I am,” he replied. “Are you the party from the…er…city?”
“Indeed,” Freath said, glad that the man had taken his early warning of discretion seriously.
“Three rooms?” Freath nodded. “They’re ready and waiting for you, sir. Tillie will show you up.” He pointed to a rosy-cheeked girl, no more than thirteen anni, who, going by the dimple in her chin, was his daughter.
Her smile echoed her father’s. “It’s upstairs, sirs,” she lisped.
Their room was very large, with a big window, two beds, and a fabric screen that surrounded a small basin for privacy.
“Nice,” Kirin said as Tillie left.
“Glad you approve,” Freath said, setting down his small leather bag. “So, down to business. A message will be delivered to us but I don’t know—”
A tap at the door interrupted Freath. “Yes?” he called but Kirin moved to open it.
“Sorry to disturb you, sirs,” Tillie said, the words accentuating her lisp as she curtsied. She was carrying a vase of mountain flowers.
Freath was irritated by her re-entry. “Pollen makes me sneeze,” he said.
Kirin glared at him. “Over here, Tillie. I’ll keep it on my side.”
She smiled gratefully, closing the door behind her as she entered the room, which irritated Freath all the more.
“Was there something else?” he asked, frowning.
“Yes,” she said clearly, her lisp gone. “You are Master Freath, are you not? From Brighthelm?”
Kirin glanced at Freath, shocked. Freath had no choice. If worst came to worst, he decided in that moment of alarm, they could overwhelm the girl. “I am,” he replied, masking his fear.
She nodded, her composure surprising him. “Thank you, sir. I was asked to give you a message.”
“I see,” he said, clearing his throat of the relief that was clogging it. “What is it?”
“I’m to tell you to be ready for when the games begin.”
“Games? Ready? For what?”
She shrugged. “I’ve given you the message I was told to deliver, sir. There was nothing else.”
“But what games?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
He nodded, resigned. “All right. Keep that information to yourself.”
“I have and I will continue to do so.”
“Do you know who we are?” Freath asked.
“No, sir. Nor do I wish to. I’m being paid to do this and the man who paid me frightened me. I do not want to be involved.”
Freath nodded and she quickly left the room. He looked at Kirin. “What do you make of it?”
Kirin gave him a look of disdain. “You know what I think. Freath, you’re a house hold servant of the palace and I am a man of the Academy who has also spent his last decade as a curious sort of servant to the ruler. But we’re acting like spies or assassins or something equally clandestine and, even worse, we’re pretending we know what we’re doing. What is in our heads?”
“Loyalty’s in mine,” Freath replied with equal disdain. “But I’m scared too, Kirin. There’s no shame in it. If anything, it will keep us sharp.”
“For what? Our own deaths?”
Freath smiled humorlessly. “A long time ago Clovis told me you were the one who convinced him that the throne of Penraven and the honor of our Crown was worth rallying for…worth dying for, in fact. I’m sure he said that.”
Kirin grimaced. “I’m sure he did.”
“Dying is easy, Kirin, my friend. Staying alive—especially in our situation—is much harder, and far more honorable.”
“I’ll carry that thought with me as a blade enters my belly,” Kirin said, scowling.
Freath sighed. “I suppose chasing here after hopes and shadows means we could be missing out on word of Piven.”
“Clovis will get more word to us when he can.”
“Piven will be almost fifteen anni. Imagine that,” Freath commented, awed by the thought.
Kirin’s voice dropped to a low murmur. “And our king, if this idea of yours bears fruit, will be a man. I’m sure in your mind you see the boy.” Freath nodded sadly. “Well, he’s going to be twenty-two anni, more than old enough to fight for his crown. Have you considered that?”
“I have,” Freath admitted wearily.
Kirin gripped his arm. “We’ve probably aged twice as fast in living our lie at the palace all these years. Leo is likely brimming with bitterness that is fueling his anger and passion.”
Freath looked at his friend. “He’s kept it well under control or someone has helped him to. But,” he sighed again, “the time is nigh. Valisar must rise again or be lost forever.”
“Have you also considered that this peace we enjoy might be a better alternative?”
“What?” Freath said, pulling away.
Kirin raised his hands. “Hear me out.”
“No. I can’t believe you’re thinking like this.”
“I don’t care for bloodshed, you know that. What we went through a decade ago—all those deaths. Just think about those boys we personally had to witness being killed to save one life. What about the queen giving hers so cheaply to ensure your safety?”
“Don’t you dare—” Freath began but Kirin overrode his protest.
“And Genrie? How about her agonizing death to—”
“Stop!”
Kirin held his tongue and had the grace to look abashed. He sighed. “The point is, Freath, we have peace. You yourself admire Loethar…you’ve expressed that to me on many occasions.”
“I do—I even like him in a strange sort of way. But that doesn’t mean I would ignore who rightfully owns the throne of Penraven. My loyalties have not changed.”
“But does it matter anymore? Does it really matter what you or I, or any loyalist, wants? We feel it more because we were right there, wading through the blood. But look around you, Freath. Everyone’s getting on with life. Penraven continues to be as prosperous as ever, the Set thrives and the realms seem more in tune with each other than ever before—surely you would admit that?”
Freath felt his lips thin. He refused to reply, hating Kirin for not only stating the obvious but for reminding him just how well the new empire was functioning. He knew it. He did not need it rubbed in his face.
Kirin continued, his tone now peppered with bafflement. “The thing is, Freath, what we’re pursuing now is more bloodshed. Is this what we want? Loethar has achieved what felt lik
e the impossible all those years ago: peace, cohesion, dare I say harmony between not only the realms, including Droste, but also the Steppes people. We are truly part of an empire and are considered as such by kingdoms as far away as Percheron and Galinsea. We’ve had an envoy from Pearlis in Morgravia on behalf of the Triumvirate to lavish good wishes on Emperor Loethar’s rule and I’m sure its ally Tallinor would gladly support that if it could ever make such a massive journey. Seriously, Freath, our people are strong and protected and peaceful—”
“If not happy,” Freath interrupted sourly.
“Who says they aren’t?” Kirin countered. “You are not happy perhaps. And I may not be happy, and a very small band of rebels that we think might include a Valisar king are likely not happy. But think of the greater folk of our lands. They are content. Do you really think after what they’ve survived they care anymore who is on the throne? The fact is they live in peaceful, prosperous times and Loethar seems to have defied us all and got it right. I know I’m risking your fury saying this, but he’s a good ruler. He’s been frightening in the past but he’s fair and his touch is light and if not for the hideous empress, life could almost be considered sweet in the palace. Yes, he took his crown from a sea of blood but he’s made it up to the people of the Set ever since.”
“Damn you, Kirin! Don’t you think I know it?” Freath’s anger bubbled over. “I work alongside him every day. And every day I have to temper my admiration with memories of how he drove Queen Iselda to demand her own death, how he forced our king to suicide and let’s not forget how he roasted and ate Brennus in front of the queen and Piven. You conveniently forget he butchered thousands of good people on his way to claiming this throne, and—”
“I haven’t forgotten!” Kirin growled back at him. “I just don’t want to live through it again and that’s what your plotting is consigning us to. War again, when this realm and this Set has finally settled into peace. We want peace, Freath. Not more bloodshed.”
Freath waved a hand angrily. “Then go, Kirin. You are no use to me.”
“I’m not sure I ever have been.”
Freath’s head snapped up. “How long have you felt like this?” he asked, shocked.
Kirin shook his head, clearly angry with himself. “Why can’t we just accept life as it is? Why are we pursuing something that we know will provoke war?”
“Because there’s a king out there,” Freath all but hissed, his finger pointing beyond the window. “A rightful king whose throne has been usurped by an intruder. I gave my word to King Brennus that I would do everything in my power to work against Loethar and that somehow, someday I would help his son wrestle back his crown. I will not break that oath. I made it in blood.” He raised his palm to Kirin to show the scar.
Kirin looked back at his companion of a decade and his sorrow was evident. “Look at us, Freath. Truly, what can we achieve? I have a talent but you’ve already seen what it does to me. I am near enough blind in one eye and a finger now twitches incessantly.”
Freath turned, indignant. “I haven’t asked you to use your magic once in the last—”
“You’re missing the point. My powers, though strong, are limited by the weakness of my being just a man. It will destroy me faster than I’ll be able to help you—that’s what I fear. I know you’ve been sparing. But once this new fight begins, you will call upon me again and again,” Kirin said wearily. “I would wreck my body gladly if I thought it could last.”
Freath waved a finger at his friend, hating this schism when he most needed Kirin’s loyalty. “Listen to me. You can leave now if you don’t want to be a part of this. Don’t go back to the palace, just disappear and be free. I’ll think of something to tell anyone who asks. But don’t expect me to do the same. I cannot—will not—relinquish my loyalty to the Valisars.”
Kirin nodded sadly. “Where is the army to come from, Freath, that will go up against Loethar? Where is the aegis that you believe will protect Leo? No amount of our searching has proved fruitful. What is the future for your new king when you have set off a fight that will lay this realm and others to waste?”
“I don’t have the answers you want. I don’t have any answers! But I fear I cannot do this without you. I have no allies in the palace without you.”
“Freath, we are pathetic.”
“I know. But we have to try, don’t we?”
Kirin spun away, looking angry but also torn. Freath looked at the gray silvering Kirin’s hair. It was only a few strands but they had not been there a year ago. He’d watched the lines in the younger man’s face deepen; he’d witnessed wisdom and maturity replacing youth and energy in this man who could no longer be considered young at thirty-three anni. He wondered who Kirin would be had he been allowed to grow into his role at the Academy in Cremond, instead of facing the fear and bloodshed he had. He could wonder that for all of them, though. They would all be very different if their lives had not been scarred by Loethar’s marauding horde.
He couldn’t lose Kirin. Even though he had just urged his friend to leave, he would be devastated if Kirin walked away now. He had to find the right words to make his friend remain. He knew what to do.
“I think you need some time. Don’t disappear, my friend. Instead, go and find Clovis for me. Get away from all of this. Who knows, perhaps you’ll find Piven.” As he said it, Freath realized this plan was wise, far more sound than what he’d originally had in mind. “Meet the boy on safe territory somewhere. Get a feeling for who he is now. Work out a line of communication between us so that we can talk without revealing ourselves. And while you’re doing this, think about your role, Kirin. Consider how much I need you, how much the Valisar boys need every loyal soul we can muster.”
Kirin nodded. “I will take this time you’re offering. Ever since word came through about Piven I’ve felt excited and I’ve needed that after years of feeling hollow. But I don’t want to use Piven to win back a throne. I’ve realized my excitement is for the fact that he’s alive, not that he offers potential.” Freath bit back the retort that threatened to fly from his mouth. “You follow Leo,” Kirin continued. “I’ll find Clovis and we’ll take it from there.”
Freath didn’t know what to feel. He was glad that Kirin wasn’t deserting him entirely, but the separation felt bitter nonetheless. “When will you leave?”
Kirin shrugged. “Immediately. The note said Clovis was heading to Minton Woodlet. I’ll start there.”
“What if he should send more news?”
“He has no more pigeons. He would have used the one you gave Reuth all those years ago; he never had one of his own. I reckon with a horse and some money I can find him faster than he can try and re-open the lines of communication.”
Freath nodded reluctantly. “Money’s no problem. We’ll buy you a horse, though, from here. I don’t think you should take a palace beast, just in case.” There was suddenly nothing more to say. “So you’ll leave, just like that?”
“Freath,” Kirin began gently, then sighed. “Yes. I promise I will get word to you somehow.”
“Won’t you at least share a plate of Osh with me?”
Kirin gave a soft grin. “Do you always have to win?”
Seven
Greven dug his staff into the ground and hauled himself up the incline.
“Are you all right?” Piven asked over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry about me, lad. I’m as strong as an ox.”
“Well an ox, as strong as it is, would be stupid to climb this hill. I still don’t understand why we must.”
Greven gave a brief bitter laugh. “Because only fools would.”
“There’s a perfectly good road below us.”
“Perfectly good, yes. Also perfectly open, perfectly positioned for ambush, perfectly—”
Piven stopped and turned. “Ambush?” he interrupted, his voice leaden with sarcasm.
Greven waved a hand. “Just pause a while. Let me catch my breath.” He looked up to see the sun low
in the sky. It was nearly time to think about an evening meal. “You must be famished. Let’s stop properly and eat something light. We can build a fire later and cook the rabbits we’ve brought.”
Piven unslung the water skin and offered it to Greven, who took it gratefully and drank a few mouthfuls. “Ah,” he sighed with relief. “I suspect I owe you an explanation.”
“I would agree with that,” Piven replied, sitting down beside Greven. “What are you frightened of? What happened yesterday?”
Greven knew the boy deserved to know. And he felt safer now that they had put some distance between themselves and the interfering couple. “A man called Clovis and his wife, Reuth, came to see me. They are looking for you.” As he spoke he delved into a small sack of food, pulling out a tiny loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese and some nuts.
“Me?”
Despite the note of surprise in his tone, Greven sensed that Piven had already guessed as much. The boy’s perceptiveness was unnerving for one so young. “I suppose it was wishful thinking to imagine that anyone from the former royal family would be left entirely alone,” Greven grumbled, more to himself. He placed a knife on the stump of a nearby tree that had obviously been felled a long time ago, its surface smooth enough now to act as a makeshift table.
“They would do better to hunt Leo,” Piven replied carefully.
Greven frowned. The boy was right. So why was he so frightened for Piven and, more to the point, of Piven and his powers? “They probably imagine that Leo is dead. And he could be, for all we know. But someone obviously suspects you’re alive and while you may not be blood, you are still valuable as a figure of hope to any pockets of loyalism.”
Piven shook his head. “It’s been ten anni!”
“Some people have long memories, son.”
“Do they know?”
Greven shook his head, understanding. “No one knows of your change but you and me. And no one should know, if we’re sensible.”
“You want me to pretend to still be simple?”
“I don’t know what I want. I just don’t want anyone to know about your true identity.”
Tyrant’s Blood Page 8
