Oathbreaker

by Cara Witter

  It was because of Dektrian that Andronim fell.

  “We’re interrogating some of the villagers now, sir,” one of the soldiers responded. We’ll search every house in town if we have to. We’ll find them—”

  Now Daniella was tugging on Jaeme’s wrist. “Let’s go,” she whispered.

  Jaeme bent low, whispering right in her ear. “It’s General Dektrian. He’s a military genius.”

  Sayvil snorted softly.

  “I’m familiar with his genius,” Daniella hissed back. “Let’s go.”

  “You don’t understand,” Jaeme says. “Every knight in Mortiche knows that story. What we wouldn’t give to have him on our side, and—”

  “I know all about Erich Dektrian!” Daniella snapped. “Let’s go now.”

  Jaeme met her eyes, stunned, and found her glaring at him.

  Maybe that was warranted. He had gotten distracted.

  “Okay,” he said. He followed Sayvil around the corner of the alley, away from where the guards were giving their report.

  They made their way through a side yard to a row of houses along the northeastern waterfront, the light crunch of their footfalls accompanied by the soft rhythmic bumps of fishing boats rocking against each other in the rippling water. As they reached the edge of town, the main road and dilapidated buildings along it veered away from the shore. There was no longer any real path beneath their feet, just grassy earth that seemed to become muddier with every step. They were close to the swamp now—Jaeme could smell the marshreed and mildew.

  Away now from the town’s few lit houses, it was getting to be impossible to see where they were going. Jaeme stopped under a large tree and leaned briefly against its smooth trunk. Long strands of cold leaves blew against his face. They were far enough from the town now that he didn’t see or hear any guards.

  “I think we need to risk some light,” Jaeme said. “I can’t see anything, and I’d rather not walk us off a cliff. The soldiers at the end of town should be too far away to notice. Sayvil, can you make some?”

  Sayvil sniffed. “Not with the moonlight,” she said. “Not unless you want me to blind you. But I have a torch.” She rifled through her pack for a moment, and then Jaeme heard a distinct tapping as she tried to strike a spark. It ignited, illuminating the dense wood.

  Sayvil held the torch forward, toward the north. “It looks like we can head this way.”

  “Into the swamp,” Daniella said. She sounded like there were many fates she would have preferred.

  Jaeme agreed. He’d been stationed on the Grisham side of this swamp once, when he was nineteen, just off his errant year, in the small port city of Haidshir. The town had been pleasant enough, but Jaeme had spent long weeks serving in the marsh guard, who tromped through the edge of the swamp, patrolling the border during Foroclae’s resistance against Diamis. No armies from either country came as far as Haidshir. The whole thing had felt like a mere formality.

  Now he wished he’d paid more attention to the habits of those who lived there. It might have given him an edge in the miserable terrain.

  “I suppose it’s preferable to the sword,” Sayvil said, and she stepped over a log and pressed forward away from town.

  “It’s probably two days’ walk to Haidshir,” Jaeme said. “And we should have plenty of cover.”

  “Cover from the moon,” Sayvil said. “If a boar charges you, don’t rely on me to blind it.”

  It wasn’t long before they discovered how true that was. Moss hung down from the trees, and they had to part it before them as they walked. The trees grew densely together and the reeds so thick that it was no wonder Diamis hadn’t tried to march an army across this land to take Mortiche by way of Haidshir.

  The three of them pushed through the tendril curtain and plunged forward into the depths of the swamp.

  The encampment that Kenton and Nikaenor were brought to was well outside of town. Erich had kept his forces far enough away that it was no surprise they hadn’t noticed anything unusual coming into Ithale. It was obvious by the settled look of the small tent city that the soldiers had been waiting for them for awhile. The ramifications of this were staggering; this wasn’t just a lucky guess on Diamis’ part. Somehow, as Kenton had suspected, Diamis had known, which meant that either he had discovered the location of the godstone and was waiting near it, or he’d been able to track them, as he had to Bothran.

  Either way, Kenton thought, he’s winning.

  He shifted his wrists behind him to ease the ache of the rope binding them together, but it only burned more. He could hear Nikaenor breathing, lying trussed on the opposite side of the tent, but the prisoners were provided no light to see by. It was just as well. Kenton had seen enough of Nikaenor’s broken, lost expression on the long march to the camp. He’d kept stealing glances back at his mother and sister, bound and gagged and carried along by the soldiers.

  They’d left the inn without knowing for certain whether his father was alive.

  Nikaenor looked beaten, even though the soldiers hadn’t assaulted him the way they had Kenton. Perhaps Nikaenor would have felt better if they had. An atonement of sorts for the guilt of placing his family in such danger.

  Kenton remembered what it was like, watching an attack on his own family.

  “Nikaenor,” Kenton said, his voice quiet, scratchy against his bruised throat. He knew the guards outside would be paying close attention to everything they said, but if he spoke softly, secretively, they might think he was stupid enough to not realize they could hear him. A small advantage, but in their current situation, Kenton would take what he could get.

  “It’s over,” Nikaenor said, his voice sullen.

  “It’s not over.” He mulled over what false piece of information to let out to the soldiers, but his mind couldn’t seem to focus. The throb of pain that pulsed along the left side of his face was terribly distracting.

  “It’s over,” Nikaenor repeated firmly. “He’s got us, and there’s nowhere for the others to go. There are too many soldiers. We’ll all be captured or killed. And my family—”

  “They’ll all get out. They’ll find a way. They’ll make it to Berlaith.” He cringed as he spoke the last part, willing Nikaenor to not point out that Berlaith was the last place they would go. Let Erich wonder about that.

  Nikaenor didn’t seem to notice. “It’s impossible. And my family—I don’t know what they’ll do to them. My father . . .” His voice choked off.

  “Is still alive,” Kenton said. It was an even guess, really. He couldn’t let Nikaenor seep into paralyzing despair. Although they had no plan of escape now, an opportunity could present itself at any time, and they both had to be ready to take it. “I saw him move as they took us away.”

  Nikaenor sucked in his breath. “Really? I . . . I was so sure that . . . but what if the soldiers took him, too?” His voice broke. “My sister—”

  “There’s no reason to hurt her. They have us now, and short of Daniella, we’re who they’re after. Not your family.” Kenton felt around the ground as well as he could with his hands tied; unfortunately, there weren’t any sharp rocks or anything he could use. It appeared they had done a good job in clearing the ground.

  Neither of them said anything for a long stretch of time. Kenton tried to work various escape scenarios through in his mind, but he knew too little about the layout of the encampment, and there were too many variables in how things might progress from here. He would simply have to stay alert and watchful for any slip of the guards, any indication of weakness.

  It was hard, though, to keep his mind from wandering in the empty darkness. He wondered how truthful his words to Nikaenor had been—was his family really going to be spared? He tried not to dwell on the fact that if he was in Erich’s place, he would take the family prisoner and use them to manipulate Nikaenor, whether for information or as a precaution agains
t escape.

  Still, hope was fragile, tenuous as spider webbing, but there was no way he would deprive Nikaenor of it.

  Or himself.

  Gods, what of Perchaya? That soldier had followed her away and they hadn’t returned to the tavern. He knew she’d been trying to help—and succeeding, all credit to her. Yet it still galled him that she had come into danger at all, and now he had no idea if she was safe. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Not to mention the others. One of the chosen locked away by Diamis to rot would frustrate their plans indefinitely. Kenton thought about them each in turn. Sayvil. Jaeme. Even Daniella.

  He didn’t want harm to come to any of them.

  “Kenton?” Nikaenor said quietly.

  “Yes?”

  Nikaenor paused before asking, “What do you think they’re going to do to us? I mean, they think we know where the others are, don’t they?”

  Kenton sighed. “Whether or not they really think we know, they have to act like we do. We’re the only potential source of information they have.” Hopefully.

  “But I don’t have any idea where they are,” Nikaenor said.

  “I know,” Kenton replied.

  “What if they don’t believe me? What will they do to me?” The stark fear in Nikaenor’s voice was evident, despite his efforts to keep his tone even.

  A thick sadness settled over Kenton. The kid shouldn’t have to deal with this, with the expectation of torture amidst fear for his family and friends. “They’ll believe you soon enough. You reek of honesty. That’s why I never told you our plans, because I knew you’d be likely to blurt it out with our drink order.”

  “You know where they’re hiding?” Nikaenor asked, ignoring the jab to take the real bait.

  Perfect, Kenton thought. He kept his voice low, but not too low. “Yes, I do.” There. If there were soldiers listening, this would convince them that Kenton didn’t suspect their presence. And it might save Nikaenor and his family members from the more unsavory methods of interrogation.

  “Oh,” was all Nikaenor said.

  Silence fell between them, and Kenton shifted again, trying to relieve the pressure on his wrists, though he could do nothing for the pounding in his head.

  Footsteps passed outside, and finally the tent flap opened. A soldier bent through the door, ringed by lantern light. “The general will see you now,” he said, grabbing Kenton by his feet and dragging him from the tent.

  Joy, Kenton thought. And he let himself be hauled away.

  There was no way for Perchaya to know how long she waited in the hidden room in the basement of the Fish Hook. Her muscles ached from holding bleary-eyed Emaline for what felt like ages, the girl staring into space, unseeing but unable to sleep.

  When the inn above had been silent for a long while, Ronan spoke to Perchaya in a low voice.

  “The soldiers,” he said. “They came here looking for the red-haired girl. What was her name?”

  Perchaya swallowed against her dry throat. She knew they needed to move under a cover of secrecy, but Diamis already knew where they were. If he had had somehow gotten ahold of a blood sample from one of them—Nikaenor’s perhaps? Did she really get all of it out of Lukos’ hands?—he might have been watching through their eyes all along.

  “Daniella,” she said. “Daniella Diamis.”

  Ronan said something in Foroclaean, and from beneath the table, Aralie tsked at him.

  “What in the waves was the daughter of Diamis doing here?” Ronan asked. “And with my brother?”

  Perchaya kept her voice as calm as she could. “Your brother is the bearer of Mirilina.”

  Now Ronan scoffed. “My cursed little brother—”

  “He’s not cursed,” Perchaya said. “His transformation is the sign of the chosen. It’s a gift, and it’s come in handy more than once.” She didn’t mention that most recently it had come in handy for running down a hallway, drawing guards in circles as a full fish person. She’d let Nikaenor share that story, if he chose to.

  From beneath the table, Aralie peeked out. “The bearers are supposed to be called to prevent the release of Maldorath,” she said. “He can’t be chosen unless—”

  “Unless Diamis means to break the seal,” Perchaya said. “Unless Diamis is taking over all of the Five Lands in an effort to subdue our resistance, so that Maldorath can take full control.”

  “Gods-damned bastard,” Ronan said, and Aralie tsked him again, looking meaningfully down at the sleeping Tam in her arms.

  Ronan continued undeterred. “I knew we should fight. We didn’t lose the war so much as just give up. We should have fought until there were none of us left standing.”

  “Hush,” Aralie said. “If they had, Dad would be dead.”

  “Or we would have won,” Ronan said.

  “Regardless,” Perchaya said. “You’re right. Now we need to fight. We all do, with everything we have. We have to resist Diamis, and recover your brother, and make sure the others are safe. If we don’t, our children won’t be born to say the same of us.”

  There was a chilly silence, and then Ronan nodded his agreement.

  Good, Perchaya thought. Aralie might worry, but Perchaya was grateful for Ronan’s fire. If Kenton and Nikaenor were alive—and Perchaya had to believe they were—they were going to need all of that they could get.

  The floorboards above creaked, and they all tensed but stayed silent. But when a single set of footprints descended the stairs at last and rapped lightly on the sliding door, Perchaya’s muscles ached with relief. The door hadn’t opened. This person hadn’t had to search—they’d known right where to come.

  Ronan kept tight hold of his frying pan but lowered it when the door slid aside to reveal an older man to whom he bore a striking resemblance—though this man’s beard was longer and scruffier than Ronan’s.

  “Are you all right?” Ronan asked.

  Nikaenor’s father gently touched the side of his head, and his fingers came away streaked with blood. “I think so. Took a bad lump is all.Where’s your mother?”

  “She was upstairs in the tavern,” Perchaya said. “Her and Nikaenor and Kenton, and the little girl—”

  “Esta,” Emaline said. “They took Esta.”

  Nikaenor’s father reached for the wall like he needed it to steady himself, and he let out a shaky breath. “They aren’t among the dead. They must have been captured. By the gods, why would they take them?”

  “She says Nikaenor’s a bearer, Dad,” Emaline said.

  Perchaya’s eyes widened. She hadn’t known the girl had been paying attention.

  “A bearer,” the man said. He shook his head. “Gods, I always wondered, but—”

  “What?” Ronan and Aralie said together.

  Nikaenor’s father looked a bit sheepish. “He had the mark. And what could Nikaenor have ever done to be cursed? It seemed like a blessing, from Mirilina’s perspective anyway. A curse from the goddess of the sea would be for the water to kill him, not for him to be better suited to it.” He looked to Perchaya. “Is that why they took him? How would they have known?”

  Perchaya wasn’t sure how to begin to answer that last bit. “He is desperately important to stopping Diamis,” she said, avoiding it entirely for now. “We have to get him back. And your wife and daughter.” And Kenton, she added like a prayer.

  “We do,” Nikaenor’s father said. “But how is another matter.”

  It certainly was. Surely the guards wouldn’t have taken only Kenton and Nikaenor’s bodies, leaving their own dead behind. They had to be alive, and might even have had time to escape. But if Kenton had, he would be tearing this place apart looking for her. He would have guessed she was still in the inn. They would have heard him by now.

  The five of them moved out of the cramped space of the hidden room. Nikaenor’s father secur
ed the door, and then offered her his hand. “I’m Feldan,” he said.

  “Perchaya,” she said. “I’m traveling with Nikaenor and the others, who are also bearers, and we’re here for the godstone of Mirilina.”

  Feldan stared at her like this was far more difficult to believe than that his own son might be a bearer. Feldan looked at Ronan, who stared defiantly back at his father. Perchaya held her breath, not sure what he was going to say. “The soldiers were here for you all, then.” His tone was tense, a string being pulled too tight.

  Perchaya nodded. “Me. Kenton. Nikaenor. The other chosen.”

  “And Daniella Diamis!” Ronan said. “I rubbed arms with a gods-damned princess.”

  “Ronan,” Aralie said. “Watch your tongue.”

  But Feldan looked far more stunned by the news than the swearing.

  “Diamis’ daughter in my tavern?” he asked.

  “She’s working with us,” Perchaya said. “She’s no threat.”

  “Like hells.” Feldan’s hands balled into fists. “You all brought this down on us, bringing her here, and now my wife and my children—”

  “We brought it on ourselves,” Ronan snapped. “By failing to resist.”

  Feldan shot his son a look. “Hold your tongue. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about fighting,” Ronan said. “I’m talking about doing what has to be done.”

  “Yes,” Perchaya said. “What needs to be done for all of them.” Perchaya was glad she was still wearing her long gloves over her Drimmish ring—she wasn’t sure Feldan would take any more kindly to having hosted a Drim than he did to Diamis’ daughter.

  She was also glad for Ronan’s insistence. She would need help, and a lot of it. She was not a strong fighter and in previous battles had relied upon luck and instinct to survive. That wouldn’t be enough, now. Not if she wanted to bring the townspeople through this alive.

  First, she would need to discover where the others were being held. “Where did all the soldiers come from?” Perchaya asked Feldan, who had turned away to glare at the basement food stores as if they, too, might be responsible for his family’s suffering. “Have they been here long? Do they have a camp? Or did they just appear tonight?”