by Cate Dean
“Let her pass.” Xander appeared behind her, dressed like Thomas, in the rough clothing of a dock worker. The guards stepped aside and Xander caught her arm, pulling her into the courtyard. “Thomas?”
“Went after him,” she gasped, still fighting to catch her breath.
“I’ll take you inside.”
Raine followed him, praying that Thomas had already found Micah. That this would not end like the attempt to take over the noble family in the island kingdom she escaped.
No one involved survived that coup.
~ ~ ~
Liam sat on the step of the dais leading up to the small throne, head in his hands. He didn’t feel worthy to climb any further, not even to the second chair, where he sat beside his stepmother during meetings.
“I am worse than a fool.”
“Yes, you are, my Lord.”
He raised his head as Joseph’s clipped voice echoed through the chamber. “Why are they fighting me on this?”
Joseph let out a quiet sigh, stopped next to the first row of chairs. “Your father never forced religion or doctrine on you, Liam, so you have no idea of the deep hold it can have, or the fervor when it is threatened.”
“All because I changed a date.” His voice was flat, hard.
“You are threatening to upset a ritual that has been in place for hundreds of years.”
Liam stared at him. “I am trying to give them a stable leadership.” He stood, his temper flaring. “The religion they treasure is being threatened by these fanatics! Did you read the madness they sent me? They want a secular kingdom—no, not a kingdom. A city-state, run by the people.”
Joseph raised his hands. “My Lord—”
A loud voice filtered in from the hallway. “We will talk to him now.” The door burst open, and Xander strode in, followed by—Raine, dressed like a desert woman. “Milord—”
“You’re supposed to be with my brother.” Panic coiled through him. “Where is Micah?”
“They took him.” Raine answered for Xander. “There was an angry crowd in the market, and Micah was separated from Thomas and Xander. I tried to get him out of there, but they—”
“Took him,” Liam whispered. “Because of me.”
He sprinted down the aisle, knowing they couldn’t match his speed. He had to find Micah, before his mistake hurt—
Thomas stepped into sight, blocking the doorway. “Milord.” He bowed low, his eyes bright when he lifted his head. Hope crept through the panic. Thomas nodded at the unasked question. “I found him.”
Seven
Micah lay on the cold stone floor, his nose inches from the wall. He couldn’t breathe for the panic threatening to choke him.
They tied his hands.
That they tied his hands behind him, leaving him completely helpless, accelerated the panic.
He could feel the heavy fiber of the rope digging into his wrists as he jerked at the binding. His wordless, gasping cries bounced off the stone walls, echoing back at him. He had to free himself, had to—
A door creaked open behind him. He fought to control his outbursts, to keep from begging whoever stood behind him to please free his hands. He would be fine if they just let him—
“You’ll fare better if you calm yourself, boy.”
He tried to do as the muffled voice asked, but his old fear of being confined overpowered every attempt. His gasping whimpers spiraled to a scream when a hand closed over his wrists.
The man’s other hand smothered his scream, leaning in to whisper. “If a bystander hears you, and comes to investigate, I’ll kill them. In front of you.”
The small part of Micah’s mind not drowning in fear stored that bit of information away. The process started to calm him—and the threat to an innocent stranger helped that along.
Micah took in ragged breaths, forcing away the images of that endless night bound and locked in a trunk. The hand eased away from his mouth.
“I’m all right,” he whispered. His throat was raw, but he kept going. “Can you please—untie me? I don’t—I can’t—”
“You’ll stay like you are, boy, until your stubborn brother agrees to our terms.”
Micah swallowed. Now that the panic had eased, he could feel the ache in his shoulders, and how badly he chafed his wrists fighting to free himself from the fibrous rope.
“Please—”
“No more whining, boy.” Micah froze as a knife flashed in front of him. The shallow wound on his chest was still healing from his last encounter. “Be grateful we vetoed my plan, which was to slit your throat and leave you on your doorstep. Or castle step, in your case.” Micah heard the sneer. “I can’t cut you, but I can do this.”
His fingers tangled in Micah’s queue and yanked his head back. Micah felt the blade saw through his hair, just above the leather tie. Loose strands fell across his cheek.
Micah swallowed. He didn’t care about his hair. The barely contained violence behind the action left him shaking. His captor grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him up. Micah let out a harsh cry, his arms stretching almost beyond their capacity. The man slammed him against the wall, and Micah screamed as his left shoulder gave way.
“Leave him, you fool. We need him alive.”
The second, equally muffled voice filtered in past the agony roaring down Micah’s left arm. Micah recoiled from the hand reaching for him.
“He is gone. Let me see to that shoulder.”
The tall man didn’t say another word as he freed Micah’s wrists, and eased his left arm down. He pressed a thick cloth between Micah’s teeth and tied it off, right before he snapped the dislocated shoulder back into place.
Micah screamed against the gag. His shoulder still throbbed, but the relief from the grinding pain was almost immediate. Fresh rope appeared, this time binding his wrists together in front of him.
“I cannot leave you unbound. I know your reputation, lordling. How clever you are with scraps. Rest—this will be over soon.”
The man stood and crossed the room, pausing in the doorway. To Micah’s intense gratitude, he lit a lamp hanging on a hook next to the door before he left. The sound of a long, heavy bolt destroyed any hope of picking the lock.
Micah leaned against the wall. His shoulder ached, his wrists burned under the rope, and his throat was drier than Mother’s tea cakes. But he was alive, and hope started to push away the fear.
The flickering light revealed his surroundings. He had been locked in a storage room. A storage room with a table full of parts.
Eight
Liam led them through the castle, gathering up what they would need for a quiet ambush—including the guards he trusted, absolutely. He could not afford to be wrong, not with Micah’s life in the balance.
Elena ran into the main hall, cutting Liam off before he reached the arched double doors.
“How could you let them take him!” Elena slapped him, so hard his head snapped to one side. He simply stepped past her, his cheek throbbing. “Do not even think of walking away from me, Liam.”
He spun around, hands clenched. “I am not yours to order around, Elena. I haven’t been since the day I turned eighteen.” With a sigh, he let go of the anger. “Please. Stay here, where you’ll be protected. I am going to go find my brother.”
“Milord.” Raine joined him as he climbed the steps leading out of the main hall. Her hand reached up, hovering near his cheek. “That is going to bruise.”
“I can feel it already. I want you to stay as well. You’ve risked—”
“My Lord!”
Liam halted at the shout, turning in time to see a bloody and disheveled Joseph stumble into the hall.
“No—” He leapt down the stairs, caught Joseph when his legs gave out. “I’ve got you. Easy, Joseph, you’re safe now.”
“My Lord.” He coughed, shaking fingers holding out an envelope. “They overpowered me on the road up here, persuaded me to give you their message.”
“Thank you.” Liam took the
envelope, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Raine, will you take—”
She was at Joseph’s side, brushing the distinctive grey hair off his forehead, to take a better look at the injury. Shaken by the sight of his always impeccable advisor, Liam’s fingers refused to cooperate, fumbling on the flap.
There was no seal, only a piece of the new sticking tape a friend of Micah’s invented. Micah was mad about it, and used it in every possible way he could, even if he did have to all but saw each piece off with his knife…
Please—please don’t let him pay for my mistake.
He finally managed to pull the sheet of paper out. Unfolding it, he stared at the single sentence.
Give in to our demands, and meet us by sunrise, or we will execute your brother.
His legs refused to hold him, and he sank to the step, his hand shaking.
“Liam?” Raine touched his wrist, her voice gentle. “What does it say?” She caught the edge of the sheet, and sucked in a harsh breath. “Oh, no.”
He stared at the words. Five simple words that condemned Micah, because of him. “They are going to kill my brother,” he whispered. He lunged to his feet and stalked across the main hall. “I’m going to give them what they want.”
“No!” Raine caught his arm and yanked him around. “You can’t give in to them—”
“They have Micah!”
“It won’t save him!” She touched his cheek, tears filling her eyes. “Giving in to them won’t save him, Liam.”
“He’s there because of me.” The truth drove into him, and he stumbled away from Raine, undeserving of her care. “He’s going to die because of me.”
“We will not allow it to happen, milord,” Thomas said. He stepped in front of Liam, halting his escape. Liam shook his head as the guard laid his fist over his heart. Xander joined him, along with the half dozen guards behind him. “We know where to find Lord Micah, and we can stop this. But we must go now, milord. Before they discover that we know.”
Liam stared at these men. Men who followed his father, believed in him enough to follow his son. It was time to prove that loyalty went both ways.
“Right.” He took a deep breath, scrubbed at his face. “Raine, I want you to stay here.”
She moved to him, an angry flush staining her cheeks. “I’m coming with you.”
“You are going to stay and tend Joseph.”
“I am well enough, Liam.” Joseph stood, less pale than a minute ago. It eased some of the guilt weighting Liam’s heart. “I will rest in my room, so Raine can focus on preparing for Micah’s return.”
He bowed before Liam could argue, and walked out of the main hall.
“Milord.” Raine stepped to his side. “I want to—”
“No, Raine.” He cradled her cheek, surprising both of them. “Please, I don’t want you in harm’s way.”
“All right,” she whispered. “I’ll stay, get everything ready. You’re bringing him home, Liam.”
“Damn right I am.” He kissed her forehead, then let her go and turned to Thomas. “Do you have my sword?” The guard nodded, retrieved his sword belt from their stash of weapons. Liam buckled it on, pulled the leather tie off his wrist and bound his hair. “Let’s go get my brother.”
Nine
Micah used the lamp to take an inventory of what he had to work with.
It wasn’t easy to get the lamp, with his wrists tied so tightly he had trouble using his hands. His shoulder throbbed, and he could barely use his left arm, but he had light, and the beginning of a plan to get himself out.
Footsteps froze him halfway down the table. Heart pounding, he ran across the room, hung the lamp on a lower hook, cursing under his breath every time he had to raise his arm. He just made it to his former spot when the bolt slid free.
The man with the knife entered, still shrouded from head to toe in black. Micah braced himself, ready to fight this time if he had to. This time, the bastard didn’t find him in the middle of a panic attack.
“We gave your brother an ultimatum. He has until sunrise to step down, and give over the city to us.”
Micah stared at him. “Liam will never—”
“If he refuses, you die.”
Everything around him went still. He felt the cold stone at his back, the sting of the rope on his raw skin, the rapid, painful beat of his heart.
The man stalked across the room, tossing the knife from one hand to the other. Micah stared at him, aware of the danger, but unable to move.
“I’ve been chosen as your executioner, my little lordling.”
The nickname snapped him out of the stupor. Another of his captors called him that, and he didn’t pay attention. Only Liam used the nickname, and only around family—
“Where did you hear that?” he whispered. The man stilled, and Micah knew the question struck at something important—a detail that would give away the identity of at least one of his captors. “Where did you—”
“Shut your mouth, boy!” The man slapped him—so hard Micah spun, his bound hands scraping over the rough stone wall. “Think about this—tonight is your last night to live. I know your brother won’t give up his precious power, even for you. Maybe I’ll just give you a taste of what I have planned.”
The knife flashed and Micah didn’t think—he just acted.
Dropping to his knees, he ducked the swinging blade and threw himself at the man’s legs. They both toppled to the floor.
“You’re dead, boy! You hear me?” Micah crabbed backward, kicking out at the knife every time it jabbed forward. “I spent my life bowing and scraping to your kind—I’m going to make sure you live nice and long, feel every slice of my knife as I cut you into tiny pieces—”
“Enough.”
The voice froze his tormentor. Micah took advantage and scrambled out of range, his left shoulder on fire. He watched the man square his shoulders and turn to the new arrival.
“I was just—”
“Until we win the day, he is still of the royal family, and will be treated with respect.” Muffled like all the others, his voice still rang with authority, and he carried himself like a man who was used to being in charge. “Now get out. If I find you here again, you will join him on the execution platform. Am I clear?”
Without another word, the man nodded and stalked out of the room.
“Thank you,” Micah whispered.
“I wish circumstances had been different, Master Brachon. But my companion did not lie to you. If your brother does not concede to us, we will be forced to take drastic measures.” He spoke of Micah’s execution like it was the unfortunate consequence of a deal that fell through—not the murder it would be. “I brought food, and a pitcher of water. You will not be disturbed further. Take some rest, while you can. The morning will be difficult for all of us.”
He left, locking Micah in. As promised, a plate of bread, cheese, and slices of beef sat next to the door, along with a pitcher and a small glass. Micah used the wall to help him stand, cursing under his breath. He crossed the room, and lowered himself next to the plate, his stomach clenching at the scent of the meat.
As fast as he could with his hands tied, he devoured the food, pausing only to take a long drink of water. Once he finished everything, he had a second glass of water, then piece by piece, took the plate, pitcher and glass to the table, adding them to his inventory. He went back for the lamp, lifting it again. His shoulder rebelled at the weight, and he almost lost his grip on the lamp.
“Damn…” He set it on the floor and sagged against the wall, the constant shocks of the last hours dragging at him. “I can’t do this—I don’t have time—”
He had to. There was no other way out, and no one coming to his rescue. Even if Liam did receive the note they claimed they sent, he had no idea where Micah was being held.
With a deep, unsteady breath, he gathered the last of his strength, picked up the lamp, and swung it until he could get it on the table. Exhausted from the effort, he leaned, resting fo
r a minute. Just a minute…
He forgot about his exhaustion when a pile of black granules caught his attention. It took some maneuvering, since the pile was at the back of the table, but he managed to use the plate to shove enough toward him for closer examination.
A few days sooner, and he wouldn’t have known what it was—but the castle garrison had just received their first shipment of the new weapons Joseph had been pushing at Liam to purchase. Pistols, with the necessary supplies to load and fire them. Micah had been one of the first to examine every bit of that shipment, much to the amusement of the guards.
A smile spread across his face. “That’s a fine start,” he whispered.
The granules turned out to be gunpowder.
Ten
Liam let Thomas take the lead, guiding them through dark, narrow side streets, and alleys layered with filth. The stench worsened with their passage, until Liam was forced to breathe through his mouth, or not breathe at all.
He had no idea the lower city was in such a state. Elena sent him reports, and they never mentioned this, or described the people who passed them in the side streets. Filthy, desperate people, with a look of hunger that tore at him. His stepmother had some accounting to do.
As do I. He should have known not to trust only words on a page. He should have been here, talking to people, seeing how they lived. It had been like that, before Father died. Before the responsibilities of the city, the duchy, were laid on his shoulders.
Liam followed Thomas out of the alley, took a less rancid breath of air, and vowed to make life better for the people here. His people. There was money enough in the treasury—they didn’t need to—
Thomas stopped in front of him, backing them both into the alley and against the damp brick wall. He spoke over his shoulder, keeping himself between Liam and whatever he had seen.
“There are more men guarding the outside of the building. Milord, they have those new pistols.”
