The Bloodforged (38 page)

“Rodrik White was born only a few moments after his brother. Straightaway, the midwife saw something was wrong. His right arm was withered, just over half the length of the left. Choked by the cord, the midwife said, but who knows? Blessedly, the woman had the presence of mind to fetch His Majesty straightaway, and of course King Osrik summoned me.

“Identical twins.
Firstborn
identical twins, and boys in the bargain. A more wretched eventuality for a king cannot be imagined. Even Osrik, who delighted in mocking me for my supposedly exaggerated caution, saw the danger immediately. Even so, he would not countenance the obvious solution. Queen Hestia would never forgive him, he said. So he contrived to have the boy sent away, somewhere remote enough that he would never be discovered. As though such a thing could ever be guaranteed.” The chancellor shook his head scornfully, took a long pull of his wine. “He granted me one concession, at least: that the child be exiled from Alden altogether. It was not foolproof—nothing short of destroying the boy could accomplish that—but at least, if the child were raised in a foreign land, the chances of him one day being recognised would be greatly lessened.

“To add to his protection, we enlisted the aid of the King of Andithyri. He would ensure that the boy was sent somewhere suitably removed from civilisation. Guards, posing as ordinary farmers, would take up residence in the nearest hamlet, with orders to silence anyone who learned the truth of the boy's
identity. Needless to say, this was a great deal to ask of an ally, especially one with whom we were so recently reconciled. King Berendt was far too cunning to let such an opportunity pass him by, so naturally, he asked for something in return. Something hugely significant. Again, I counselled against it, and again, I was overruled.”

“The Treaty of Imran,” Alix whispered, her hand going to her mouth. “Oh my gods . . .”

Her memory travelled back in time, to the words of a departed friend around a crackling campfire.
Scholars everywhere are still puzzled about what old King Osrik was thinking
, Gwylim had said.
It doesn't make sense to risk Alden's security for Andithyri, especially when the Trionate was already showing signs of expansionism. Andithyri could never protect us if the situation were reversed, so what did we get out of the deal?

“A foolish commitment,” Highmount said. “I told him the cost was too high, but he would not listen. That damned treaty sealed our fates nearly thirty years ago.” He gazed up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Ironic, is it not? The price of protecting Rodrik White's identity was the very treaty that committed us to this war, and it is because of that war and the invasion of Andithyri that his identity has somehow been discovered. The guards, I expect. Taken captive in the course of battle, tortured, or perhaps merely looking to secure their release.” He sighed. “We will never know, I suppose.”

“And Erik knows nothing of this?” Liam's voice was rough, his skin flushed.

“He was told that he had a twin sister who died at birth. He was also told that this was a great secret, one he must never reveal. Apparently, however, he did not take that injunction to heart.” Highmount shot a wry look at Alix.

“And the queen?” Liam asked.

“She knew the truth. She had already seen the baby, held him and named him. She begged His Majesty not to send him away. She never got over the grief, poor woman. It is what took her in the end, I believe.”

Alix was scarcely listening anymore. “That's got to be it,” she said numbly. “The Oridians have Rodrik, and they're
using him to warp Erik's mind.” Saying it out loud sounded absurd, but there was no other explanation.

A wave of guilt crashed over her. Liam must have seen it, because he said, “It's not your fault, Allie. You couldn't have known.”

“Couldn't I?” Memories flashed through her mind, a dozen instances of Erik behaving strangely. His raw fury in the moments before they were captured. His disgust with himself for letting slip his identity, and later, his admission of how he'd struggled with the
pasha
. The way he'd looked at her, his touch on her arm . . . All of it
before
the disaster with Omaïd. How many other moments, hints she hadn't picked up on or been privy to? “I should have seen. I should have helped him.”

“Even had you known,” Highmount said, “there was nothing you could have done for him.”

But that wasn't quite true. She could have been more compassionate. She could have been there for Erik, instead of berating him, and later, avoiding him. He'd deserved the benefit of the doubt, earned it a thousand times over, and she hadn't given it.

It's done now
, she told herself, drawing a deep breath. There was no point looking back. “So what do we do?”

“We have to find them,” Liam said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “Rodrik. The bloodbinder. Rescue one, kill the other.”

“How?”

“We know where Rodrik lived, don't we? We can start there. I'll take the Pack and—”

Highmount was already shaking his head. “You cannot leave the capital, Your Highness. Not now.”

“Why in the hells not?”

Highmount turned to Alix. She knew what he was going to say, and it made her ill.

“Tell me the truth, Your Highness. If you say he can do this, I will believe you.”

She looked helplessly at her husband.

For a moment, Liam just stared back at her. Then, slowly, understanding dawned. “No.” He sprang out of his chair as if it had scalded him. “No way.”

“Liam . . .”

“
No way
, Allie. How could you even . . . either of you? Have you both lost your minds?”

She rose, spreading her hands as if to calm a wild animal. “It would only be temporary. You've already done it once. This would be no different.”

“No different?” His eyes were white-rimmed, like a terrified horse. “It was
two weeks
, and Erik wasn't even here. What you're talking about . . . it's
treason
. Even worse treason than before, I mean. This is
really
treason.
Huge treason.
”

“It would be preferable if you would stop saying that word at
quite
such a volume, Your Highness,” Highmount said between gritted teeth, “unless you would like to see us all beheaded.”

“See?” Liam stabbed a finger at the chancellor. “Exactly! Beheaded, Alix! That doesn't sound like a good outcome to me!”

She dropped into her chair, cradling her head in her hands. “Sit down, please. We need to think.”

“Yeah, you do need to think, both of you. A lot more.”

Alix ignored that. “What would we tell people?” she asked Highmount.

“The truth. That His Majesty is ill and needs time to recover. After his ordeal in the Broken Mountains, no one will question it.”

Liam glared at both of them. “And while I'm poncing about pretending to be king, who's going after Rodrik? Or do you plan to tell someone else about this lovely little development?”

“I will,” Alix said. “I'll ride down to the front first. Rig needs to know what's happening.”

“Agreed,” said Highmount. “We cannot have any confusion about who is giving the orders.”

“So, what,” Liam said, “your plan is to go alone? Into enemy territory? Do you honestly think I'm going to allow that?”

She scowled. “There, you see? You're getting the hang of this king business already.”

“Allie—”

“Don't
Allie
me. Unless you're planning on poisoning me again, you can't stop me.”

Liam folded at the waist, arms clasped over his head as though bracing for impact. “This is a nightmare.”

“Yes,” Alix said, “it is. But we're living it, so unless you have a better idea, this is the way it has to be.”

The silence that followed felt thick, polluted. Alix dragged it in and out of her lungs, willing her head to quit swimming. Highmount stared at his desk. Liam remained curled over himself, features obscured within the shield of his arms. He was still in that position when he broke the silence. “What about Erik?”

A pained expression crossed Highmount's face. “The royal apartments can be sealed off from the rest of the palace. A quarantine, if you will.” He glanced at Alix, and she was struck by how impossibly ancient he looked in that moment. “Your guardsmen. Are there any you can trust with this?”

“I lost some of my best men in the mountains. But yes, there are a few.”

“If we do this,” Liam said, “I want the Wolves with you. Give me that, at least, Allie.”

She nodded wearily.

“Very well,” Highmount said, straightening. “We know what we must do.”

T
orchlight licked at the rough stone surface of the walls, filtered through deer antlers to throw strange veins of shadow along the dining table. The figure lying atop it was pale as death, wrists and ankles horribly bruised from the bonds, but his chest rose and fell steadily. He looked peaceful lying there, drugged out of his wits. Watching him brought peace to Sadik's breast too. It was so easy to imagine that he was Erik White, captured and broken, utterly at the mercy of the Trionate. Sadik took comfort in that, even if he
wished it were another, darker-haired man in his place. Having Erik White in the palm of his hand was a delightful feeling, but having Riggard Black—that would have been glorious.

Then again, he could not deny there was a certain pleasure in having such an enemy out there in the field. It made the anticipation that much sweeter. He had cursed his luck at having Arran Green taken from him, but perhaps his anger had been premature. Green's successor was proving himself a most diverting opponent. Perhaps his skull would be worthy of Sadik's mantel after all.

Things really were going wonderfully, he decided. The battle at the fort had been an unfortunate turn of events, but the fates had more than compensated him with the botched attempt on Varad's life. The existence of the plot was a stroke of luck, the imbecility of the would-be assassin an even greater boon. But that it should be Kurya, the cleverest, most ambitious of Sadik's Crimson Guardsmen who should stumble upon the event—what more proof could be needed that the gods favoured his designs? Kurya had seized upon the opportunity, for he had served in the Crimson Guard long enough to see what a millstone Varad had become. Moreover, Sadik had instructed him to be on the lookout for just such an opening, though admittedly he had assumed it would be more in the nature of a pillow to the old man's face.

And now Sadik was free. The last remaining Trion, and if he had his way, the last of the Trions altogether. It was time for a new order—past time, really—and now, thanks to the goodwill of the gods, he was nearly there. What was a petty skirmish at an insignificant fort compared to that?

“My lord.” The soft voice at the door drew Sadik from his musings. “I did not expect to find you here.”

Sadik's gaze drifted over the figure on the table. “I like to watch him, Dargin. It pleases me.”

Light footsteps crossed the solar. “It is nearly time for his tonic.” Dargin reached over the table and tucked his fingers under the red-gold beard, feeling for a pulse. He nodded to himself, satisfied.

“And Erik White? What can you tell me about how he fares?”

The bloodbinder smiled, revealing his unsettlingly white teeth. “It is much easier, my lord, now that he is back in
Erroman. At such a great distance as he was, the best I could do was inflame his emotions. Rather like a bellows to the coals, if you will forgive an analogy. I could not create a spark, but I could stoke it into an inferno.”

“I have little patience for analogies,” Sadik growled. In truth, he had little patience for the bloodbinder—for his soft, doughy features, his obsequiousness—but there was no denying the man's usefulness.

The bloodbinder bowed his head. “Apologies, my lord. It was not my intention to be obtuse. What I meant, my lord, is that physical distance matters to the bloodbond. It is one of several factors influencing the strength of the enchantment, along with the freshness of the blood, its quantity, and the skill of the bloodbinder. The greater the physical distance from the subject, the more muted the effects of the bloodbond. Erik White's voyage to Harram temporarily weakened my hand.”

“How so?”

“My control over him was limited. I could not compel his actions, nor even plant thoughts in his mind. But I was able to magnify his emotions, make them infinitely stronger.”

“And what did you accomplish with that?”

Dargin shrugged. “No way of knowing, my lord. At that distance, the bloodbond does not offer a clear view into the mind. I could sense his feelings—fear, or anger, or desire—but I knew nothing of his actual circumstances, whether fuelling those feelings would hurt him or aid him.”

Sadik scowled. “What good is that?”

“In general, my lord, I have found that rampant emotions are rarely helpful. Thus inflamed, his self-control would have been severely compromised, and so his judgement. Even when I was not acting upon him directly—when I was asleep, for example—his emotions would still have borne the mark of my interference. He would still have been raw, so that the effect was in some way cumulative over time.” Dargin gestured at the figure on the table, at the bleeding wrists. “Not unlike these rope burns, if you see what I mean. When first the ropes are applied, they are merely a mild discomfort. But each tiny movement wears a little more at the flesh. Over time, it develops into a gaping wound.”

“And what were your designs with this . . . interference?”

“Why, to ruin him, of course. We can safely assume he made any number of poor decisions as a result, hopefully some of them important. Perhaps he took unnecessary risks, or shied from taking necessary ones. Perhaps he alienated an ally, or undermined confidence in his leadership. Perhaps he undermined confidence in himself. I certainly sensed that he grew fearful, conscious that something was very wrong with him, but unable to account for it. Not only was he afraid, I sensed such despair as to convince me that my efforts were not in vain. Something changed while he was in Harram, something devastating to him.”

Sadik grunted. Fear and despair were always useful. Yet there was too much vagueness here, too much uncertainty. Wars were not won with
perhaps
. “I had hoped for more,” he said.

“I am sorry, my lord.” Dargin gestured at the table again. “If we had found this one sooner, before the enemy king left his capital . . . But things are different now, as I said. Now that he is back in Erroman, with less distance between us, I can be more . . . directive. Already, I have begun planting ideas. Notions he would never have considered before, yet now holds with such conviction that he does not even question where they come from. At this point, he no longer realises anything is wrong with him.”

“And?”

The white teeth flashed again. “He sees enemies everywhere, and with a little luck, he will begin moving against them.”

“Moving against his friends, you mean.”

“With a little luck, my lord.”

Sadik walked over to the hearth and fetched down his flagon of ale. “Tell me, Dargin, what if I were able to get you even closer to Erik White? Into Erroman itself, even?”

“We would have to bring this one,” he said. “I need the blood to be fresh.”

“That should not be a problem.”

“Well, then, I would have him in body as well as mind. He would be altogether mine. That is”—Dargin bowed—“altogether yours, my lord.”

“In that case, begin preparations for moving. Not too quickly, mind you. The gods have blessed us with this moment, Dargin. It would be a sin not to savour it.”

The bloodbinder bowed again. Moving to his table of implements, he fetched a knife and a shallow silver bowl. “Will you stay, my lord?”

A foolish question. How could anyone walk away now, with that blade against that flesh, silver on white, poised with promise? How could he not draw closer, breath suspended, pupils dilated, bewitched by that slow, flashing caress that coaxed the reluctant blood forth?
Beautiful
, Sadik thought, watching the rich crimson glide into the bowl, run along the edges of the runes.

So beautiful, he almost wanted to
weep.