The Bloodbound (24 page)

“Escaping . . .”

“He's gone, Gwylim. We have to get out of here.” He slumped against her resignedly, and they ducked outside. There, they came upon a bloodied Arran Green. “The Priest got away,” Alix reported before he could ask. Green said nothing. He just nodded and took Gwylim's other arm.

They rounded the tent to find Liam and Ide flanking a single, grim-looking Oridian. He didn't put up much of a fight. He tried his luck with Ide, but she parried easily, and Liam took him in the back. With his death, the scouts suddenly found themselves alone in the clearing.

“There are more of them on the far side of the tent,” Alix said. “They'll be here any moment.”

“Doubtful,” said Green. “They are focused on getting the Priest out of danger. But once that is done, they will come back. We must be gone by then.”

Liam gathered a limp Kerta into his arms and looked her over, stricken. “Probably just blood loss,” Gwylim said, still sounding woozy. “They wouldn't have hurt her too much if they wanted to make her a thrall.”

Liam nodded, but he didn't look comforted. “Let's get out of here,” he said, cradling Kerta protectively against him.

“Wait,” said Alix, “the prisoners . . .”

“No time,” said Green.

“But there's only a handful of enemy soldiers left. It looks like this was just a staging point—”

“
Enough.
” Green's eyes were as hard as his voice. “We do not know how many they are. Gwylim and Kerta cannot fight, and I am not at my best. Do you intend that three of us should face the enemy alone?”

Alix felt heat rise to her face. She opened her mouth to retort, but the words died on her lips. Green was right. There was no way of knowing how many Oridians were left, but it was almost certainly too many. And they would be back any moment now. As soon as their Trion was safely whisked away, they would return for their prisoners—and for revenge.

Green stared her down until the defiance drained from her eyes. “This way,” he said, and he led his ragged, broken party back into the trees and out of sight.

*   *   *

Alix sat perched
on the edge of her cot, staring into nothing. She'd been there for half an hour, maybe more, just sitting in her armour, the blood of the men she'd killed still caked on her skin. She'd managed to remove her swordbelt; the weapon stood clutched in her hand, tip resting on the ground. But that was as much as she'd been able to accomplish. For the rest, it was as if she had arrived only moments before. She felt hollow. Frozen. Blank but for a single thought that haunted the empty corridors inside her:

You let him get away.

He was
right there
. Madan. The Priest. The most powerful of the three Oridian lords, the zealot who drove his country to war again and again to please his gods. The bloodbinder who kept his army equipped with enchanted weapons. The dark witch who enslaved men's wills, turned them into mindless monsters. He'd been fifteen feet away at most, so feeble he could barely stand. And Alix had let him escape.

There would never be another chance. Not like that. Alix had failed her king and her country. How many more would die because of her? How many more turned into puppets? The terrorised faces of the Aldenian prisoners seemed to stare out at her from the shadows, accusing.
You left us behind. You left us to
him
.
Would she recognise one of them someday, on the wrong side of the battlefield, charging toward her with a blank face and a bloody blade?

She closed her eyes to ward off the tears. Then she heard a rustle near the door, and she opened them again. The king stood inside the tent flap.

He didn't speak. He just gazed down at her, taking in her filthy state with an unreadable expression. The light from a tallow candle flamed along the contours of his armour, giving him a strange glow, as if he were some heavenly being come to judge her. Perhaps that was not far off. Erik would certainly have been informed by now. He would know of her failure, how she had let their greatest enemy slip through her fingers. She tried to meet his eye. Couldn't. Couldn't even draw herself up straighter to receive his judgement. She hadn't the dignity. She stared at the ground and waited.

But Erik wouldn't let her off that easy. He dropped to his haunches before her, bringing him to eye level. Alix tried again to look at him, but she still couldn't bear it. She got as far as his breastplate before she froze, trembling, unable to continue. He took her chin and tilted her head until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. Then her eyes swam with tears, and she saw no more.

Erik rose and turned away.
He's leaving
, Alix thought dully.
He's too disgusted even to speak.
But instead he went to the basin and poured out a pitcher of water, returning a moment later with a bowl and a damp cloth. He sank to his knees. Gently, he pried the sword from her fingers and set it aside. Then he took her face in his hands and began to dab at it. Alix started to reach for the cloth, to take it from him, but her arms wouldn't move. It was as if she were numb from the neck down. Rivulets of water mixed with the tears sliding down her cheeks as he caressed her face with the cloth, lifting away the blood and dirt. He worked in silence, as methodical as any healer. When he'd finished, he went on to her hands, washing her fingers with his own. Alix watched him, mesmerised, shame and despair and warmth and want mingling like blood and water in a bowl. She was still trembling, but she was no longer sure why.

The water and the tears dried together. Alix tried to find her voice, but she was afraid of breaking whatever spell had brought the King of Alden to her tent, to his knees, to wash away her sins.

Erik took her hand in both of his and turned it over, exposing the buckles of her vambrace. He started at her wrist and worked his way up, first the right vambrace, then the left. When the armour came free, he set it aside and took up the cloth again, washing away the dirt that had been trapped underneath. The newly exposed skin thrilled to his touch. Next, he reached for her chest, tugging at the laces and loosening them around her breasts. Alix's breath came faster. Erik glanced up, but said nothing, moving on to the buckles. Moments later, he lifted the leather free. Sweat had plastered Alix's thin shirt to her body, leaving every contour exposed. She felt herself blushing, but Erik just moved on to her boots.

When he was through, Alix sat half naked on her cot, shivering. Erik reached past her to pull down the blanket, and when he leaned in, Alix turned her face into his, brushing his lips with her own. He hesitated. Alix felt his hand go to her thigh, felt the pressure of his fingers. He stood. He cleared away the bowl and placed her armour in a pile in the corner. Then he snuffed the candle with his fingers and was gone.

M
ud sucked at the horses' hooves, lending a grim rhythm to their grim procession. The slurping reverberated off the underbelly of the stone arch and rolled the short length of the tunnel, making it sound as though they were a hundred horses instead of twenty. If only it were so—then maybe Alix wouldn't feel so exposed. Even the protective stone canopy of the Elders' Gate failed to ease her fears; instead, it felt like the jaws of a trap. Alix couldn't help glancing over her shoulder at the ranks of men marching behind, and as the column emerged from the far end of the gate, she twisted in her saddle to look up at the ruined ramparts of the old curtain wall. Her gaze scoured the crumbling stones like a hawk searching for a meal, but instead of lizards, she looked for bowmen; instead of food, she looked for death.

He wouldn't ambush us here
, the reasonable part of her argued. If the Raven meant to attack them, he would hardly wait until they were on the very doorstep of Erroman before falling upon them. There were plenty of better places to spring a trap, places that weren't a horn's blow away from the new city walls and the thousands of eyes and ears they sheltered. Or if he didn't care who might see, if he judged that the whole of Alden already knew him for a traitor, he would simply sweep down on them with a thousand horses and break them as surely as the Harrami hordes had broken these old walls in the days of the empire. So Alix told herself, but it was little comfort.

The wet slurping of mud gave way to the dry clatter of cobbles as they passed down what had once been the temple road. It was cool here in the lee of the gate tower, the only part of the ancient Erromanian fortifications to remain intact. The afternoon's heat still radiated up from the paving stones, but it was nothing compared to what had beaten down on them for the past two hours. Though it was nearing dinnertime, the sun still wreaked havoc in the western sky. Rahl's watch grew long as the season progressed, and he surrendered his shift more reluctantly each night.

If Erik suffered under the heat, he gave no sign. The king rode straight and tall, splendid in his shining new armour and flowing white cape. Brownhold's master smith had done himself credit on such short notice, for though plain, the plate and mail gleamed as though wrought of purest silver. The king's horse, the proudest destrier left at Brownhold, was barded all in white silk, a fine, exotic weave worthy of a bridal gown. Young Aina Brown had surrendered the fabric gracefully. She'd only smiled and declared it an ill season for a wedding, and when it came time to stitch the golden sun on the king's cape, Aina had taken up the needlework herself.
Farika must be your sign, my lady
, Erik had told her as he kissed her hand, and Alix thought the girl might faint clean away.

At the king's left rode the Greens—Raibert, nearly as grand as his king in spotless armour and emerald cape, and Arran, dour and dark and dressed like a soldier. To Erik's right was Rig, whose black hair and black cape and black horse gave him the look of a living shadow. Adelbard Brown rode on Rig's other side, his daughter Rona, heir to the Brown banner, next to him. The White, Green, Black, and Brown banners marched all in a line, each one mounted on a gilded spear. Taken together, they were an impressive sight—or so the great lords hoped. So intent were they on the symbolism of it all that they hadn't allowed Alix to take her customary place at the king's flank. Instead, she rode directly behind him—as though she could do anything to protect him from there.

At last, the city gates loomed into view. They stood open, with only a few guards flanking them. Alix let out the breath she'd been holding, and Rig threw a relieved look over his shoulder. Then Alix felt another pair of eyes on her, and she turned to meet the icy gaze of Albern Highmount.

“Forgive me, my lady,” the first counsel said, “perhaps you have forgotten, but the idea here is to look confident.
As bold as a Black
, is that not what they say? For once, it would be preferable for you to live up to your family's reputation.”

Alix muttered a particularly bold suggestion under her breath, but otherwise focused her attention on the approaching walls. She could see archers prowling the ramparts, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. Even in peacetime, the city was well protected. She was more disturbed by the quiet on the road. It wasn't market day, but even so, the city gates should have seen a steady flow of traffic. Instead, the road was virtually deserted save for a single oxcart lumbering under the archway. Tensions were running high in the capital, it seemed.
Is it the Oridians the city fears most, or civil war?
It had been too long since she'd had news from Saxon.

The guards at the gate stood stiff as statues, their spears pointed at the sky. They would have been warned hours ago of the king's coming, but what were their orders? It was the first real test. Alix scanned the impassive faces for some sign of their intentions. Erik, though, did not so much as glance at them. Instead, he rode straight through as if nothing were amiss, as if it were perfectly normal for the king's long-awaited return from the front to be greeted with such edgy silence.
It feels more like a funeral march than a homecoming
, Alix thought grimly as the banner lords folded in behind the king.

She followed Erik's lead and made herself stare straight ahead as she guided her horse through the gate. The temple road unfurled before them, its black paving stones glittering with flecks of mica.
The Street of Stars.
Alix couldn't help smiling a little. The last time she'd seen the famed causeway of the capital, she'd been nine years old and half dazed with awe.
Look, Papa, there it is! It sparkles just like you said!
Her father had smiled and tweaked her braid.
You should see it after dark, my love, when the lamps are lit. Too bad it'll be past your bedtime . . .

The memory evaporated like heat from the paving stones, and Alix's smile with it. The Street of Stars held no enchantment for her now. It did not lead anywhere she wanted to go.

Lower Town was quieter than she remembered, but it still swarmed with activity—at least until the king's party started up the Street of Stars. Then people began to stop and stare at the riders, and when they saw who led the column, they fell as still as the guards at the gate. The murmur of voices died down. Merchants ceased to cry their wares. Mules and oxen were drawn up. Soon, the only sound was the clatter of hooves and the steady, cheerful gurgle of the Fountain of Virtues. Erik gazed ruthlessly ahead, but Alix could see his shoulders stiffen beneath the cape.
They just stand there, stunned, as if he were a ghost.
The White Ravens had obviously done their work. The people had no idea how to react to the unexpected appearance of their half-deposed monarch. It was almost too much for Alix to bear.
Here is your king!
she wanted to shout at them.
Don't you know your true king when you see him? Don't you know how he fights for you?

A young girl stepped away from her flower cart, pushing to the front of the crowd to get a better look. She was a scruffy thing, no more than twelve, with a faded ribbon in her hair and dust clinging to the hem of her frock. In her hand, forgotten, dangled a rose she'd been trimming when the world around her had gone still. She gazed up at the king, eyes wide, mouth half open. Something about her drew Erik's attention, and he slowed his horse. The girl glanced down at the flower in her hand, then stood on her toes to offer it to the king. Erik reached down and took the rose. He smiled.

It was like sunlight melting the ice. The street came suddenly alive. People began to call out. Only a few voices at first—a prayer, a hail, a timid cheer—but it soon built into a chorus. The crowd pressed in, hands reaching out to brush Erik's fingers, to touch his gleaming greaves, to stroke the silk barding of his horse. They fell in beside the column, following alongside and clasping the arms of any rider they could reach. Alix flinched at the first touch on her leg, and her horse muttered suspiciously, but there was nothing threatening in any of it, and for once Alix didn't fear the press of people around her king.
Erik needs this. And Tom will hear of it too.
She wondered if anyone had given the Raven a rose when he returned from Boswyck. She doubted it.
For all his strength, Tom can never compete with Erik for the people's love.

The crowd grew as they rode on. Scores joined them in the Temple Square, and even more in Upper Town. By the time they reached the Gallery of Heroes, Erik's informal retinue stretched back as far as Alix could see.
That's better than a hundred banners
, she thought smugly, and she even shared a grin with Albern Highmount.

The palace gates swung open as the riders drew near. Alix wasn't sure what to make of that, and from the look of Highmount, neither was he. The crowd peeled away as the column rode between the great iron-banded doors, and Alix felt exposed all over again. Erik must have felt it too, for no one was more conscious than he of the protection the common people afforded him. As before, however, he gave no sign of anxiety; he just nodded coolly at the palace guards as he rode past. They wore the same raiment as Alix's own royal guardsmen, as did the men on the ramparts.
That might get confusing later on
, she thought darkly.

The bailey, like Lower Town and the Imperial Road before it, was quieter than it should have been. Guards stood at attention, their faces seemingly carved from marble, but no one else was about. Where there should have been grooms and footmen and various other servants, there was only an empty yard. The Three Keeps loomed over it all. Somewhere inside one of them—the North Keep, Alix presumed—Prince Tomald White waited for his brother.

Erik's squire played the part of groom while the king dismounted, and Alix wasted no time getting to his side where she belonged. Her fingers curled around the hilt of her bloodblade, but she did her best to keep her face as inscrutable as those of the guards.

“Your Majesty!” A thin, piping voice cut across the courtyard. A portly man in a white doublet rushed Erik so enthusiastically that he was fortunate not to have died upon Alix's sword; only the king's hand at her elbow stayed her.

“I should be obliged if you didn't kill my steward, Captain,” Erik said with a wink. As for the portly man, he just blinked stupidly.

Alix scowled, unsure which of them she was more annoyed with. She threw her blade back into its scabbard with a deliberate
snap
.

“Your Majesty.” The man bowed as deeply as his gut could accommodate. “I cannot express my joy at seeing you safely returned to us. The gods are good.”

“Thank you, Arnot. It's good to be home.”

Arnot the steward licked his lips. “His Highness Prince Tomald bids me . . . ah . . . that is, he regrets the breach of protocol, but . . . ah . . .” He patted a handkerchief to his balding brow. The poor man was sweating like an overheated cheese.

Erik put a hand on his shoulder. “It's all right, Arnot. What message did my brother give you?”

“His Highness has decided to spend a few days on the Grey estate, Your Majesty, at the invitation of Lord Roswald. For, ah, a spot of hunting, I believe. But once Your Majesty has settled in, His Highness would be pleased to call upon you.”

No trace of emotion touched Erik's face. “Very good. Tell my brother I shall receive him in one hour.”

Erik and his lords were ushered into the North Keep. Arnot explained the accommodation arrangements as they walked, but Alix wasn't listening. Instead she scanned her surroundings, doing her best to memorise everything they passed.
By dawn tomorrow
, she vowed,
I'll know every inch of this keep.
Every door, every twist and turn. All the ways in, and all the ways out. Every stairwell and where it went, every secret place a man could hide himself.
Every inch, even if it means I go without sleep.

“That will all be fine, Arnot,” Erik was saying, “except that I shall require another set of rooms to be prepared in the royal suite. The Crimson Rooms, I think.”

The steward was too well trained to show his puzzlement; only the barest blink gave him away. “Very good, sire.”

Erik turned to his lords. “We will greet my brother in the oratorium in one hour. I trust that will give us all enough time to refresh ourselves.”

“Your Majesty,” Alix said as the others were led away by the servants, “with your leave, I would like to examine the oratorium.”

He gave her a knowing look. “Reconnoitre it, you mean. Alix, we've been on the road since dawn. You must be as exhausted as the rest of us. Besides, if my brother meant me harm, he would hardly stash assassins in the oratorium. The palace has been his for months. He has no need of such devices.”

Alix couldn't deny his logic, but she didn't care—she didn't want Erik meeting the Raven in a room she hadn't inspected first. He obviously read as much from her face, because he sighed and said, “Very well, but you are still a Black, and your brother will want you to look the part.”

“My brother, or my king?”

“Both.”

She smiled. “Don't worry, I'll wash up.”

She did as promised before setting off to find the oratorium. It wasn't difficult—the room was large enough to hold at least five thousand people. The gallery alone required four separate hearths to keep it warm, and the benches could seat at least five hundred, Alix judged. She wondered what sort of audience would require the room to be filled to capacity. Royal weddings, certainly, and funerals. And coronations. The oratorium would have been full to bursting when King Erik White was crowned at the age of twenty-one.
I wonder who will bear witness to his overthrow, if it comes to that?
Alix pushed the thought away.