The Bloodforged (7 page)

Alix hugged her again. She'd forgotten how much she missed Edolie's sharp wit. Too well bred to ignore her station, but too clever not to have a laugh about it.
Liam could learn a thing or two from her
, Alix thought.

“I couldn't believe it when I heard,” Edolie said. “Her Royal Highness, Alix White.” She bowed.

“It came as a bit of a surprise to me too,” Alix said dryly.

“To think, all this time, another White brother . . .” Edolie flashed a coquettish smile. “And you snared him!”

“I snared him before I knew he was a White.” It felt important to say, somehow.

“A secret identity! How romantic!” Edolie tucked her arm through Alix's. “You must tell me all about it.”

Alix permitted herself to be guided toward the gazebo. “Are we gossiping now?”

“Good gods, yes. You must be
starving
for it.”

Alix laughed. It was even true, after a fashion. She'd spent so much time dwelling on war and death and betrayal; it would be nice to talk about something trivial for a change. They settled in the gazebo, Alix in her furs, Edolie shivering away like a flower in a stiff wind. “Are you sure you won't put on something warmer?”

Edolie shook her head. “In these times of war, Alix, we must be brave. Though . . .” She glanced at the castle. “Perhaps tea?”

Alix smiled. “You stay here. I'll fetch a servant. In the meantime”—she shrugged out of her cloak—“please protect this for me.”

“Oh, yes, I shall. With my life.” Edolie draped the fur over her shoulders with a wink.

Tea arrived, hot and pleasantly bitter. They ate cakes and traded meaningless trifles, as was proper. Matters of any importance simply were not discussed over sweets. Alix chewed slowly, knowing that Edolie would pounce on her the moment they were through. But she couldn't draw it out forever, and when she brushed the last crumbs from her fingers, Edolie said, “Now.”

Alix checked a sigh. “What would you like to know?”

“All of it. From the beginning.”

All of it.
Alix couldn't possibly cope with that. But she gave her best summary, from the moment she left Blackhold to the moment she found herself back here again. She skipped only the most painful parts.

Or at least, she tried to. But apparently court gossip reached as far as the western foothills, because Edolie said, “Aren't you forgetting something?”

“Am I?”

“Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You and the king.” All traces of humour were gone from her now;
she regarded Alix with steady brown eyes. “Did you really save his life?”

“Yes. That's how I came to be his bodyguard.”

“And then?”

Alix shifted on the bench. Dropped her gaze.

“It's true, then,” Edolie breathed. “You
were
lovers.”

“Not exactly.”

Edolie's eyebrows flew up. “Not exactly? You sound like a priest wrangling over technicalities.”

“Edolie . . .”

Hearing the misery in Alix's voice, Edolie tried for lighthearted. “Prince Liam must be something to look at, because I've met the king, and it doesn't get much better than that. Did you know I danced with him once? Those blue eyes . . .” She swooned melodramatically over the back of her chair. “Icicle daggers straight to the heart!”

“Edolie, please. He's just on the other side of that wall, for gods' sake.”

“Is he? Do you think I should say hello?” When Alix didn't take the bait, she sobered. “Honestly, I didn't think it could be true.”

Alix's shoulder twitched in an irritable shrug. “I don't know what you've heard, so I can't tell you if it's true. There was talk of marriage, if that's what you mean. But it was mostly political.”
Mostly.
The word glinted like a coin half buried in the dirt.

“I have to ask . . . why didn't you do it?” Edolie reached over and took Alix's hands, as though to blunt the edge of her question.

“Marry him?”

“I don't know anything about Prince Liam, but if there was even a chance that you and King Erik . . . Why wouldn't you take it? There could be no better match.”

“I wasn't thinking about matches. I was thinking about my heart.”

Edolie looked almost pitying. “Alix, darling, you're a Black. Marriage isn't about your heart. Besides . . .” The pitying look deepened. “Your heart wouldn't have objected too loudly. I can see that even now.”

Alix jerked away. She started to pour more tea. Stopped.
She folded her hands in her lap. “I love Liam.” It was the truth. So why did it wedge in her throat like something sharp?

Because you hurt Erik.

That was why he kept her at arm's length, of course. It wasn't that he no longer valued her advice; it was that he couldn't allow himself to be vulnerable in front of her. She'd seen it before. With Liam, when he thought she would choose Erik.

I just can't be around you.
Liam's words, that day by the river.

Erik hadn't gone that far. He was more restrained than his brother, more accustomed to hiding behind a mask. He'd been doing it all his life. But Alix had seen behind that mask. He'd taken it off for her, and she'd rewarded him with a slap in the face. Small wonder he'd donned it again.

“I'm sorry, Alix,” Edolie said gently. “I don't mean to question your decisions. It's just . . . this war . . .” She shook her head. “I suppose it has me thinking about duty more than I used to.”

“You think it was my duty to marry Erik?” The question came out sharper than she'd intended.

“I didn't say that. But you have to admit, things would be easier if he had a queen. An heir on the way.” She looked up. There was no accusation in her eyes, only concern. “That's all I'm saying, Alix. I'm sure Prince Liam is a wonderful man, and I'm sure you made the right choice for your heart. I'm happy for you, truly. I hope you can believe that.”

“I do. And I hope you can believe that my choice wasn't just right for me. It was the best thing for all of us in the long run.” Even as she spoke the words, Alix wondered which of them she was trying to convince.

Edolie nodded. Then she slipped her shoulders out from under Alix's cloak and handed it back. “I'd better go. The roads aren't safe after sundown.”

“Thank you for coming,” Alix said, embracing her. “It was wonderful to see you.”

“And you. Travel well. And . . . be careful, Alix.”

Alix tried for a smile. “Panthers and frostbite. Liam already warned me.”

Edolie glanced up at the ice-fringed windows of the guest quarters. She looked as though she might say more, but instead she gave Alix's arm a final squeeze and headed up the path.

H
e wends his way through the moving tapestry of colours, tucking his shoulders in so that his armour doesn't accidentally brush up against anyone's finery. The dancers don't notice him. They keep moving, twirling and swaying in time to the music. The oratorium thrums with their energy. It's almost hypnotic, the patterns expanding and collapsing, forming and re-forming, mixing and matching in a kaleidoscope of silk and satin.

He can't find Alix. He knows she's here, but she's melted into the crowd. She's one of them, indistinguishable from the rest. He tries to catch someone's attention, to ask after her, but it's as if the dancers can't see him. As if he's not even there.

He spots Erik. The king is standing near the musicians, laughing at some joke or another, a crystal wineglass half raised in salute. He shines out like a candle in a dark room, the faces surrounding him seeming anonymous, inconsequential. His posture is straight and regal, and though he's not the tallest of the men gathered around him, he seems to tower over them. Yet for all that, Erik is somehow the most relaxed and unaffected person in the room. It's effortless. Beautiful, even.

He starts to make his way over, but a royal guardsman steps into his path. “Where do you think you're going?”

“To talk to my brother.”

“Your brother?” The knight shakes his head. “You must be mistaken.”

The dancers have started to notice him now. One by one, they turn to stare, eyes hard with disapproval. They back away from him, as if afraid they might become soiled by his nearness.

Erik is still laughing. The men and women around him are laughing too, pressing in close, as if hoping to absorb just a little of his grace.

“You shouldn't be here.” The knight blocking his way is Alix, he realises. She follows his gaze. “You can't really think he's your brother,” she says, pityingly.

Liam looks at this golden being, this . . .
king
. “No,” he says, “I suppose not.”

*   *   *

It wasn't the
kind of dream you woke up screaming from, but it wasn't exactly fluffy clouds and songbirds, either.

Liam threw the covers aside and got up. He went to the window, passing the foot of the bed where Rudi lay curled on the floor in a heap of wiry fur. The wolfhound raised his head and growled. Liam shot back a two-syllable retort. They resumed ignoring each other.

Liam pushed the curtain aside. The valley spread out below him, a glowing bed of coals under a blushing dawn. Fisherfolk rose early, he knew; the lamps had probably been lit for hours already. To the east, the orange lights stopped abruptly in a curving line, beyond which there was only darkness, a pool of spilled ink stretching all the way to the horizon.
The sea.
In a few moments, he'd be able to see it. It had been dark by the time they reached the city, so he had yet to form much of an impression of his surroundings. For now, all he knew of Onnan City was that its wealthy and powerful preferred the fresher air of the hills, and that was where they'd decided Liam and his retinue should stay. The Ambassador District featured dozens of estates as impressive as any temple, and one of these, a sprawling, whitewashed complex called Bayview, was to be home for the next few weeks.

Liam opened his balcony door and stepped out. A cool breeze rushed in to meet him, bringing an unfamiliar tang to his nose. He closed his eyes and listened for the sound of the waves, but he couldn't hear anything. Maybe they were too far away.

He watched the sun come up over a limitless expanse of grey. He'd always dreamed of seeing the ocean, maybe even taking a swim in the waves. But this was not the sea of his imagination. In paintings and tapestries, it was a playful, frothing thing, blue
and white and capricious. The water below him was utterly flat, dark and brooding, as if lying in wait. And vast—gods, it was
beyond
vast. From his vantage in the hills, the city looked small, insignificant, a swath of rubbish left by a receding wave. The sea, meanwhile, seemed to stretch to the very edge of the world. How far had the Onnani sailors ventured, he wondered, before turning back in fear? What was it like to deliberately set sail for infinity?

I certainly wouldn't know.
It occurred to him that the sea was an apt metaphor for his task here: vital, unfathomable, utterly alien.

He set about finding something to wear. He'd taken a bath last night, soaking away most of the dirt and aches of the road, so he should be presentable enough—provided he didn't insult his hosts by wearing something too casual, or provoke them by wearing something too grand. Ordinarily, he would have been sent with a valet and half a hundred other attendants to worry about this sort of thing, but Erik and Highmount had agreed that it would be a mistake to drape Liam too heavily in the trappings of royalty. The fiercely republican Onnani would find it pretentious at best, imperious at worst. Better to keep things simple. That meant Liam was on his own. He went through his trunk gingerly, careful not to disturb the neatly ordered piles Alix had prepared. Each one represented an
ensemble
, for a specific
affair
, the conduct of which would follow a strict
protocol
. If he was unsure, he should ask Rona Brown. Under no circumstances was he to reconfigure the ensemble. Improvisation, he'd been given to understand, was not a good idea.

Today was especially important, as his first formal presentation to the Republicana. For this occasion, his wife had decreed that he should wear a heavy brocade doublet. When he'd enquired whether perhaps it wasn't a bit . . .
puffy
, he'd received a look that could curdle milk.

He put on the puffy vest.

He'd just finished donning the rest of the ensemble when a quiet knock sounded. Rudi shot to the door like a quarrel from a crossbow. Grimacing, hoping he wasn't about to lose a hand, Liam grabbed the wolfhound's collar.

“Your Highness?”

“Yes. Er . . . just give me a . . .” He dragged a scrabbling
Rudi over to his trunk, found the lead, and tied the infernal beast to the bedpost. “Stay.”

The young man on the other side of the door was visibly relieved to find Rudi tied up on the far side of the room. “Good morning, Your Highness,” he said with a bow. “May I show you to breakfast?”

Liam followed the servant through a maze of echoing corridors lined with gratuitous furnishings. He was lost within moments. It just went on and on, like one of those endlessly repeating dreamscapes where every corner you rounded led you back to the place you'd just left. He'd have sworn they'd turned left five times in a row, and he'd definitely seen that sideboard at least twice.
Good job you're going to have an escort everywhere you go.

When at last they reached the dining hall, Liam was surprised to find himself alone with the servants. “Where are the others?” he asked, surveying the table dubiously. There were no rashers that he could see, no eggs of any sort. Bread, cheese, and some sort of shrivelled fish appeared to be what passed for the morning meal in Onnan.

The servant gave him a surprised look. “Does Your Highness normally dine with your guards?”

“My
officers
, yes.”

The servant coloured a little. “I'm very sorry, Your Highness. We won't make that error again.”

And now he felt guilty. Wonderful.

After breakfast, Liam was shown to the courtyard, where he found Dain Cooper and Rona Brown waiting for him. The rest of the men would remain barracked in one of the outbuildings, under Ide's command.

Rona Brown smiled at him from atop her horse—a little nervously, he thought, whether for her commander or herself, he couldn't tell. She'd braided her hair again, and her armour was freshly polished. Dain's too. They would be his bodyguards as well as his counsellors on this mission, not that Liam expected any trouble.

Rellard Mason and his honour guard were here too—considerably diminished in number, Liam was relieved to note. He took the reins from his squire and mounted up. “Ready,” he said, and wondered if it was true.

They descended from the hills along a cobbled road that wound its way through a gallery of blooming pear trees. The cherries were in flower too, clouds of pink dotting the gardens and strewing their delicate petals onto the shivering surfaces of duck ponds. The slope of the hills allowed a clear view into the gardens of the lower estates, and Liam was amazed at the wealth he saw on display there.

“I never knew Onnan City was so lovely,” Rona said, echoing his thoughts.

“The Ambassador District, at any rate,” Dain replied. “Wait until we get into the city proper.”

Even from here, Liam could see what he meant. The image that had occurred to him earlier of rubbish left on the beach was not far off; farther down the valley, the city had the look of something discarded, half used and left to rot. A warren of twisting alleys cut through low stone buildings crusted with lichen—the remnants of the imperial city, Liam supposed. Here and there, temples imposed themselves on the clutter, but they looked to be modest in size and architecture, nothing to rival the grand monuments of Erroman. Nearer the water, humble timber dwellings vied for space with warehouses and piers.
No pear trees down there
, Liam thought. Not a bit of green in sight, unless you counted the moss flecking the roof tiles.

“There's the Republicana,” Dain said, pointing.

Of course.
The most impressive building in the valley, it appeared from their vantage as a gleaming white triangle with a gilt dome. The gold leaf flared under the rising sun, as if trying to rival Rahl's splendour. Liam knew enough history to recall that this building had been constructed—proudly, smugly—with materials looted from the palaces of deposed Erromanian nobility. It had seemed fitting to the new republic's rulers that their seat of power should be built from the remnants of a shattered empire.

An empire whose heirs Liam was here to represent. He wondered how that would shape what was to come.

He was about to find out.

*   *   *

Liam shifted from
foot to foot, his gaze fixed on the ornate wooden doors before him. He could hear a voice droning on
the other side, obviously making a speech of some kind, but the words were too muted to make out. They'd be speaking Onnani anyway, he supposed. He glanced at his officers, Dain on his left and Rona on his right. He hoped he didn't look half as anxious as they did, but he suspected otherwise. He'd been fine, more or less, until his escort showed them into the anteroom. Now he felt his breakfast churning in his belly. (Good job he hadn't touched the fish.) Speakers Hall lay on the other side of that door, the benches packed with every voting member of the Republicana.

This is it
, Liam thought. He schooled his features, squared his shoulders, and tried to look regal.

The voice on the other side of the door fell silent. Footfalls sounded, like a countdown to doom, and then the carved panels swung away to reveal the inside of a temple. That was what it looked like, anyway, all marbled pillars and high ceilings and flashes of gold. Tiered benches lined either side of the hall. At least two hundred men sat shoulder to shoulder—every single one of them staring at Liam.

With a final, helpless glance at his officers, Liam stepped into Speakers Hall.

You could have heard a feather drop in that room were it not for the sound of their footfalls echoing under the gilded dome, so conspicuously loud that Liam almost flinched. The man who'd opened the door led them toward a raised dais at the far end. The wall behind it was inlaid with gold, thin bands and broad radiating out from the dais like the rays of the sun, as though it were the holy seat of Rahl himself. There were figures on the platform, Liam saw. Priests, masked, robed in the colours of the Holy Virtues they served.

“His Royal Highness Prince Liam White.” The announcement—booming, primly oratorical—came from a small, silver-clad herald at the foot of the dais.

Liam bowed to the priests. Then, on a whim, he bowed to the benches as well.

“Welcome, Your Highness.” At first, Liam wasn't sure which of them had spoken; their faces were invisible behind the masks. Then the one in the centre, a priest of Ardin, inclined his head. The delicate points of his spun-glass mask glinted in the wavering light of the braziers, seeming to twist and dance like an
actual flame. “In the name of the Republicana, I welcome you. I am First Speaker Kar.”

Liam had assumed as much—Saxon's notes had told him to expect it—but he still felt uneasy at the confirmation. In Alden, the priesthood stayed away from politics. They were above it, at least in theory. Here, politics and religion were inseparable, just one more strain in the complex symphony of the Republicana.

And me without my dancing boots.

Belatedly, Liam realised they were waiting for him to speak. He cleared a dry throat. “I thank you, First Speaker, and I bring the regards of His Majesty King Erik. He regrets that he is compelled to be elsewhere, but these are troubling times, as you well know.” That bit had been prepared by Highmount. It sounded simple enough to Liam, but apparently it had been carefully crafted. An apology, but a cool one, containing just a whiff of rebuke. Hearing Highmount talk about it was like listening to a cook describing an elaborate dish.

“We know it indeed,” said another of the priests. He wore the mask of Olan, a silver disc with narrow slits for eyes and mouth.
Irtok, Chairman of the Republicana. A Shield, fittingly.
Liam had practically memorised Saxon's notes, and knew this man to be almost as powerful as First Speaker Kar, and a rival. “The Republicana deplores the cowardly acts of the Trionate of Oridia, and stands in full solidarity with our Aldenian allies. The people of Onnan offer their sincere condolences for your losses. You are in our prayers.”