The Bloodforged (6 page)

The leader spoke. “Your Royal Highness. In the name of First Speaker Kar and the Republicana, I welcome you to the Republic of Onnan. It will be our great honour to escort you to the capitol.” The speaker, one of three riders at the centre of the column who had not forced his horse to kneel, did the waist bow thing again. This time, Liam did his best to mimic it in return.

“Thank you,” he said. “I hope one day we can return the courtesy.”

“My name is Rellard Mason. I am captain of your honour guard.”

“Pleased to meet you. This is my second”—he was about to turn to Ide, but caught himself in time—“Commander Dain Cooper.”

Rellard Mason inclined his head politely. If he was surprised to find an Onnani second in command of the fabled White Wolves, he didn't show it. “This way, please, Your Highness. If we keep good pace, we should reach Onnan City by sunset.”

Liam was pleasantly surprised. He'd thought they had at least another two days' ride ahead. He knew the map, of course, but it was always hard to get a sense of scale. Apparently, the finger of land separating Alden from the sea was even smaller than it appeared. On a map, it looked as though some giant beast had taken a big bite out of Onnan's western flank. And in a way, Liam supposed, that was what had happened. The Erromanian Empire had fought fiercely to prevent the Onnani secession—not just because of the slaves, but because an independent Onnan would mean the loss of the empire's best seaport. Liam hadn't realised how close the Erromanians had come to retaking Onnan City.
No wonder the border is still contested.

Liam had never been abroad before, and he'd half expected the frontier to be a physical, visible thing. A line of trees, or a moat. A swath of cleared brush, like a firebreak. Upon crossing it, he'd find himself transported to some wild, alien land full of half-clothed savages and exotically striped cattle. Instead, his
surroundings were dull and familiar. If he'd woken up after too many pints to find himself lying on the side of this very road, he'd have assumed he was in the Greylands. Even the people looked like Aldenians, albeit of Onnani descent. He couldn't find a single thing that distinguished them from the folk he'd been riding past for days. They were just . . . ordinary.

The feeling didn't seem to be mutual, though. The Wolves and their escort attracted plenty of interest. In every village, at every roadside inn, people stopped to stare at the riders passing through. It wasn't just their fair skin, Liam supposed, but the trappings of royalty: the barding on his horse, the White banner, the gilded spears.
This must be what Erik feels like wherever he goes.
For some reason, the thought made him uneasy.

They rode in silence. Not the easy camaraderie sort of silence, either; the awkward, wish-you-could-crawl-off-somewhere-and-hide sort. Liam wondered if it was his fault. Maybe they were waiting on him, as prince, to strike up a conversation. But he couldn't think of anything to say, at least nothing safe. Every possible subject seemed full of hidden traps, tripwires and pitfalls just waiting for him to blunder into. In situations like this, he usually resorted to humour, but that was far too risky under the circumstances. So he held his peace, and so did everybody else. Hour after hour, mile after mile, until Liam wanted to scream, just for the sake of it.

He might have done it too, had the city not appeared, finally, mercifully, in the distance. It rose up in a jumble of grey and black, anonymous blocks scattered across the horizon as though cast there by a god playing at dice. A pall of smoke obscured the rooftops, smudging them into a darkening sky. An unfamiliar smell bit at his nostrils, something that might have been the sea.

Liam straightened in his saddle. He took a deep breath and tried to look confident.

This is it
, he thought.
Onnan City.

Gods help him.

T
he closer they got to Blackhold, the less Alix spoke.

A thoughtful silence, at first. A distracted break in the conversation, a faraway look in her eyes that told Erik she had spotted something, smelled something, that drew her back in time. A secret smile every now and then, which Erik would find himself echoing even though he had no way of knowing what had prompted it. This homecoming was nearly as bittersweet for him as it was for her. Witnessing her heart laid bare like this, its deepest chambers open and vulnerable, was both painful and irresistible.

Progressively, however, her silence took on a brooding air. Instead of secret smiles, there were thinly pressed lips, and it was no mystery what prompted them. Blackened fields. Burnt-out husks of villages. Pigs rooting at the roadside, far from any sign of civilisation, already half feral from months of freedom. The central Blacklands had suffered greatly at the hands of the enemy, and though Arran Green had broken the Oridian forces eventually, by then the damage had been done. Erik and his entourage rode for two full days without crossing a single living soul. By the end of the fourth day, Alix was as silent as the ghosts she was seeing.

Erik had thought the sight of Blackhold, at least, would be enough to bring a smile to her lips, but he had been wrong. As it appeared on the horizon, Alix coiled even tighter, and the colour drained from her cheeks. She looked as though she might be physically sick.

“Alix.” He reached for her hand, and she took it, gripping it hard enough to hurt fingers stiffened with cold. Erik was
acutely aware of the eyes on them, but just this once, he would ignore them. Alix needed him. And he could not deny that it felt good.

“I don't know if I can do this,” she whispered.

He squeezed her hand. “You can. Besides, it won't be as bad as you fear. It's been months. The servants have all returned, and they've been hard at work. It might not be exactly as you remember it, but it will still be home.”

She shook her head. “You don't know that. You can't.”

“Yes, I can. You don't really think Highmount would suffer me to stay anywhere that hadn't been fully prepared for a royal visit? We wouldn't want to tarnish the dignity of the crown, after all.”

That was a lie. Or at least, a half truth. Highmount hadn't needed to worry about the state of Blackhold, because Erik had already seen to it. He would never put Alix through the pain of seeing her family home in disarray. He had sent servants ahead, with gold and goose down and bolts of fabric, to help the steward of Blackhold prepare for his lady's arrival. Every inch of the castle would have been scrubbed and polished and aired out. Erik had even made sure to supply a generous length of rough black silk, in case the Oridians had defiled the family banner.

Blackhold still showed signs of her ordeal, of course, even at a distance. Her gates fairly glowed, the pale hue of fresh wood standing in stark contrast to her dark stone walls. Blackened, twisted pines tortured by fire edged the forest at the base of her sloping lawns. But she still stood, and proudly, her ancient stone edifice clawing at the majestic backdrop of the Broken Mountains.

Alix closed her eyes, drew a deep breath. Erik thought she was steeling herself, but then, mercifully, she smiled. “Smell that.”

He did. Clear mountain air, and a sharp, fresh scent. “Pine.”

Her smile widened. “Home.”

The gates swung open on freshly oiled hinges. The portcullis had not yet been replaced, Erik noticed, and the bailey was rather barren. A few windows had been boarded up. On the whole, however, Blackhold looked healthy enough.

The servants stood in a row in the middle of the yard, their
faces bright with anticipation. A groom rushed up to take Alix's bridle, until an ancient-looking man growled out an order and diverted him in the direction of Erik's horse instead.

There followed a bit of confusion as the servants struggled with the protocol of welcoming their lady and their king at the same time. Alix was oblivious, dismounting on her own and rushing at the ancient-looking man with her arms wide. For a moment, Erik feared she would crush the old boot, but at the last moment she remembered her armour and settled for a tentative half hug instead.

“Henning,” she said, “it's so good to see you.”

The old man looked equal parts pleased and horrified by this unbridled display of affection. He patted Alix's back awkwardly.

The steward.
Erik recognised him now. It had been years, but Henning hadn't aged a day. Mostly because he had already been impossibly old.

“My lady,” Henning said, “we are so very pleased to have you back with us.”

“Only for a short time, alas. Just long enough for the scouts to reconnoitre the pass, and then we're off again. I'd hoped for warmer weather by now, but we'll have to make do.”

“We have taken the liberty of procuring some heavy cloaks for your party,” Henning said. “There is nothing like Blacklands furs to keep you warm when the snow flies.”

Alix smiled. “I remember. When I was small, I used to pretend I'd been swallowed by a bear.”

Henning returned the smile under duress. He shifted from foot to foot. Erik waited, hiding his amusement behind the most solemn mask he could muster.

Belatedly, Alix registered the servant's discomfort. “Oh! I beg your pardon, Henning, please go ahead.”

With a look of profound relief, the steward sketched a hasty bow and swept over to Erik. “Your Majesty. It is our very great honour to welcome you back to Blackhold.”

That very great honour would normally fall to Rig, but he was not here, and Alix was ill-placed to assume his duties just now. As a stand-in, Henning did his household credit. He was tall and well set, even in the sunset of his years, and his slate-grey hair
and beard gave him an air of gravitas. Lines of wisdom, referred to in polite company as
Eldora's graces
, rounded out the effect.

“A pleasure to see you again, Henning,” Erik said.

The steward inclined his head, the very picture of propriety. “If you will follow me, sire, the servants will see to your party.”

Erik trailed the steward into a vast entrance hall.
It's bigger than I remember
, he thought. Then he heard Alix draw in a sharp breath, and he realised why.

It was virtually empty.

Silk panels dangled along the bare cliff faces of the walls, a hasty attempt to make up for the lack of tapestries. A single ceramic pot stood forlornly in the corner, swallowed by the space around it. Whatever furnishings had once lined these walls, they were long gone. A damningly light patch of stone in the shape of a shield marked the archway above them. Alix paused beneath it, her face pale and unreadable.

“This way, please, Your Majesty.” Henning gestured with a rigid arm. The poor man was taut as a bowstring. He wanted Alix out of there, and quickly. Erik did the only thing he could: He hastened his step, obliging his bodyguard to follow.

The view improved when they reached the solar. Whether the furnishings were new, Erik could not tell, but they filled out the room admirably. A fire crackled in the hearth, and above its mantel, the Black banner shone darkly. The original, Erik was relieved to see; he could tell by the patina on the bronze bar holding it in place.

Alix hovered in the doorway, her eyes moving slowly over the room.

“They looted everything of value,” Henning said, gaze downcast, “and burned much of the rest. But we were able to bring down most of the contents of the lake house.”

Alix nodded mutely. She looked numb. Erik wanted to put his arms around her, but of course he could not—not even if they had been alone. Perhaps especially not then.

“Could you give me a moment, please, Henning?” Her voice sounded small and distant.

“Of course, my lady.” He bowed and withdrew. Erik started to follow, but Alix called his name.

“Please stay.”

“Are you sure?”

Nodding, she dragged a corner of the bench out from under the table and dropped onto it. She laid a hand against the empty space beside her, but Erik pretended not to see; he sat across from her, his back to the hearth. The firelight licked the contours of Alix's armour, threw blazing copper highlights into the thick rope of her braid.

She said nothing at first, her gaze as far away as her voice had been. Erik watched her trace little circles on the wood grain of the table. “It was so beautiful,” she said eventually.

“It will be again. And until then, it's home, isn't it?”

She didn't answer. Erik wondered if she was thinking about Liam, wishing he were here instead.

Perhaps I made a mistake
, he thought.
Perhaps bringing her here was cruel.

“Rig will be pleased to hear that the banner survived,” Alix said. “The shield . . . that's . . .” She did not finish the thought. The words, Erik suspected, would not come.

“I'm surprised you didn't already know. Did you not write to Henning for news?”

“Rig did, but I think he stuck to the basics. Whether the castle would be inhabitable and so on. I don't think he had the heart to ask after specific things. When you're far away, you can almost pretend it never happened.” She let out a long, deliberate breath. “It's not as bad as I feared, though. That's something, at least. And you're right—it will be restored in time. It might not be exactly as it was, but I'm used to that by now. War never leaves things as they were.”

That was surely Destan's own truth.

Hazel eyes met Erik's. As always, it sent a shiver through him, like a haunting strain of music. “I'm so glad you're here,” she said. “It means a lot to me.”

The words lodged in his breast. Made camp there, built a small fire. He hated himself for that. “I'd better go,” he said, rising. “You should”—his mind raced through half a hundred excuses—“spend some time with old friends.”

A hint of confusion flickered through her eyes, but she only nodded. “Thank you.”

Erik headed off in search of Henning. A hot bath, something to eat, and then to his letters. He had not quite settled on
his strategy with the Harrami; he needed to bandy a few more ideas with Highmount. Not so long ago, he would have consulted Alix, instead of sending some half-exhausted pigeon to the capital. But those intimate discourses were in the past. It was better that way.

It was the only way.

*   *   *

Alix drifted through
the knot garden, her fingers trailing along the perfectly flat top of the boxwood. Freshly trimmed, she noticed, yet another of the dozens of small measures taken to purge all evidence of the fall of Blackhold. The Oridians had been pressed for time when they'd taken the castle, just passing through on their way to their next conquest. That and a generous covering of snow over most of the grounds had spared Blackhold the worst of the enemy's wrath. They'd lost the armoury and the stables. They'd lost Alvan, their master-at-arms, and a dozen other stalwarts too stubborn to flee when Rig gave them the chance. But on the whole, Blackhold had endured. Scarred, its insides filled with dark, empty spaces, but much the same could be said of Alix. Of everyone who had suffered in this war.

The garden was as lovely as she remembered, even in winter. The boxwoods formed an intricate knot over sparkling white quartz, a marvel to behold from the wall walk or the upper windows of the castle. Down here, the meticulously pruned shrubs shone a waxy deep green, offsetting the bright red berries of the rowan trees. The smell of cedar and snowdrops and the rhythmic crunching of gravel beneath her boots lulled Alix into a pleasant sort of trance, like walking through a memory.

She'd wanted to show Erik these gardens, but he was shut up in his chambers. As he'd been yesterday, and the day before. Whatever weighed on his mind, he dealt with it alone. That bothered Alix more than she cared to admit. She hadn't looked for many bright spots on this journey, but at least she'd hoped it would bring her back into Erik's confidence. Not that she'd
lost
it, exactly, but he didn't rely on her the way he used to. There had been a time, not so long ago, when it had seemed like the two of them against the world. Alix's opinion had meant more to Erik than anyone's. Now, she was lucky if he consulted her at all. He
kept his distance, figuratively at least. It wasn't that things were awkward between them—that would have been unbearable—but they weren't the same, either.

Nothing will ever be the same.

How many times was she going to have to tell herself that before it truly sank in?

“Alix?”

She started. For a moment, she couldn't place the voice, but by the time she'd turned around, she was grinning like a fool. “Edolie!”

A flutter of silk and rose perfume plunged into Alix's arms. “It's so good to see you!” Edolie squeezed Alix's neck so hard it hurt.

“I can't believe you're here! I thought your family would have sought refuge in Erroman long ago, or I would have come calling.”

“And I'd have been here sooner, had I known you were passing through. Henning didn't tell me, the wicked man.”

Alix gave her childhood friend a once-over. Edolie's delicate frame was shrouded in folds of silk and velvet, petal upon petal layering her skirts in the cheerful hues of spring. She looked like an inverted rose. Alix wondered if the effect was intentional, to go with the perfume. “Good gods, Edolie, you must be freezing! Where's your cloak?”

Edolie flicked a dismissive wave. “Furs are simply not possible this year, Alix. Surely you noticed it in Erroman? It's velvet or nothing, darling.”

Alix laughed ruefully. “No, I'm afraid I didn't notice. I can't tell you the last time I was allowed to think about fashion.”

“But, Your Highness! It's your
duty
to be gorgeous!” She didn't quite make it through before she burst out laughing.