As the sun warmed the mountainside, Shaden Second-Son passed through the ranks of Slaughterer dead laid out in the narrow roadway. At home, Gwynyss would be sending the children off with the servants to dress. If he’d been there, they could have stolen a few minutes alone before joining breakfast.
Instead, he was in the Red Ridge inspecting corpses. Ugly work to mar an otherwise beautiful spring morning.
He should be thankful he had survived to return to his family at all. Many of the Sun Guard hadn’t been so lucky.
Shaden had spent the night before with the legionnaires, cutting locks of hair from their dead brethren and removing pieces of armor, weapons, and other keepsakes their families would treasure. They left nothing behind that the mountain clans could loot and put to use. Working into the sunrise, they had raised cairns in the boulder field along the road and committed the souls of their dead to Yasha’haor.
With his people cared for, he turned his attention to their attackers.
Shaden knelt beside the largest corpse among the outlaws. The man was nearly nine feet from severed head to the soles of his fur boots, and bore the slanting scars of a bear’s swipe across his bottom lip and bearded chin. Only one man in these mountains dared to parade around in a bear skull.
“It’s Qacha. Bring his head for proof—and leave it inside the bear’s.”
While Greishon sliced through the last bit of sinew holding the giant’s head to his neck, Shaden continued his inspection. One by one he pronounced each dead man an outlaw. The heads of the known went into a sack, while the rest of their bodies went over the edge of the plateau with their unknown brethren to feed the scavengers.
A whistle caught his attention.
Brackwater waved him over to where he and Fell Heather stood looking down at a Slaughterer body. “You’d better see this, Legate Marshal.”
When he joined them, the old soldier crouched and, grunting with effort, twisted the head of an outlaw stiffened with cold toward Shaden. The dead man was just out of his youth, red hair, seventy or seventy-five years old, with comely features beneath the dirt. Blood had frozen thick in his aquiline nose and the canals of his ears. Icy red tears coated his wide-open eyes. His teeth, lips, and chin were splashed with vivid crimson.
“Looks like blood plague, doesn’t it?” Brackwater said.
“Something that mimics the symptoms more likely,” Shaden suggested. The Helat were not susceptible to blood plague, their descendants among the outlaw scum included.
Fell Heather’s smile turned grim.
“Don’t worry, it gets worse.” She hooked a thin necklace from beneath the dead man’s hide armor. “This is the Silvereye boy.”
“You’re certain?” The lost heir of the Silvereyes had been reported murdered by Slaughterers six years before, during a crossing of the Red Ridge. “It could be an outlaw wearing a stolen birth chain.”
“Nashon’s a near cousin, raised in their household. He confirmed it.”
Frowning, Shaden straightened. “Bring a lock of his hair and the birth chain. Raise a cairn for the rest of him—just the two of you and Nashon. Not another soul in the Guard hears of this yet.”
“Understood.”
The Thorn Alaan had killed Qacha, but Silvereye’s death was unlikely to be the work of an Ocean Rover, no matter how deeply integrated he was in Khinet society. Not only were the Children of Day immune to blood plague, but a noble such as the Silvereye heir should have been capable of rejecting the blood magic of all but the royal class.
Princess Kelena had been present on the mountainside as well…
Shaden headed for the duke’s pavilion, thinking over the implications of the discovery.
Possibility one, he thought, Nashon is a liar planted by his house.
It couldn’t be ruled out. The Celestial Houses were as cunning as they were fruitful. They had hundreds of offspring in the emperor’s guard, ostensibly proving their loyalty to the Sun Dynasty through service. Word had traveled quickly through the ranks that Shaden would be escorting an ambassador from the Kingdom of Night, and the list of those who applied to lend their sword arms had been long, despite the opposition the emperor had faced in agreeing to treat with the Khinet ambassador. It would have been a simple matter for Lord Silvereye to implant one of their number and prepare him to spring the lie when they crossed the Red Ridge.
But to what end? Shaden had spoken words of comfort to the boy’s father Leihoran, had promised justice for his only son. The boy’s mother Anmarada was never seen without a bereavement locket containing a braid of her son’s hair. Why bother playing the part of heroically grieving parents only to have their son and heir rediscovered alive six years later?
And now dead again, at the hands of their ancient enemy.
Possibility two, we are in for a dynasty war, just in time for the arrival of the Ambassador of Night, who just happened to bring with him a direct descendent of Khinet capable of killing Helat nobles.
***
He dreamed of Mehet for the first time in months. Of her directing his cutlass to her neck, telling him the battle was lost and to do his duty by her so she would not be taken by the dirters. Of his hesitation, his failure as her husband.
He felt the blow to the head as he was blindsided again, but instead of crashing to the burning planks of Haelbringr, Alaan bolted upright, heart hammering against his breastbone.
No Thorn woke peacefully. The grafting hounded their sleep with visions of the violence and death, rattling them until they woke ready to fight. Alaan was no exception. He grabbed for his cutlass and swordbreaker.
But his weapons were not at his belt. He was not under attack on his burning raed ship, and he was not on a stony, snowy, wet mountainside fighting wild men.
He was in the cushioned sleeping chest. Its lid had been left open, and his blades lay on the floor of the pavilion within arm’s reach.
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“You’re awake!” The princess’s joyful declaration drove a spike through his temple. His pulse pounded like a drum inside his skull.
Bits and pieces of the fight on the plateau and in the boulder field drifted back to him. The muscles in his arms, neck, and back were stiff, but whatever wounds he had incurred had since healed. He reeled slightly as he climbed out of the chest, surprised by the dead motionlessness beneath his feet. A long-forgotten surge of landsickness rose, then fell away.
Bright sunlight lanced through a narrow strip of the pavilion’s canvas door, piercing the shadowy interior of the tent and making afterimages dance behind his eyes. He closed them while he belted on his cutlass and swordbreaker.
“How long have I slept?” His tongue was clumsy and thick.
“Through the night.” The princess offered him a waterskin. The icy drink cut through the last of his bleariness. “The Legate Marshal wanted to speak with you, but… Well, you never sleep that well, so I told him to wait until you woke on your own.”
Embarrassment flooded the grafting at the memory. The princess did not believe she had any right to give orders or stand against someone else’s wishes. Yet she had not given in to the Legate Marshal’s demands.
“Are you feeling well enough to see him?”
Alaan nodded, driving another spike of pain through the back of his skull.
“I’ll get him.” She stopped short of the pavilion door, one hand grasping at her opposite elbow. “Alaan, on the mountainside…”
“I saw nothing.”
He could not remember ever telling a more blatant lie. Every line of her body would be etched into his memory until the day he died.
“Oh, I didn’t…” Her arms tightened against her body as if she wished she could cover herself more than her clothing already had. “I was going to thank you for rescuing me.”
She was lying, but before Alaan could reply, she pushed aside the tent door and stepped out into the blinding glare of day, one hand raised to shield her face from the sun.
The grafting howled at Alaan to race after her, but he pushed the insistence aside
He dumped water from the skin onto his hands and hastily washed his face. Blood had dried down one side and had to be scrubbed from his beard. A thin line of scar tissue had replaced the hair near the corner of his jaw. He couldn’t recall an explicit strike in the chaos of the night’s battle that had made it.
Another splash of water washed the blood from his hands and forearms. The shirt he had been wearing had shielded the rest. He didn’t see the blood-soaked garment lying around the pavilion. He would consider it lost on the mountainside and try never to think of it again. The shirts from the spare uniform and common clothing would serve.
Alaan was buttoning his uniform jacket when the canvas door opened and the princess returned with the Legate Marshal and Duke Clarencio.
Both dirter men had the dark shadows of a sleepless night pooled beneath their eyes. The duke looked paler than usual, and he leaned heavily on his walking stick. His smile was tight, and a low whistle from inside his chest accompanied his every breath. The princess stayed close to his side, concern for her husband flowed through the grafting.
“As I said, your presence is not required,” Shaden told the duke.
Grimacing, Clarencio lowered himself onto the now-closed lid of the sleeping chest. “No member of my household will be interrogated without my presence.” The princess settled beside him, and he squeezed her hand. “Certainly not the man who rescued my wife from those savages. What did you name them?”
“Slaughterers.” Shaden turned to Alaan. “What do you know of these men, Thorn?”
“Dirters without metalsmiths. Fierce fighters, but poorly disciplined,” Alaan replied with what he had observed in the melee. “Your legionnaires believed they were after the horses.”
“Slaughterers are the descendants of outlaws who chose a life of villainy over law.” The legate’s Khinesian was more formal than what Alaan had grown used to hearing from Izak and the princess, and leagues distant from that mangled version Lathe had spoken. “From time to time, more flee their oaths or crimes to join them. Likely hunting was poor over the winter or they would never have attacked a caravan attended by such a large force of the Sun Guard. Do you recall the larger man you killed on the mountainside?”
“A giant who wore a bear’s skull.”
“Qacha Bear-Son. He is a known man, infamous throughout the empire for slaying many sons and carrying off many daughters. The emperor will wish to reward you for his death.”
“I do not desire dirter rewards.”
Shaden fixed him with a flat stare. “Regardless. However, there is a complication. Another you killed was a noble youth of the Helat.”
“I killed only Slaughterers on the mountainside,” Alaan said.
“So you thought,” Shaden said. “Due to our mutual forebears, we look much alike beneath the furs. This man was young, beardless, red-orange hair. Lieren Silvereye of Celestor.”
At the duke’s side, the princess pressed pale fingers to her mouth. Anxiety bloomed in the grafting.
The legate marshal appeared not to have noticed. “Lieren Silvereye was reported by his family to have been murdered by Slaughterers while crossing the Red Ridge six years ago. Yet when I inspected his body today, I found him dressed in their hide armor. He was killed fighting alongside Qacha Bear-Son like unto a brother.”
“You’re certain this young man was one of yours?” Clarencio asked. “You said yourself differentiation can prove troublesome.”
“He was identified by a family member in the Sun Guard.”
The duke frowned. “There’s something you’re not telling us. Actually, there’s lots you’re not telling us, but start where you will.”
“I serve the Sun Dynasty,” the legate said. “The Silvereyes are of the Celestial Dynasty, who ruled our Empire until their fall, three generations ago. There has been speculation in recent decades that the Celestials would attempt to retake power, though they have shown nothing but fierce loyalty to Emperor Tragion.
“There are many possibilities that must be weighed. The Silvereye boy could have appeared dead, stricken by a blow to the head, and recovered in the Slaughterer’s camp with no knowledge of himself. The boy could have been taken prisoner and forced to turn against us.”
Horror filled the grafting. “But that’s awful!”
“He doesn’t believe any of that to be the case, Kelena,” Clarencio reassured his wife. The duke studied the Helat with his dark glare. “What do you think truly happened here?”
Long seconds passed before Shaden reluctantly answered.
“In the War of the Daughters, outlaws were engaged on the sides of Thrathalie and of Nierena, and Iendieal tried to buy her own to supplement her troops before she was slain. Assume the boy’s death was reported to hide his stay in the mountains while he rallied the Slaughterers to his family’s side.”
“Mercenaries fight in every war,” Clarencio said.
“Not all mercenaries are the descendants of the fallen dynasty. The complication I mentioned—the Slaughterers are an offshoot of those Celestials whose rule ended with Cedrion. If they believed their dynasty had a fair chance of returning to power, they could easily be convinced to join the war.”
“I have several questions,” the duke said, “but let’s stick to the main issue. None of this explains why you’re interrogating Alaan.”
“Less an interrogation than a request for cooperation. The Celestial Houses are cunning, the Silvereyes—their dynasty’s royal line—are chief among their foxes. If this is some ploy by them, I prefer that it remain unknown that I am aware of it.” The legate looked to Alaan. “I will not ask you to lie; I have heard too much of the pride Ocean Rovers take in their laws of honor. But I ask that you hold your tongue about the identity of the youth unless you are asked directly about this matter.”
“His name and identity were unknown to me until you spoke them,” Alaan replied, wondering what the Helat’s true aim was.
“Yet the outrage will fall upon you if word is spread that you killed him.”
The princess started up, defensiveness straightening her spine. “But we don’t even know that it was Alaan who killed him! There were dozens of the Sun Guard on the mountainside last night. I was on the mountainside. It could have been anyone.”
“It could have been,” Shaden agreed.
Alaan’s shoulders tensed. The grafting hissed an unnecessary warning. She had been about to tell him something before going to get the legate.
“In any case, I did not wish to lead you into the Court of the Sun without sufficient notice of what may greet you there.” Shaden cast wary eyes at Clarencio. “Emperor Tragion was a powerful and beloved sovereign for much of his rule, but the death of his son and heir during the last century weakened him and his hold on the throne. Your king’s negotiations for peace have come at a poor time for our empire. I tried to oppose receiving an envoy from the Kingdom of Night now, but my arguments were overridden by both the emperor and the court.
“Tragion lost all taste for the war when Prince Darelyon died, but his court has not. If the Celestial Houses can brew trouble from this and wrest the throne from him, they will, and that will be the end of your talks for peace.”
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