Tyrant’s Blood Page 2

“I spent years around a pregnant queen, my lord. Iselda lost quite a few babies but I know during her confinements she was generally irritable. She was no doubt anxious—and for good reason, having lost so many—but also worried that Brennus would stop finding her attractive.”

  Loethar made a brief noise of scorn. “I find that very hard to believe. Perhaps if you hadn’t killed her, I could have married her!”

  “I do hope the walls don’t have ears, sir,” Freath said dryly and Loethar gave him a wry glance, knowing they were both well aware of Valya’s unpredictable tantrums. “Brennus was butter around her.”

  “Is that so?”

  “‘Besotted’ is probably the right word. Few couples achieve such devotion.”

  Loethar grunted. Freath’s counsel was no comfort at all. In fact, it served only to alienate him further. Marriage to Valya was a trial. Since the lavish wedding that he’d had to force himself to get through, she had become insatiable for power and wealth, especially the outward trappings of both. He understood why: she was proclaiming to the former Set people that while they had once gossipped and tittered behind her back at the reneging of the Valisar betrothal, now she was empress they were required to pay her homage. And once she delivered Loethar his heir at last, her position was truly sealed.

  “Well, Valya’s had a lot of unhappiness in her life. And not falling pregnant for so long has been a heavy burden for her. But that is changed now. Perhaps our son will bring her enough joy to leave her darkness behind.”

  Freath straightened. “You told me once that our empress had bravely defied man, beast and nature to find you on the plains but I cannot account for the significant gap of years between Brennus deserting their troth and my lady reappearing in Penraven a decade ago.”

  “It is of no harm for you to know, I suppose. Valya’s father blamed her for Brennus’s rejection, even though she hadn’t seen her husband-to-be for more than a year. The king sent his only daughter and heir to a convent that nestled within Lo’s Teeth, all but imprisoning her with the nuns. She admitted to me a long time ago that she was sure she turned mad for a while—several years probably. And while time scarred over her wounds, it never quelled her fury.” He stretched, reached for his glass on the weaven table nearby. “She escaped.” He yawned. “And then came looking for the Steppes people. She made it through those mountains alone. Impressive.”

  Freath paused, considering this. Loethar waited, sipping his wine. “So…” the aide began, frowning. “Was the attack the empress’s idea, my lord? This is old history now—it can’t matter if you share it.”

  “It was no one’s idea in particular,” Loethar lied. “I was a rebellious man, not satisfied with leading the Steppes people and wanting a whole lot more than the scrubby plains and the occasional visit from Set traders who felt they were superior to us. And then along came this striking woman out of nowhere, half-starved and with a rage to suit my own. She gave voice to what I was already thinking.”

  “And history was made, my lord,” Freath said lightly.

  Loethar sipped his wine again and turned away to regard the view out of the window. “Seems hard to believe it was a decade ago that we stormed Brighthelm. I feel as if I belong here.”

  Freath blinked. “You do, my lord.”

  “We’ve integrated well, don’t you think, Freath?”

  “Yes, my lord, surprisingly well.”

  “So many mixed marriages,” Loethar continued. “I’m very glad to see that the mingling of bloods has begun.”

  “General Stracker might not agree,” Freath added, conversationally.

  “He’s short-sighted, Freath. Most of the Denovian people would be enriching the soil if it had been left to him. There’d be no one left to make an empire,” Loethar replied, yet again wishing his half-brother had even a fraction of his aide’s insight. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and he nodded at Freath’s inquiring look.

  Freath opened the door and spoke briefly. Then closed it again, turning to Loethar. “It’s time to go, my lord.”

  Loethar began buttoning his midcoat. Freath dutifully held out the jacket. “I hate all this formal wear, Freath.”

  “I know you do, my lord, but it’s necessary. Can’t have you looking like a barbarian.” They both smiled at the quip. “What news from the north, sir?”

  Loethar shrugged, allowing Freath to quickly do up his jacket while he struggled with his collar. “All quiet for now. We’ve had patrols moving through the forest. The notorious highwayman and his daring minions elude me but we’ve silenced them for a while. There’s been no activity in the region for several moons.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a bang at the door.

  Freath frowned but Loethar inclined his head. The aide moved to the door and opened it.

  “I need to speak with him,” a brusque voice demanded.

  “It’s General Stracker, my lord,” Freath announced, as the other man pushed past him into the room.

  “Stracker. Speak of the devil!” Loethar said amiably. “I was just telling Freath here that you were up north and all was quiet.”

  Stracker grinned a sly smile. His green tatua slid in tandem, widening across his round, thickset face. “Not so quiet any longer.”

  Loethar stopped grimacing at himself in the mirror and turned his attention to his general. “What’s occurred?”

  “We might have our elusive outlaw.”

  Loethar’s mouth opened in surprise and then he too smiled. “Tell me.”

  Freath quietly set about pouring the two men a cup of wine, unobtrusively serving it and then melting back into the room to stand silently. Though he wasn’t intruding Loethar was aware the aide could hear everything. It didn’t matter. He would discuss most of this with Freath anyway.

  “I can’t confirm what you want to hear—not yet anyway—but one of the men, and we are almost sure it’s one of the outlaws, took an arrow wound.”

  “Faris?”

  “We think it could be.”

  “So he’s wounded and got away,” Loethar demanded.

  “That’s the sum of it,” Stracker confirmed, seemingly unfazed by the emperor’s intensity.

  “What makes you say you almost have him, then? Simply because you’ve wounded a man who could just belong to his cohort!” Loethar gave a sound of disgust and drained his cup.

  “Not so fast, brother. Hear me out,” Stracker said, cunning lacing his tone. “My men tell me that the wounded man took the arrow in the thigh. Now I’m sure even you would agree that in this situation it would be every man for himself.”

  There was an awkward pause until Loethar grudgingly nodded. “What of it?”

  Stracker grinned. “Not in this instance. Our soldiers confirmed that the renegades rallied around the wounded man, almost setting up a human shield. They half-carried, half-ran him away from our men. They’re clever and fast, I’ll give them that, and they know the ways and means of the forest better than our men ever could. They disappeared faster into the shadows of the great trees than our soldiers could scramble up the hill.”

  “What’s your point?” Loethar hated sounding so thick-headed and he knew it was disappointment making his comprehension sluggish.

  Stracker clearly delighted in his slowness. “Ask Freath, I’m sure he understands.” He casually took a long draft from his cup.

  Loethar glanced at Freath, who obliged, tension in his voice. “I suspect, my lord, that General Stracker is implying that the man was important enough for the others to risk their own capture or death.”

  “Exactly,” Stracker followed up, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself.

  Freath sounded awfully alarmed, Loethar thought, but he turned back to Stracker.

  “But you let them get away,” he said, his voice quiet and suddenly threatening.

  “No, I didn’t, brother. I wasn’t there. Had I been, I would have given chase until my heart gave out, but the captain in charge decided it was prudent not to venture d
eeper into the forest with only five men. He knew we would want this information and so I now have it and have brought it to you. But in the meantime I had Vulpan taken to the spot.”

  This time Loethar had no struggle in understanding his brother’s meaning. “Inspired.”

  “Thank you,” the huge man said, deigning to incline his head in a small bow.

  “I’m impressed, Stracker. So what now?”

  “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 house hold. 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 honor, 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 honor 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 famil
ies 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 recognize 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.