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‘We wait for news. We will find him, brother. Trust me.’ Loethar did not resist his general’s friendly tap on his face, for it was meant affectionately, but he despised it. Carefully, however, he kept his expression even as the general excused himself.
‘Enjoy the nobles,’ Stracker said, smiling ironically as he left.
Loethar stared at the open doorway absently until Freath closed the door. ‘Freath, have I told you about Vulpan yet?’
‘No, my lord. Perhaps you’ll enlighten me now,’ the aide said, returning to his previous task of brushing lint from the emperor’s shoulder.
‘He’s one of our Vested. It’s a strange talent but he only has to taste a person’s blood to know that person again.’
Freath stood back from Loethar, his forehead creased in amused puzzlement.
Loethar held up a hand with helpless resignation as he swung around. ‘I know, I know. But there’s no accounting for these Vested. Some possess enchantments that defy imagination.’
‘You mean his taste of blood works in the same way that a dog can trace a smell?’
Loethar grinned. ‘I suppose. He never gets it wrong, Freath. We’ve tested him time and again…even tried to trick him.’
Freath frowned. ‘So he has tasted the blood of the wounded outlaw.’
Loethar nodded. ‘Why would they rally around the man unless it was Faris? There is no one else of any importance in that cohort.’ He noticed Freath blink, but continued, ‘And some day the outlaw will slip up and Vulpan will deliver him to me. I am a patient man.’
‘Incredible,’ Freath remarked, shaking his head as he stacked the cups on the tray. ‘And this Vulpan is loyal, sir?’
Loethar shrugged. ‘The magic is not in doubt.’
‘Is Kilt Faris that important?’ Freath asked, reaching to do up the emperor’s top button.
Loethar raised his chin. ‘Yes. He challenges me.’
‘He did the same to Brennus before you, sir.’
‘Is that supposed to reassure me, Freath?’
The aide straightened his lord’s jacket, moving behind him. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I meant only that Faris is a gnat—a vexing irritant—who thinks stealing the royal gold is somehow not the same crime as stealing from the good folk of Penraven.’
‘Precisely, which is why I wish to hunt him down.’
Loethar’s eyes narrowed as he heard the aide suck in a breath that sounded too much like exasperation.
‘If you’ll forgive me, my lord? May I offer a recommendation?’
‘You usually do, Freath. Make it quick.’
Freath cleared his throat as he returned to face his superior. ‘Let me escort you down, my lord, we can talk as we walk. We really must go.’
Loethar nodded and Freath moved to hold the door open. ‘After you, sir.’
They moved through Brighthelm side by side. Loethar was sure the man was far too sharp to have ignored that the emperor permitted him equal status—if not in title, then certainly in access—to any of his closest supporters. Even Dara Negev, who was showing no signs that her god was preparing to claim her, still maintained the old ways of walking a few steps behind the man of her household. But it must be two anni now that Loethar had given up talking over his shoulder to Freath and insisted the man walk next to him when discussing state business. Though Loethar’s mother, half-brother and even Valya had haughtily mentioned on many an occasion that Freath couldn’t appreciate the honour, Loethar was convinced that Freath not only appreciated the shift but quietly enjoyed the privilege.
They approached the grand staircase, walking down a corridor of magnificent tapestries depicting the former kings of Valisar.
‘Forgive me, sir,’ Freath continued. ‘Returning to our discussion, I was simply going to suggest that you should consider raising people’s taxes in and around the northern area. Chasing through the Deloran Forest is time-consuming and a waste of your men’s resources. It also makes a fool of the emperor.’
Loethar’s head snapped to look at Freath. ‘He is mocking me?’
‘Tax those who protect and laugh at you, my lord. Tax the north. Any excuse will do. In fact, offer no excuse. Tell them the new tax is to cover the losses that Faris inflicts. Remind the north that it is their hard-earned, hard-paid taxes that are being stolen and if they won’t help you find him, they will certainly help repair his damage.’
Loethar smiled. ‘Very good, Freath. Very good indeed.’
He felt Freath shrug beside him. ‘I would call off your men immediately, my lord. You should make it appear as if you don’t care one way or the other, so long as you have the money due the empire. I would be happy to make that declaration for you, sire, should you need.’
‘Not frightened of being unpopular?’
Freath gave a snort of disdain. ‘They hated me a long time ago, Emperor Loethar. Nothing’s changed.’
‘I shall think on your idea.’
Freath bowed. ‘I shall let the empress know, my lord, that you and her guests await her.’
As Loethar moved into the grand salon to the heralding of trumpets, Freath strode up the stairs, feeling an old familiar tension twisting in his belly. Once out of sight from the ground level he took a moment alone on the landing to lean against the balustrade, taking two deep breaths to calm himself. He hadn’t felt like this in so many anni he’d nearly forgotten what it was to be poised on the precipice of death. Ten anni previous he’d been exposed to negotiating that very knife-edge daily. Though somehow he’d survived, his beautiful Genrie had not. The passing years had not made her loss any easier. He visited her unmarked grave frequently, and although it hurt his heart not to leave flowers—for he couldn’t be seen to be mourning her—he left behind his silent grief. Her death had bought his life, and what a strange, evil life it had become: forever lying, masquerading and patiently plotting.
The only surprise had been his helpless admiration—although he fought it daily—for the man he knew he should despise. He found it easy to hate General Stracker, to inwardly sneer at Dara Negev and to truly abhor the empress. But Loethar was not as simple. The man was actually every inch the born leader that Brennus had been. And if he had been born a Valisar rather than a Steppes barbarian, Freath knew they’d all be admiring him. Loethar was taking an approach with the Denovians that could only be congratulated. There was no doubting that the new emperor was very tough—but which sovereign wasn’t? None of the Valisars down the ages were known for being spineless. All were hard men, capable of making the most difficult of decisions. Any ruler who took a soft line with detractors would almost certainly perish. Freath often thought, hating himself as he did so, that if he had been in Loethar’s boots, there was little he would or could have done any other way.
He’d tried to explain this once to Kirin, his constant companion, but Kirin would have none of it. Besides, Kirin always had him over a barrel whenever he resorted to the final demand, always impossible to answer. Why, though, Freath? he would challenge. Why did he do it in the first place? It has to be in pursuit of power. And there is no honour in coveting what is not yours in the first place.
Kirin was right—in principle—especially if you believed in fairies or the Legend of Algin, and that everyone wanted to live in peace and no one ever got jealous of anyone else. Freath grimaced. The Valisar Dynasty might be revered but it had been founded on bloodshed, acquiring land that had never belonged to the Valisars, not so very differently from the way that Loethar had taken the Set. The only difference was that Cormoron had seen the benefits of giving realms to families he could dominate, giving the false impression that he was a magnanimous conqueror—a benefactor to the region even. It was naive of Kirin to suggest that the Valisars—or any of the royal families—were blameless. All land, power and wealth were initially acquired through the spillage of blood. Loethar and his horde were no different—if anything, where Loethar was blunt, he was at least honest.
Despite Loethar’s surprising explanation that his attack on the Denovian Set was purely a matter of opportunity, Freath still wasn’t convinced fortuity alone had triggered the seemingly sudden invasion. The emperor’s rationale was plausible, and probably true, but there was more to it, Freath was sure. The seven realms had peacefully lived alongside Droste to the northeast as well as further east over Lo’s Teeth into the Steppes where the plains people lived. It was true that there had not been a great deal of interaction between Denovians and the Steppes folk but trade during the reign of Brennus had increased. Perhaps beginning to see more of the Denovians, their way of life, their excesses, had attracted Loethar’s people?
Freath pulled out a kerchief and wiped his face, wishing that he could wipe away his fear. For ten anni patience had been all that shared his life. It was a companion that made him feel weak, disloyal, pathetic. He knew it was also his friend. Patience would win through for him, for them, for their cause. Them. He closed his eyes. He had bought them some more time in dissuading Loethar from hunting down Faris. Freath had presumed for many years now that the true king, Leo, had fled to Faris and his men. Now he must get word to Faris and learn at last whether the outlaw had raised a king in these intervening years. A decade of distance. A decade of hate. Would he even recognise Leo Valisar, King of Penraven? Would Leo ever forgive him?
He had to get to Kilt Faris before Loethar’s men did. He had to pray that Faris was not the wounded man.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said a familiar voice. He looked up and saw Kirin approaching. ‘Are you feeling all right, Freath?’
Freath nodded. ‘Yes. A moment of reflection, that’s all.’
Kirin smiled softly and there was so much sympathy in the gesture Freath had to look away. ‘That’s always dangerous,’ his friend said.
‘Very true. Were you looking for me?’
Kirin looked around, checking they were alone, and Freath immediately felt his fear twist up another notch. ‘A pigeon has arrived,’ his friend murmured.
A combination of thrill and puzzlement skipped across Freath’s heart. ‘But it’s been years.’
‘It’s an old pigeon,’ Kirin said.
Freath erupted in an unexpected bellow of laughter at the comment. Few, if any, had ever heard such genuine laughter around the halls of Brighthelm, and Kirin’s expression was delighted.
Freath continued chuckling. ‘Lo, but that was a good feeling.’ ‘I wish I could do that more often,’ his younger friend admitted. ‘It gets better. The bird’s from Clovis.’
Freath closed his eyes, shooting a silent prayer of thanks. They had both long given up hope of hearing from their old friend who had escaped Loethar’s clutches in the madness of the original occupation. Freath had tried through every clandestine method he had available to find him, without success. ‘Where is he?’ he asked, breathless.
Kirin grinned. ‘With Reuth. Medhaven.’
Relief passed through him before another, still more exciting notion struck Freath. He reached for Kirin’s arm, squeezing it. ‘Piven?’ he whispered, daring against all his better judgement to hope.
Kirin’s mouth creased into a wide smile and he nodded just once before he faltered. ‘Later,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Someone comes.’
Freath let go of Kirin’s arm, stood back, and within moments one of Valya’s retinue of servants came scurrying up. She was a tribal woman. Freath liked her. She was quiet, diligent and good at her work—a lot like Genrie although she lacked spine against the empress. But that was understandable. Showing any sort of opposition to Valya, however minor it seemed, was met with punitive retaliation. Only Freath managed to rise above her dominion, and that was only because he had the protection of a higher authority.
‘Bridie?’ he enquired as the servant raced up.
‘Master Freath, she is…’ The girl stared at them both, lost for the right words.
‘I know, Bridie. I’m coming now,’ he assured.
The girl looked so relieved that Kirin shook his head. ‘Don’t let her bully you, Bridie,’ he said.
‘No,’ Freath countered. ‘Let her bully you. It will keep her claws out of you. Come on, we’ll go together and tame her, shall we?’ Bridie smiled tentatively and nodded. He looked over at Kirin. ‘Later? Supper, perhaps?’
Kirin nodded. ‘I’ll be in the library if you need me.’
How very normal that sounded, Freath thought. Kirin, a man of learning, was off to the library, while he, an experienced steward, was off to see to his superior’s needs. They had all settled down into a comfortable life, existing relatively easily with the barbarian horde—as though all the pain and despair never really mattered. And yet his heart was hammering and he knew Kirin was experiencing a similar rush of excitement that was a prelude to a new battle. This battle would not be fought in the fields with two armies. No. This one would be fought by subterfuge. Cunning alone had kept Freath and Kirin alive to fight this new day. And cunning would return the rightful king to the Valisar throne.
He strode alongside the scuttling Bridie, his heart suddenly full, his chest feeling broader than it had in the last ten anni, and his mind filled with wonder.
Piven was alive.
King and crown prince had possibly survived. He had never allowed himself to dream this much. But it seemed Lo had granted him his prayers.
If he achieved anything with his miserable double-life, he would see King Leonel crowned and the false ruler who called himself emperor humbled and brought before the Valisar sovereign.
Leo alone would decide Loethar’s fate.
2 (#ulink_c67d3c1e-844b-5226-a222-94ef0119fc42)
Two men were breaking their fast at an inn in Francham. The Amiable Dragon was a busy watering hole and resting spot almost at the base of the Dragonsback Mountains that separated Penraven from Barronel. It was in Francham that traders in particular, after a long trek through Hell’s Gate—as the pass through the mountains was known—would stop for a day or so. Weary travellers would replenish their stocks, and those who were crossing in the opposite direction would make their final preparations for the trip. The traffic made for a lively town with a varied, transient population, which meant someone who wanted to remain relatively invisible could roam Francham without being noticed. It was an unspoken rule, in fact, that people were entitled to privacy in this town.
The weather was mild. Blossomtide meant Hell’s Gate was well and truly open and thriving. The pair of diners was enjoying the morning sun, sitting at a corner table, facing the main street to the mountains beyond that loomed over Francham. One of the men, who had just finished eating and was washing down his early meal with a pot of steaming dinch, was explaining this to his companion. He leaned back with his mug and sighed his pleasure as he swallowed the mouthful of dinch. ‘…it used to be a great smuggling spot, you see, so the legacy of secrecy has been handed down through generations. I’m surprised I haven’t told you this before.’
His listener grinned. ‘You’ve only brought me here twice.’
The speaker gave a look of genuine surprise at this but the companion didn’t look as if he was fooled, going by his wry expression.
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, if you ever need to hide, this is the place to begin. The mountains are better but they don’t offer a bed at night or an ale to quench a thirst.’
‘Why are we here again?’
‘I have to see someone.’
A huge man approached the table. ‘It’s true,’ he confirmed.
The first man put down his mug and pointed to the pot. ‘Help yourself,’ he offered, but his thoughts were elsewhere, his gaze narrowed in thought.
‘What does it mean, Kilt?’ the big man said, sitting down and taking his friend’s mug. ‘I’ll just have yours.’
‘Jewd! Ah—’ Faris said, with a sound of disgust. ‘I’d just got that to the perfect temperature!’
The younger man sitting next to him laughed.
‘I know,’ Jewd replied, nonchalantly. ‘Perfect for me, too.’
Kilt Faris signalled towards a table at the far end where a serving woman set down a plate in front of another guest. She saw his gesture and made her way to them, shifting her hips as she dodged around other people’s chairs. ‘Yes?’ she said, looking distracted but not unfriendly as she gathered up their plates.
‘Ah, pretty Ciara,’ Faris said. ‘Another pot of dinch, please, and we’ll need a fresh mug. Liam, some for you?’
The younger man shook his head but looked appreciatively into the big brown eyes of the woman. ‘Got anything sweet?’ he wondered.
Faris broke into a surreptitious grin and looked over at Jewd, who winked in reply over the mug he was sipping from.
Ciara’s lids lowered slightly as she regarded the youngster. ‘We might have some syrupcakes left from yesterday,’ she said. Then she blinked innocently. ‘If that’s what you mean?’
Leo cleared his throat. ‘I hear they’re always better the day after, anyway. Yes, I’ll have a couple of those. Thank you.’
‘I like good manners. Anything else?’ she offered.
Leo blushed, hesitated, then smiled politely. ‘I’ll, er, I’ll let you know once I’ve finished those, if that’s all right?’
She returned his smile, seemingly enjoying the innuendo.
After she’d left, Faris looked over at Leo but spoke to Jewd in a murmur that only they could hear. ‘It seems his majesty is in dire need of some female company.’
‘I’ll say!’ Leo exclaimed.
Jewd spat some of his dinch with amusement. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ he complained.
‘Well, it’s all right for Kilt, he’s got Lily. And you, Jewd, I know you and the others can escape the forest whenever you want for some rumpy-pumpy.’ This made both men roar with laughter. ‘But you keep me on such a close leash. I’m twenty-two anni, I need some freedom and I desperately need a—’
‘Here we are, then,’ Ciara said, back with a pair of small, oval-shaped cakes dripping with syrup. ‘Careful, they’re moist. Don’t get yourself all sticky.’
The men laughed louder and even Ciara threw them a backward glance of amusement. ‘The dinch is on its way,’ she said.
Leo looked indignant. ‘Laugh it up, you sods. I really need—’
‘I know what you need,’ Kilt said, chuckling, ‘and we’ll fix that. I’ve been remiss.’
‘You’ve been a gaoler more like,’ Leo said.
