Prisoner 2 & 3
Jul. 20th, 2006 09:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrIf anyone does see errors in consistency or whatall, feel free to point them out. I wrote 94,000 words of this in a month, so I know for a fact there are going to be mistakes as hard as I've worked to find them all. Once I finish BB and Sandstorm, I'm totally going to finally just print this bitch out and start fixing it. It's probably bad you're reading the rough, but I always value the input from so many different POVs. And like any writer, total attention h0r let's be honest *shakes head*
Chapter Two
Beraht woke slowly, wishing desperately to go back to sleep and avoid the ache he could already feel forming in his head. Served him right, burning off that much yellow arcen in one spell.
Of course, if he hadn't he'd be dead but at the moment that really didn't seem like such a terrible idea.
Finally forcing his eyes open, Beraht immediately took in the cloak that covered him. Of heavy black wool, the bottom and top were liberally trimmed with gray wolf fur. He threw it off and clambered to his feet - then regretted it. Stars he hated winter.
Food was cooking on a spit over a small campfire, a bucket of water nearby. Beraht glanced up, noting that the sun was going down. Great, he’d woken just in time for it to get colder.
If the cloak hadn't belonged to the bastard General, he'd reassume it and go back to sleep.
Where was the bastard General anyway?
He was sorely tempted to run for it. But he had no food, inadequate gear thanks to stupid soldiers taking half his clothes and tearing the rest - stars he was cold - and he had no idea where he was. Except still in Kria.
Surely life couldn't get much worse.
The sound of something coming through the trees and bushes had him spinning around, tensed to put up whatever fight he could.
And there was his other reason for not running away. He wanted the bastard General to take his name away. Beraht eyed him warily as the General first moved to fetch his heavy cloak, then moved toward him.
Beraht looked up as he drew close.
And up.
Just how much arcen had he been on? How exhausted had he been the past few days? To not notice the man was a good five inches or more taller than him? He was built like he probably killed the wolf on his cloak with his bare hands.
No wonder they'd told him to go after the Scarlet. How had it not turned into a suicidal mission?
Sheer dumb bad luck, that's how. First the Seven Star tattoo, then finding out the Seven Star didn't want him. Then told he had to kill 1000 people - at least - before they'd consider him. Then told it had to be the Scarlet.
And now General von Adolwulf was looking at him like he would quite cheerfully like to throw him in the fire.
The feeling was entirely mutual, and the size of a mountain or not the bastard General was going to know that.
"You're finally awake."
"You're very observant."
Beraht wondered how many soldiers in a day got glared at like that. He sobered, recalling suddenly that they no longer had to worry about the General's glares.
Which reminded him - why had the Illussor been after him?
Great. So his own people wanted him dead. The Krians wanted him dead. The Illussor wanted him…for something.
The next time death came up as an option he was going to take it.
He didn't bother to fight when von Adolwulf grabbed what was left of his shirt and hauled him close. Looking up was going to give him a crick in the neck eventually, but for now he'd manage.
"You'd do well to remember, Beraht, that you are my prisoner. And after what happened to my men, I will not be so kind as to kill you."
Beraht's anger flared anew at the sound of his new, hated name. Damn it, he'd been earning a real name from his Brothers. He would have belonged, would have had a place and a full Star. Instead he was now worse than Nameless and the star at his back would never go past yellow. "It's not my fault!"
"Winter's Tits it's not! Why!" von Adolwulf threw him to the ground. "Why? Why would the Illussor want a worthless Salharan?"
"When you figure it out let me know," Beraht snapped, picking himself up off the ground.
"If I were you, Beraht, I would cease being flippant." The general's eyes were a strange mix of gray and green. Currently they were as hard as stone.
It really was no wonder everyone was terrified of the bastard. Beraht shoved away his own trepidation. Maybe if he angered him enough, von Adolwulf would lose his temper and beat him to death. Not a pleasant way to die, but he would take what he could get. "Sorry, flippant is the only way I know to be. If you don't like it, ignore me or kill me." This time when the General came after him, Beraht braced himself and attempted to fight back, dodging away from the hand that reached out to grasp him.
But fighting without magic was hard to do. Especially against a man who made wild bears look small. Just how far gone had he really been?
Beraht hit the ground with a pained grunt, the breath knocked out of his lungs, unable to see clearly for a second. But when his vision did clear, he saw all too well the anger and pain that filled the General's face.
"My men are dead. All of them. Not through battle defending their homeland or reclaiming lost ground. Not for a cause. But because the Illussor wanted you badly enough they Screamed. "
"That Scream could have killed us too, you know." But the heat had gone out of his voice, though he wanted it back. Every fiber in his body railed against the man pinning him down.
The Scarlet Wolf. His own men were terrified of him. Salharan soldiers dreaded hearing his name. None of them ever expected to live to see the day after a battle against him.
And now his gray-green eyes were the color of storm-tossed leaves, dark yet bright, full of anger but also pain. If Beraht were a weaker man, he might almost feel sorry for the bastard.
But no one had ever given him sympathy. He'd be damned if he gave it to a General who scared even his own men to death. "If I hadn't still had yellow Arcen in my boot, we'd both be dead. General. So maybe you're angry, but it's not my fault. I'm as ignorant as you."
With a rough, muttered curse the General released him and roughly hauled Beraht to his feet. "Keep your mouth shut," he said, brutally grabbing Beraht's chin and forcing him to look up. "Do as I say. Try to run and I will cut off your feet."
Beraht narrowed his eyes and dug his nails into the wrist that held him. "General, one day you'll grow sick of me. You'll try to rid yourself of me. But it won't happen. I'll not leave your side until you take away my name. I refuse to live quietly with the name you've shamed me with. So don't get your hopes up about cutting off my feet."
The General's grin was nothing less than wolfish when he let go of Beraht, not affected at all by the bloody marks left by Beraht's nails. "Do your worst. The more excuses I have to beat you, the better."
"You don't strike me as the type to need an excuse."
"Think what you like." He turned away, dismissing Beraht entirely to examine their dinner, which had singed slightly. "Come. Eat."
Beraht for a moment thought to refuse, but his stomach growled and he was forced to admit - to himself - that a war, even a private one, could not be waged on an empty stomach. Reluctantly he sat down and accepted what the General gave him, eyeing it warily before biting into meat that, though singed, was the best thing he'd had in months.
"You need clothes."
"Wouldn't you prefer to see me freeze to death slowly?"
"Not until I've paid you back for killing my men."
"The Illussor killed your men." Beraht glared. "I had nothing to do with it."
"You were the motive."
"Unwitting."
"Irrelevant."
"You're every bit the bastard I've always heard you to be."
The General sneered. "Hoping to regain ground with compliments?"
"There is nothing about you worth complimenting."
Not bothering to respond, the General rose to his feet and strode to a set of saddlebags hanging from a tree. Rifling through it, he pulled out a shirt and over tunic.
"Those are far too big for me."
"If you do not put them on, I will do it for you."
Finishing his meat, Beraht threw the stick to the ground and snatched at the clothes held out to him. "Would you like to search me for pollution before I change?"
"I already did," the General said.
Biting off his curses, refusing to let the thrice-cursed Krian see how disconcerting that statement was, Beraht began to change. Von Adolwulf’s clothes were far too large, but they were warmer than his own. If he was going to become a prisoner of Kria, why couldn’t it have waited until Spring?
Von Adolwulf put out the fire, and in minutes it was hard to tell anyone had ever made camp there. “Come, we have far to go.”
Beraht started to protest, then thought better of it.
The horse was as much a monster as the master. Which reminded him - where had his chains gone? He looked at his wrists, which had partially healed as a side-effect of the protect spell. "Do you miss them?" von Adolwulf asked.
"Don't you?" Beraht replied. "I am not the one who must worry about a knife in my back."
Von Adolwulf laughed. "Are you admitting to cowardice then, Salharan? And I've no need to fear a betrayal from you, Beraht. Do I?" He urged his horse forward, pulling up alongside Beraht. "Come. I don't have all day. You can ride the easy way or the hard way."
"So we're not going to drag me around in chains this time?" Beraht said.
"I gave you a chance," von Adolwulf replied. He reached down and grabbed Beraht by his tunic, then hauled him up and over the saddle like most would a sack.
"Let me go!" Beraht said, twisting around in a vain attempt to knock them both down. Von Adolwulf laughed and threw him to the ground. "Would you like to try again? I suggest you do it properly, because my patience is wearing thin. We won't be stopping until we reach the Stone Temple, and that is several hours away."
Beraht grimaced and mounted the horse. Morosely he wondered how many times he would be picking himself up off the ground, as von Adolwulf seemed to delight in throwing him down. He must be sporting more than a dozen bruises; no doubt he’d break something before the journey concluded.
They rode in a silence broken only by the sound of hooves speeding over dirt and grass. Von Adolwulf had chosen to avoid the roads, and so there were not even other people to distract his attention. Nor even any animals.
Winter was falling hard and fast throughout Kria. Only the southern area usually escaped the worst of the weather which fell with lethal force across Kria and most of Illussor. The snow in Salhara was not nearly so bad. It was lighter back home, and for the first time since he’d left it Beraht found himself missing his flat, sandy home.
But after another hour of riding, even those memories could not distract from the pain in his head. Like knives driven into the back of his skull and pushed through to the front. He bit back any sounds that would give away his discomfort and desperately sought for any distraction. It had been a long time since he’d had to live longer than a few hours without arcen easily accessible.
The pain was as bad as he’d been warned. He needed more.
Distraction. He needed distraction. Casting his eyes out, Beraht encountered nothing but brown field and a swiftly approaching forest – the dark, heavy, always green trees not usually found in Salhara. There was something bizarre about a tree that was always green. He’d always liked them.
As they entered the trees, the going grew rougher and despite himself Beraht held fast to the arm heavy around his waist. He looked at it, not quite able to look at the trees rushing toward and at the last past them.
Von Adolwulf was strong. In a handful of days he’d been better acquainted with that strength more than he’d ever wanted. He ached in places he hadn’t known were part of his body until Von Adolwulf managed to bruise them. His wrists would not soon forget the chains…nor would his dignity. Even traitors in Salhara did not get carted around in chains. Chains were for slaves; something they’d outlawed years ago, when it grew more and more important that they have able, willing soldiers to fight against the Krians – and the Illussor when they showed up.
The arm around his waist held him with no effort. He wondered if von Adolwulf even remembered he was here. Nor did his monster horse appear to notice the extra weight. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear the beast was enjoying itself.
At least the pace and the company, hated as it was, kept him warm. Only the air he breathed in told him how chilly it was – and it was getting colder. Hopefully this temple von Adolwulf had mentioned would prove to be a real shelter. He frowned, flipping through what he knew of Krian geography in this area.
No temple came to mind. So it was insignificant enough even the Krians didn’t bother to mark it on a map? He’d never heard of them neglecting such a marker before. At the rate they were traveling, they’d be a hundred miles or more northeast of the Disputed Fields by nightfall.
Of course it was foolish to think that the Krians let their best maps anywhere near their enemies. The ones they had were probably the work of children when compared to what must accompany Krian generals into the field. How he’d love to get his hands on one of those, rather than the crummy, faded scrap he’d been working with ever since he’d been given his stars-cursed assignment.
The Stone Temple was exactly that. Stone. And a temple. No wonder he’d never seen it noted on any map. It had to be the most boring thing he’d ever seen. That Krian taste for simplicity that more often ran toward painfully dull. Was there a spark of imagination in them anywhere?
Back home temples were pretty things. Fine wood polished to a shine, draped with soft, jewel-tone fabrics. Lit by beeswax candles, filled with candles and the songs of the devout. But here…it smelled damp. And stale. There were no candles, and only moonlight and wind filled the barren, open space. A single statue stood at the far end of the room. Beraht conceded the statue was impressive, eight feet high and depicting a man who looked as though everything amused him greatly. He pondered what little he knew of Krian religion – this would be the Spring Prince? It was not as grand as it could have been. There was not half the design to it that a similar statue back home would have carried.
Still…he had never been in a Krian building before. His experiences were limited to the battlefield and sneaking around at night to do further harm. The only worship he ever saw there was the strange Krian obsession with their swords.
“Krians love their swords more than their gods, I’d say. Maybe divine displeasure is why you travel home a failure every season.” He was beginning to enjoy pissing the General off, though only the Stars knew why.
But then von Adolwulf laughed, and Beraht found himself looking briefly between the general and the statue.
“A failure? I think not. Every year I succeed in keeping you thrice-damned Salharans from laying claim to the Regenbogen. Perhaps it’s all the time and effort you waste making your shrines look pretty that cost you all that skill on the battlefield.” He sneered. “Then again, it’s not like you can expect skill from someone so polluted he needs that pollution to function normally.”
Beraht returned the sneer. “If I had arcen with me now—“
Steel hissed against leather, and Beraht found himself between cold stone and colder steel. “If you had your drugs with you now, you still would be dead. Pollution is no substitute for steel, to which many of your dead comrades will attest.”
“That sword didn’t save your men, did it?” Beraht barely had the sentence out before his world spun out from underneath him in a flash of pain. He crumbled, holding his stomach, and watched through watery eyes as von Adolwulf stalked away.
Dieter seethed. He sheathed his sword as he approached the statue of the Autumn Prince, and reached out with one hand to touch the tip of one boot in respect. Killing Beraht would be the easiest recourse. But killing him wouldn’t bring his men back. Hundreds of men, some of the best in Kria, killed by a Scream by the thrice-cursed Illussor.
All because of a Salharan. He spared a brief look over his shoulder at Beraht, who still was on the ground. Dieter sneered. Perhaps his people were mocked for favoring weapons over “magic” but it was steel that had held the Regenbogen decade after decade. The bastard Salharan could not even block a simple gut punch.
Polluted fools.
Dieter drew his cape from his shoulders and reached into a pocket buried by folds of fur. He withdrew a small ring of keys and flipped through several before settling on a small, plain steel key. Touching the boot of his patron god once more, he moved around the statue and fit the key to a hole hidden by the overhanging edge of the pedestal. A soft click was snatched away by the wind.
He contemplated Beraht, who was slowly standing. Pain was quickly masked by anger. Dieter smirked, amused. The last few prisoners taken had not lasted more than a day against ‘Krian brutality.’ Of course, a man who had single-handedly taken out so many of his Scarlet in the span of a few hours was obviously cut from different cloth. But he was a Brother – for all the good that had done him. Dieter’s mood soured further. Returning the keys to his cloak, he stalked toward Beraht and grabbed his arm. “I should leave you up here to suffer in the wind…but any suffering you endure will be at my hand.” He grinned in the way that had sent green soldiers running into walls in their haste to find a door.
Beraht grinned back just as nastily. “We’ll see who suffers, General. By the end, you’ll beg me to be gone.”
“Don’t make me laugh.” He hauled Beraht along, not giving him a chance to find his feet. “And I can always tie you up, Beraht.” The Salharan cringed at the sound of Dieter speaking his name, and Dieter laughed to rub salt in the wound. The Salharan obsession with names was the one thing he’d never been able to understand. One hand strayed to his sword, fingertips touching the hilt briefly. Names were important, but they were not as important as other things. He dragged Beraht behind the statue, and pulled at a sconce on the wall.
The wall swung open, revealing a set of spiraling stairs. It was a short flight, the true temple was not all that deep underground.
He heard Beraht mutter something in his native language, and smirked.
Stupid Salharans.
Temples for the Autumn Prince were always underground, a show of respect to the dead buried underground. This particular temple was empty; it took him a couple of minutes to get all the torches lit, but when he did the room was a beauty to behold. Black and red and gold, the colors of the Autumn Prince. And the Scarlet.
Beraht was still muttering to himself in Salharan; it was the first time since he’d encountered him that he’d bothered to speak his native tongue. The temple was warm despite its location, and the numerous torches dispersed the last remnants of what chill had lingered.
They were a hundred and fifteen miles north of Regenbogen, making this the last temple – really more of a refuge – before entering what Kria considered battleground. He grabbed Beraht and all but threw the man deeper into the temple, swinging shut the wooden door that sealed off the stairs. Later he would lock it. “Make yourself at home,” he said.
He left Beraht to continue gawking at the temple. It was a medium-sized room, one corner given over to bedding, another to a low table for eating, relaxing. Off the right side would be a room for business – a high table, with maps and other tools for war. Off the left side was a bathing room, though Dieter regretted it did not have a proper bath. But that would come soon enough; if he continued to push home was a little less than two weeks away.
Instead of the three or more it would have taken with his men. He focused on his anger, blocking out all else as he cleaned himself up. They would all pay…after he determined what was going on. It frustrated him that, near as he could tell, Beraht seemed genuinely confused as to why the Illussor had wanted him. There would be few to no clues coming from that quarter.
Dieter scrubbed angrily, until he was red and raw from cleaning. From cedar chests in the corner he drew out clothes left the last time he’d passed through. When he remerged in the main chamber, he was not surprised to see Beraht out cold amongst the heap of bedding in the far back corner. He stalked across the room and hauled him to his feet, shaking him awake. “Now, now, little prisoner. I don’t want you infesting this place with more vermin than absolutely necessary.”
“What? Even your vile little brothers can’t stand your company?” Yellow eyes flashed with anger. Strange that they were still so bright, when he could tell from the way Beraht had been holding his head that he was suffering severely from withdrawal.
He half shoved, half threw him in the direction of the bathing room. “Get clean. Then maybe I’ll let you sleep.”
The words hurled at him were uttered in Salharan. Dieter laughed. Settling himself amongst the bedding, tossing aside extraneous pillows, he drew his sword and stared at it in silence. Through his head ran the names of his third-in-command, his assistants, strategists and so many others who would not make it home. All because of a Salharan and the damned Illussor.
And he, who should have been aware of the Illussor trick. But his punishment would come soon enough. Of that he had no doubt. He allowed his mind to wander, though one ear was ever on the sounds of Beraht in the other room.
His sword glinted in the light, and for a moment it seemed as though colors shimmered deep within. It was a long sword, old but much cared for. Made with skill. The hilt and pommel were black, and in the bottom of the pommel was set a large, round, blood red stone. Even in his youth, it had been decided he would someday lead the Scarlet. Dieter sheathed it and drew the keys from his cloak before setting both aside. He locked the door and returned to his bed. A few minutes later Beraht emerged.
Clean, he looked almost completely different. Shaven, he looked young. Perhaps thirty, but Dieter wondered if he might be younger. His hair was not as dark a blonde as he’d thought; it was actually quite pale. But the eyes were still as yellow, even dulled with exhaustion. Somewhere he’d found clothes that fit, and his glare dared Dieter to protest his taking them.
As if he cared. “Now you may sleep,” he said, and smirked to see the ire that flashed across the man’s face. It was like toying with a new recruit. Far too easy. “And I don’t suggest attacking me in my sleep.”
“You’re not worth losing sleep over,” Beraht returned. And saying nothing more, he reclaimed his section of bedding and fell almost immediately to sleep.
Dieter sneered at his still form.
Headaches. Exhaustion. Beraht was progressing rapidly through the stages of withdrawal. It would be amusing when he woke up starving in a few hours, with no idea where to find food.
Beraht sat up, instantly awake. The room had been dimmed down from nearly two dozen to only four torches, and he was painfully aware of the fact that they were underground, with no sun and stale air. It was little better than living in a cave.
Heathen Krians. As beautiful as the room was, it was still a hole in the ground.
Stars above he was hungry. For something very specific, but he was as likely to find arcen here as he was to get along with his bastard keeper. He stood up, resisting the urge to kick the man who slept only a few steps away…one hand on his sword. Beraht snorted. Krians and their weapons. If he took the sword away, would von Adolwulf snarl or cry?
Probably kill him. Which was an idea to keep in reserve. There was no telling what was in store for him when getting to safety was no longer a priority. Though he had no intention of dying bearing a Krian name, it was possible that there would be no other recourse.
Beraht realized suddenly that he had no idea where to find food. There was no obvious cupboard. They were already in a cellar. Damn it. At least the pain in his head had dulled. Stars he just wanted to go back to sleep.
“Hungry?” An all too smug voice made Beraht start. He hoped the bastard hadn’t noticed. Had he been awake the entire time? Probably. One day the tables would be turned, and oh the revenge he would have.
Instead of answering, Beraht curled back up in his bedding. Everything smelled like the trees outside, mixing with dust and some strange powder that he’d determined kept out insects and the like.
Laughter met his silence, and he heard von Adolwulf lay back down. Eventually his breathing evened out. Beraht turned over to his other side and stared at the general’s shadowy form.
Shaggy, black, silver-touched hair. Even asleep he dwarfed his surroundings. He slept soundlessly, breaths audible only because there was literally no other sound in the room. Beraht was surprised. A man like von Adolwulf he would have expected to sleep with one eye open…perhaps he did. Could he kill him now?
With what? Beraht snorted softly. If he had arcen, the problem would already be resolved. But without his magic, and suffering from a lack of it, he doubted he could best von Adolwulf if he had all the weapons and the general was already wounded.
He turned back over. How twisted that his captor was the person he had the least interest in killing. Names are power. Power of life. Power of death. Do not give a name lightly. Do not take a name lightly. Do not share a name lightly. Do not speak a name lightly. Beraht choked on a sound that was half laughter, half sob.
Nameless his entire life. Only to be offered a place on the condition he killed. To have even that taken away, forced to take a name bestowed by a Krian.
Not by a parent. Not by a spouse. Not by a brother.
By an enemy.
He curled up tightly, ignoring the pains of both body and mind as best he could, until sleep finally carried him away again.
Chapter Three
“Lord Grau,” an older woman greeted him with a smile. “We were just finishing up.”
“Excellent,” Sol said, returning the smile. He looked at Iah, who sat quiet and motionless in an old, wooden chair. The cottage wasn’t much, but over the years it was probably the place he thought of most fondly. Lying in the woods, just shy of the northern border between Salhara and Kria, it was an ideal place for him to switch identities. He paused to look in the mirror just inside the main cabin, having gone outside to treat his hair.
Rather than gray, it was a dark, nutty brown. His eyes too had been altered with chemicals, dimming their distinctive yellow to a dim, brownish amber. It didn’t hurt that treating them thus also gave him a slow look. Lord Grau was an amusement in the Emperor’s court, ‘endearing’ to a few of the kinder women. A lotion, yet another handy trick developed by the clever Mella, darkened his skin. In a few weeks he would not need it, the sun bowing to winter’s strength, but for now it would look strange if he did not have tanned skin.
Mella clucked at him. “It’s always strange, the way you alter your appearance. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
“I’m not used to it, Mella. Why should you be? How fair you, Captain?” Sol dropped to one knee and carefully took one of his hands, letting Iah know exactly where he was. He spoke in Iah’s language.
“Well enough, all thing’s considered.” Iah lifted a hand to his bandaged eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”
“I would imagine not,” Sol replied. He stood slowly, never releasing Iah’s hand. “I doubt you find it reassuring,” he said teasingly. “But you make for a fine Krian.”
Iah laughed sadly. “At least I make for a good something. Certainly I’m not much of an Illussor anymore.”
“Now don’t say that,” Sol said. He tugged Iah up, gently adjusting his clothes so that they fell properly. It had taken him a long time to adjust to Krian clothing; the heavy fabrics and intricate fastenings, everything lined or trimmed in fur. But Iah seemed to wear his long coat fine – perhaps because unlike Salhara, Illussor spent almost as much time buried in the cold as Kria. “When you bring home the Breaker, all will call you a hero.” He touched the bandages softly.
“I suppose…” Iah said, then changed the subject. “I would imagine we can’t go around calling me Iah, can we?”
Sol hesitated. “No, we cannot.”
Iah smiled. “Am I running up against a stigma with names? You shall have to explain it all to me sometime. I fear I do not understand it.”
“Names are power. Power of life. Power of death. Do not give a name lightly. Do not take a name lightly. Do not share a name lightly. Do not speak a name lightly,” Sol recited. “To give a name is to give a life. To strike a name is to kill a man. Whosoever names you has power over you.”
“I still don’t really understand.”
Sol nodded. “I will explain over dinner, if time permits. For now, more important matters. Do you speak Krian at all?”
“Only battle speech,” Iah said. It wasn’t unusual for soldiers to pick up a measure of fluency in the language of his enemies. Krian, Salharan and Illussor soldiers alike all managed to learn at least a bit of one another’s language.
“Then we will practice on the journey. You will have to be fluent.”
Iah smiled. “Or I could be mute.”
“That will be our last resort,” Sol said. He stood and tugged Iah to his feet. “We will also have to drill you on Krian custom. I don’t suppose you know any of that?”
Iah frowned, and his head swayed back and forth in thought. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped, a pang in his chest. Captain’s bobbing like a bird again. We’re in for it now! “They’re obsessed with their weapons,” he said finally.
Sol threw his head back and laughed. “Obsession is what we would call it. Krians know weapons. How to fight the old way. They take it very seriously.”
“Yes,” Iah said. He shook his head, recalling things that had never made much sense to him. “I’ve been told they name their swords. The more absurd rumors state they treat their swords like lovers.”
“Sort of,” Sol said quietly. “A man names his sword after the person he loves.”
Iah grimaced. “How Krian, to call a tool for killing after a beloved.”
Sol’s voice carried a gentle reprimand. “Krian soldiers go into battle assuming they will die. Like all of us. They call their swords after their ‘beloved’ so that they’ll die with the person they love beside them.”
“I have never heard such a thing,” Iah said softly, ducking his head.
“Neither had I,” Sol said more gently. “It will take us two weeks to reach the Winter Palace. Let us hope we can make you properly Krian by the time we reach it.”
Iah nodded.
“Come,” Sol took his arm and tucked it into his elbow. “We will eat the dinner Mella has prepared and begin your instruction tonight. By journey’s end, you will be as comfortable as a native.” He laughed briefly. “Provided of course that you do not get into any fights. If there is one thing even I will not attempt, it is to fight a Krian. Nothing would single me out as foreign faster.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
“Come then,” Sol said. His words were not the up and down tones of Illussor, nor the clipped, sharp words of his own country. They were the gruff, rolling words of the Krians, and Sol spoke it as flawlessly as he had Illussor. “Dinner awaits and I’m starving.”
He guided Iah into his chair and contemplated the man as he took his own seat. Even blind and uncertain, Iah had an inherent dignity about him. Sol remembered the way he’d trembled during the meeting of the Seven Star. Shock and fear must have been overwhelming, for no one ever dared to take an Illussor captive. For Salhara, who relied so heavily on arcen to perform magic, Illussor was feared as much as despised for its natural magic. And the dreaded spell for which they had come to be named. Whatever the country had once been called – for that hadn’t always been its name – it was lost.
The Salharan in him winced at the idea of a name being not only discarded but forgotten. But Illussor was fitting, so perhaps the stars knew something he didn’t. He snorted softly and turned his mind back to Iah.
Strange how complacent the man was…but perhaps it was simply desperation. It was not as though he’d had many options. Still. If it were his eyes, he would not be so calm.
Of course, if Tawn ever tried to attack him it would not end in his eyes being harmed. Sol forced himself to relax before his tension relayed itself to Iah. Tawn was a problem he would take care of in time. Likely neither of them would survive the encounter. In the mean time, the bastard was useful.
May his sister forgive him.
Sol closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Thank you, Mella.” He smiled at her and indicated for her to go. Mella nodded and departed, leaving the two men alone. Sol switched to Krian, and the language was both strange and familiar on his tongue. He had learned it back when it was frowned upon to have anything to do with the enemy. Before he’d been made a soldier. The Krian language was easy to love – far simpler than the flowery words of the Illussor, and so different from his own. Though he did not love the country, he did not hate it either. Not like he did Salhara. “A bowl of stew is directly in front of you; utensils to the immediate right. A glass of wine to the left and up slightly. Napkin south of the bowl. Bread below the wine glass. If you need anything, you’ve only to say.”
Iah seemed uncertain, and Sol repeated the words again, slowly. Iah nodded, and after he began to eat Sol did likewise.
“You…” Iah spoke slowly, his Illussor accent glaringly apparent. “Know my problem.”
“My sister,” Sol said. “She fell sick. The fever took her sight.” Calmly Sol ate, enjoying the hearty stew made from a lingering deer he had killed the previous day. All too soon such meat would be hard to come by.
“I am sorry. What was her name?” Frustration laced the awkward words, punctuated by the way he fumbled to eat.
Sol took pity and switched to Illussor. “Her name was Ariana.” He bit back the bitter words he wanted to speak. The name was a pretty one, even if the giver had proven unworthy. It suited her, he must remember that.
Silence fell, and Sol listened to the wind outside. “It is going to snow,” he said in Krian. “We will have to travel quickly, or we will be caught in it.” Iah nodded and he continued. “The Winter Princess is ruthless to those who disobey her will.”
“What?” Iah asked.
Sol switched back to Illussor. “Do you know anything about Krian religion?”
“They worship the seasons,” Iah said after a moment of thought. “I’ve heard ‘Winter Princess’ before, along with ‘Spring Lord.’ But that’s all I know.”
“The Autumn Prince presides over death. After the dying of all things in autumn, the Winter Princess brings a time of slumber, for things to mourn and heal, until the Spring Prince coaxes Winter from her sadness and she once again brings warmth as the Summer Princess.”
“I see…” Iah said, not really seeing at all.
Sol laughed. “All you really need to know is that anything bad can be laid at the feet of Autumn and Winter. All good things are attributed to Spring and Summer. Technically they’re the gods and goddesses of the various seasons. I don’t think even the Krians know why they call them prince and princess – I would hazard to say its affection, but that doesn’t fit at all.”
Iah smiled briefly.
“The most common epithet you’ll hear is—“
“Tits of the Winter Princess!” Iah said, and the Krian rolled easily off his tongue that time. He laughed. “That phrase I know – my men were rather fond of it. I’m afraid their image of a winter princess is probably not very Krian. And I suppose it is rather more fun to say than “Goddess curse you!”
It surprised Sol when he laughed again. He smiled across the table at his companion, then remembered that Iah could not see him. A familiar pang, and for a moment he saw not Iah but his sister. Dead three years and at the end she may as well have been dead. After her vision had gone, Ariana had given up.
Not that he could blame her.
He watched Iah eat, the confidence that grew with every successful effort.
Strange to have a companion when he was used to working alone. Fitting that the companion was Illussor. And when this journey concluded, he would well and truly find an end. In Illussor. The closest he would ever have to home.
If he didn’t die killing Tawn first.
“You still have not said anything about my Krian name.” Iah smiled ruefully. “It’s strange. I recognized your name, and indeed I would recognize a number of Salharans. But the only Krian I know by name is the General von Adolwulf.” He stumbled over the name, native sing-song syllables clashing with the harder Krian.
Sol snorted in amusement. “That is because when the General is around, it is hard to notice anything else. The Scarlet Wolf...” He leaned back in his seat, tapping his spoon against the table as he thought. “I wonder if he is still alive. Tawn voiced doubts; it was a Scream after all…”
“If anyone could survive a Scream, it would be the Wolf of Kria.”
“At least we know the Breaker survived.”
Iah nodded. He smiled a moment later. “You are still avoiding the matter of giving me a name. As I said before, I would pick one – but my knowledge of Krian names is limited to the Wolf. I think people might notice a resemblance.”
“Yes, perhaps.” Sol managed a laugh, then fell silent.
“Is it really so hard a thing? To pick a name?”
“A weak name will result in a weak person.”
“Ridiculous.” Iah reached carefully for his wine glass, fingertips knocking into it enough to jar but not quite spill. He held it in both hands and sipped slowly. “A man is weak or not; his name does not decide that.”
Sol did not bother to argue. “I do not want to pick a name that does not suit.”
“It will suit.”
“Why are you so eager to take up a new name?”
Iah touched the bandages covering his empty sockets. “Perhaps because I no longer feel like myself. It would be nice to be someone else for a little while.”
“Erhard,” Sol said it heavily, as if they meant something. “Erhard Grau. My cousin, whom I have brought with me after a hunting accident cost him his vision. That will also account for why you may falter and speak slowly – or occasionally not at all.”
“Erhard,” Iah repeated. He said it a few more times, growing comfortable with the syllables. “And you are Lord Grau?”
“Alban Grau,” Sol said. “You will call me Alban, or cousin.”
Iah nodded, and he continued to drill Iah on Krian culture, pausing only just long enough for Mella to bring out their dessert when she returned from her walk.
Sleep was not forthcoming. Would he ever grow used to the permanent dark? Every morning he woke up expecting to see the sun. A moment of panic as he realized he couldn’t see.
Followed by a wave of grief as he remembered he would never see again.
Only Sol and his summer voice kept the grief from consuming him. Steady, patient – the voice of a teacher or a priest. It was hard to fit it with what he knew of the soldier. Fourth General Sol deVry. Well known for his magical dexterity and the burning yellow, not quite orange of his eyes. Almost but not quite to the point where there would be no escaping the deadly effects of the flower the Salharans called arcen.
Doubts mingled with the fear that kept him awake. Fear for the moment of waking; doubts for his current circumstances. Only days ago he had been telling stories with his men around a campfire.
Then his commander had lost all reason, driving them into battle against five hundred Scarlet. Because he’d sensed the Breaker.
Iah had felt it too, right at the end.
Uncorrupted. Untapped. Pure as forbidden crystal.
Had they really found their Breaker at last? What if the Scream had killed him? How many more years would they have to search for another? What if he lived? Would he agree? Why should a Krian or Salharan agree to help?
But a Salharan was helping. And that brought more doubts to the fore. What was Sol’s real game? A man who played all sides was conceivably playing more. How did a Salharan General come to know so much about what only a select few Illussor knew? Even he wasn’t supposed to know as much as he did.
Iah shuddered and turned his mind off. Too many things. Too much of it wrong. Only the dark to turn to now. He’d never see his sister’s face again, or those of his friends. Not their graves, not their families. Never would he see his home.
No more magic. Perhaps there was a blessing there…but better to die an Illussor than to live as…whatever he was now.
This wasn’t helping. He hadn’t quit when Tawn had ruined his life. He wouldn’t quit now.
An owl broke the still night, and Iah pulled his blankets up further. Opposite him, Sol slept soundlessly. The man was as quiet in sleep as he was awake. Iah reached a hand outside the blanket, feeling the heat of the fire. Slowly he sat up, and shifted and turned and fumbled until his head was near the fire rather than far from it. Feeling the heat of it wash over him, he began to whisper softly all the Krian words he could think of, repeating them until he felt he had a grasp for how it should be properly said.
There was no way anyone would think him Krian, not after only two weeks of study. But he would try, and die doing it if he must. To bring the Breaker to his King. That Esta might smile again, though he would never see it.
So possibly his friends and comrades would not be reviled by his blindness.
And, if he were honest, for that summer voice.
Gradually the words grew slower, and fainter, until Iah fell asleep with Krian words half-formed on his lips.
“Ready, Cousin?” Sol spoke slowly, as if to a child – or a man badly injured in an accident.
“Yes,” Iah said. His voice was low, and he pronounced everything slowly. Though their audience was only Mella and Sol’s manservant – Dal? – there would be no room for error later. Better to get it right from the beginning. He still felt as though he were sleeping, dreaming, to be preparing for a journey into the heart of Kria. How many times had he heard his comrades and superiors bemoan their inability to breach Kria? None got past the Scarlet Fortress and lived for long.
He did not even begin to understand how Sol fit easily into not only Krian court life but also apparently into Illussor. The man was tricky, no two ways about it. Spiegel. Mirror. Interesting that his countrymen had given their Salharan spy a Krian name. No doubt it was part of the game.
A sharp wind blew up, and Iah felt homesick. In only a month or so the palace would be half-buried in snow. Esta would insist on dragging him out and do her very best to see they froze to death doing things normally reserved for children.
Iah forced the thoughts aside and focused on the tasks at hand. Carefully he held out a hand, quelling the relief that sprang up when Sol gently took it and guided it toward the waiting horse.
He would miss horse-riding, for there was no way he could ever do it solo now. Another pang to be shoved aside for later. There was no time for such things. Sol helped him up, steadying him until Iah felt comfortably settled, then mounted behind him. He spoke rapidly in Krian to Mella; most of the words were lost on Iah. To his left he heard Dal mount his own horse and second later they were off.
“What is the view?” As Sol began to talk in slow, careful Krian, Iah felt himself relax despite the frustration that tried to rise when he was forced to have Sol repeat things. But Sol was patient, and bit by bit he began to understand what was being described.
Snow, with the promise of more from the clouds above. Trees, the sort that were green in winter. Smoke in the distance, from villages and towns. And little more than a shadow, the city where the Krian emperor lived in spring and summer. The land was rolling, up and down and very seldom flat.
“We travel due north for a bit, then we turn and go west. That will take us past the summer palace and on toward the Winter Palace, where we will meet up with the king and his court. If we attempted to go to the summer palace, we would find ourselves very alone.” Sol laughed.
Iah smiled, despite himself. “How do you move so easily?” he asked in halting Krian. For three days he’d been studying it, before they finally left the cottage. He had another fourteen to get the hang of it. “In this country?”
“Many years of study,” Sol replied. “I studied the languages for years before I become a soldier, and one cannot study a language without learning about the culture. I know enough about a lot that I can get by in many a situation. The skill was enough to make me a Brother of the Seven Star," he spoke levelly, but there was bitterness beneath the calm that Iah could not miss.
"People trust you easily, don't they?"
Sol was silent for a moment, obviously startled. "Yes. I suppose so. Certainly you did not protest as I thought you would."
"I have little choice," Iah said, but he knew that wasn't all of it. Sol inspired trust, even when you didn't want to give it. It would be all too easy for him to fall into doing exactly that. He wondered what would become of his homeland if Sol proved ultimately to be only a loyal Salharan.
After another silence, Sol resumed speaking - in Illussor. It made Iah dizzy, how smoothly he switched between three such different languages. Clearly he'd been blessed with a sharp ear and clever tongue. It was little wonder his magical ability was said to be impressive. "As we're merely minor nobility from the country, having weapons is not expected of us. Not all Krians can be soldiers, after all. That is fortunate for us, as all my skill cannot duplicate the Krian fighting ability. However, on that note, a lack of general knowledge will give us away just as fast. Even the poorest peasant knows the difference between a long sword, a short sword, a dagger, and so on."
"First and foremost, you should always make note of someone's weapon the first time you meet them. Obviously you will not be able to say much -- but you can ask what manner of sword a man bears and the sword's name. Then compliment the name - say it's pretty, strong, anything of that sort."
"All right..." Iah said slowly. He was considered skilled with his short sword - the only kind Illussor bothered with. Like Salhara, they relied more on magic and when many a battle could be won by a brief tricking of the mind...who needed weapons? They were tools. One did not give a name to his hammer or his belt. Yet the Krians named their swords, and obviously treated them with an accord usually reserved for people.
This journey so far was only increasing the strangeness of the Krians. They mocked their neighbors for using magic but named their swords. Iah shook his head. And they said the Illussor suffered problems of the mind.
Which they did, but that was neither here nor there. Iah snorted softly. "So what should I not say? It seems that would be more crucial."
A soft laugh. "Yes, indeed. The man to most be pitied, and in a strange way respected, is the man whose sword does not have a name."
Iah nodded, understanding. "A man with no one."
"Exactly. Of late, it has become rather a notorious position in which to be."
"Why is that?" Iah asked, hearing the amusement in Sol's voice.
"Because the most powerful man in the kingdom has not named his sword. Nor has the most infamous man in Kria."
Iah thought for a moment. "The Emperor, of course, and while I know who I think the most infamous man in Kria is, I sincerely doubt Kria agrees.”
“On the contrary. The Wolf of Kria is infamous everywhere.” Sol’s arms tightened around his waist. “Steady,” he said, switching to Krian. “Travelers on the road.” Iah had already heard the sound of additional horses and voices which were becoming clearer. The words they spoke were nothing like the curses and screams and threats he knew from fighting. These people sounded happy, their words still the rougher sounds of Krian but softer than he was accustomed; smoother. Perhaps because they were completely lacking in fear and anger. Their voices lacked the knowledge that any moment they would die.
“Hale,” Sol returned the greetings cast their way. “To town for winter?” He laughed at the reply given by what Iah guessed was an elderly man. The words eluded him. This was the speed at which he would be expected to speak? He felt a moment of panic – perhaps they should play that he was mute. Was there any real reason to do otherwise? Speaking wouldn’t be necessary to identifying the Breaker.
Realization struck him so hard it made him gasp. He felt Sol’s arm tense around his waist but barely noticed what else was going on around him.
He couldn’t identify the Breaker. Without his eyes his magic was dead. There would be no way to tell if the Breaker was present without it. Which meant he was completely useless. How could he have been so stupid?
“Iah?” Sol asked softly, and Iah realized suddenly that it had once again grown quiet. “What’s wrong?”
The words lodged in his throat, choking him. Iah forced himself to take a deep breath, but it didn’t dispel the misery of realizing that he was really and truly completely useless now. “I can’t—I just realized—there’s no way for me to identify the Breaker. He could be standing next to me and I’d never know…”
“Nonsense. You rely too much on your magic being controlled by your eyes. Control and source are not the same thing, are they? There is no doubt in my mind that you will be able to sense him.”
Iah nodded stiffly, unconvinced.
Mixed into the misery, the fear, was the realization – surprisingly bitter – that if Sol had not thought him useful in identifying the Breaker he would still be in the dark, completely at Tawn’s mercy. Surely Sol was not so cold as that.
He was a spy, though, and one who played three sides. A man who, according to the beliefs of his country, did not know who he was. And for the first time the ideology began to make sense. How did you trust a man when no one knew who he really was? Iah desperately forced the insidious thoughts aside. He would do himself no favors by doubting his rescuer now.
But the doubts lingered.
Sol contemplated his companion. Ever since his fears regarding the Breaker, Iah had been silent, withdrawn. Though they’d only been together for just over a week, Sol realized he missed their conversations. It was rare he had anyone but Dal for conversation.
Iah, he’d found, was hard to read. Many emotions and reactions could be anticipated, given what he knew of Iah’s situation and of course personal experience with being thrown into deep, murky waters. But outside of that, he had no glimmer of the man’s thoughts.
It was more than a little frustrating.
But what had he been expecting? Had there ever been a time when the three countries were not raised to loathe one another? Every year more men went to “private school” and too many families were left crying. Never mind what Tawn had done to Iah’s eyes. It was at least as bad as being declared Nameless, if not worse. Of course he would withdraw, as the disorientation faded and his senses returned to full strength.
Sol bit back a sigh and schooled his expression. Master the outward, bury the inward. When he was reasonably certain he had everything under control, he spoke. “Are you feeling unwell, Cousin?” Outside in the hallway were the sounds normal for a busy inn. This time of year everyone from the country was moving into the nearest village or city. Those that could afford it, like Lord Grau, were headed for the Winter Palace. No place in Kria was finer for enduring the seemingly endless cold.
“I am well,” Iah said slowly. A knock at the door cut him off before he could say more.
“Come in, come in,” Sol said, smiling and chatting with the women who brought in food for them, politely turning down the invitation in their glances. They took it in good grace; there were plenty of other rich men to choose from.
One girl knelt and arranged the food before Iah as Sol had dictated to her earlier. She muttered to herself and fussed over Iah, who started at the unexpected attention. “Poor, poor thing,” she said. “Such a waste of a handsome man.” She turned to Sol. “Your cousin is very brave, to continue on like this.”
“Yes, Erhard is quite brave. He would have made a fine soldier, had he not been his mother’s only son.”
“Sad, sad,” the woman said, and fussed with his hair. The story was a familiar one. At last she stood, shooed by her companion. “Enjoy; tell me what you think of my cooking!”
Iah shook his head slowly. “That was…” he fumbled for the word. “Unexpected.”
“They were mourning,” Sol said, and laughed. “If you’d been able to see, I doubt they would have let you refuse them.”
“I see,” Iah said, amused.
Sol smiled briefly. “Your plate is in front of you. Sausage north, potato cakes east, bread to the south. Have you ever had Krian food?”
“No, I haven’t. It smells strange, but good.”
Sol nodded and began to cut into his own sausage. Everything in Kria was heavier than in Salhara, stronger than anything in Illussor. “It’s very good. Strange, especially as Illussor food tends not to use the spices or the quantities favored by the Krians.” He paused. “Except for that spicy dish I refuse to eat. It nearly killed me the first time I had it.”
A pause, then Iah burst out laughing, throwing his head back and shaking with amusement. “Kimmi? I have not had that in months. I would have liked to have seen a foreigner try that for the first time!”
Sol caught himself staring and forced his attention back on his food. “I am glad you are laughing, though it is at my expense,” he said teasingly. “You have been somber since this morning and it troubled me.”
The laughter faded. He missed it. “My mind will not settle,” Iah said quietly as he hesitantly began to eat. “This is good,” he said, surprised. “A little overwhelming…but I could get used to it.”
“Your mind will not settle?” Sol pressed.
Iah played with his fork, then set it carefully down. “It is nothing,” he said whisper soft, speaking Illussor.
A clear indication that the discussion was one best not overheard. Discussing food was one thing.
Sol followed the trail of his thoughts easily enough. Nor could he blame him. Sol was not the sort of person to be trusted, least of all by those who employed him. Never mind the man that now knew more about him than any other living individual. Iah didn’t trust him.
It was only reasonable. He shouldn’t have expected otherwise.
So why had he?
Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Beraht woke slowly, wishing desperately to go back to sleep and avoid the ache he could already feel forming in his head. Served him right, burning off that much yellow arcen in one spell.
Of course, if he hadn't he'd be dead but at the moment that really didn't seem like such a terrible idea.
Finally forcing his eyes open, Beraht immediately took in the cloak that covered him. Of heavy black wool, the bottom and top were liberally trimmed with gray wolf fur. He threw it off and clambered to his feet - then regretted it. Stars he hated winter.
Food was cooking on a spit over a small campfire, a bucket of water nearby. Beraht glanced up, noting that the sun was going down. Great, he’d woken just in time for it to get colder.
If the cloak hadn't belonged to the bastard General, he'd reassume it and go back to sleep.
Where was the bastard General anyway?
He was sorely tempted to run for it. But he had no food, inadequate gear thanks to stupid soldiers taking half his clothes and tearing the rest - stars he was cold - and he had no idea where he was. Except still in Kria.
Surely life couldn't get much worse.
The sound of something coming through the trees and bushes had him spinning around, tensed to put up whatever fight he could.
And there was his other reason for not running away. He wanted the bastard General to take his name away. Beraht eyed him warily as the General first moved to fetch his heavy cloak, then moved toward him.
Beraht looked up as he drew close.
And up.
Just how much arcen had he been on? How exhausted had he been the past few days? To not notice the man was a good five inches or more taller than him? He was built like he probably killed the wolf on his cloak with his bare hands.
No wonder they'd told him to go after the Scarlet. How had it not turned into a suicidal mission?
Sheer dumb bad luck, that's how. First the Seven Star tattoo, then finding out the Seven Star didn't want him. Then told he had to kill 1000 people - at least - before they'd consider him. Then told it had to be the Scarlet.
And now General von Adolwulf was looking at him like he would quite cheerfully like to throw him in the fire.
The feeling was entirely mutual, and the size of a mountain or not the bastard General was going to know that.
"You're finally awake."
"You're very observant."
Beraht wondered how many soldiers in a day got glared at like that. He sobered, recalling suddenly that they no longer had to worry about the General's glares.
Which reminded him - why had the Illussor been after him?
Great. So his own people wanted him dead. The Krians wanted him dead. The Illussor wanted him…for something.
The next time death came up as an option he was going to take it.
He didn't bother to fight when von Adolwulf grabbed what was left of his shirt and hauled him close. Looking up was going to give him a crick in the neck eventually, but for now he'd manage.
"You'd do well to remember, Beraht, that you are my prisoner. And after what happened to my men, I will not be so kind as to kill you."
Beraht's anger flared anew at the sound of his new, hated name. Damn it, he'd been earning a real name from his Brothers. He would have belonged, would have had a place and a full Star. Instead he was now worse than Nameless and the star at his back would never go past yellow. "It's not my fault!"
"Winter's Tits it's not! Why!" von Adolwulf threw him to the ground. "Why? Why would the Illussor want a worthless Salharan?"
"When you figure it out let me know," Beraht snapped, picking himself up off the ground.
"If I were you, Beraht, I would cease being flippant." The general's eyes were a strange mix of gray and green. Currently they were as hard as stone.
It really was no wonder everyone was terrified of the bastard. Beraht shoved away his own trepidation. Maybe if he angered him enough, von Adolwulf would lose his temper and beat him to death. Not a pleasant way to die, but he would take what he could get. "Sorry, flippant is the only way I know to be. If you don't like it, ignore me or kill me." This time when the General came after him, Beraht braced himself and attempted to fight back, dodging away from the hand that reached out to grasp him.
But fighting without magic was hard to do. Especially against a man who made wild bears look small. Just how far gone had he really been?
Beraht hit the ground with a pained grunt, the breath knocked out of his lungs, unable to see clearly for a second. But when his vision did clear, he saw all too well the anger and pain that filled the General's face.
"My men are dead. All of them. Not through battle defending their homeland or reclaiming lost ground. Not for a cause. But because the Illussor wanted you badly enough they Screamed. "
"That Scream could have killed us too, you know." But the heat had gone out of his voice, though he wanted it back. Every fiber in his body railed against the man pinning him down.
The Scarlet Wolf. His own men were terrified of him. Salharan soldiers dreaded hearing his name. None of them ever expected to live to see the day after a battle against him.
And now his gray-green eyes were the color of storm-tossed leaves, dark yet bright, full of anger but also pain. If Beraht were a weaker man, he might almost feel sorry for the bastard.
But no one had ever given him sympathy. He'd be damned if he gave it to a General who scared even his own men to death. "If I hadn't still had yellow Arcen in my boot, we'd both be dead. General. So maybe you're angry, but it's not my fault. I'm as ignorant as you."
With a rough, muttered curse the General released him and roughly hauled Beraht to his feet. "Keep your mouth shut," he said, brutally grabbing Beraht's chin and forcing him to look up. "Do as I say. Try to run and I will cut off your feet."
Beraht narrowed his eyes and dug his nails into the wrist that held him. "General, one day you'll grow sick of me. You'll try to rid yourself of me. But it won't happen. I'll not leave your side until you take away my name. I refuse to live quietly with the name you've shamed me with. So don't get your hopes up about cutting off my feet."
The General's grin was nothing less than wolfish when he let go of Beraht, not affected at all by the bloody marks left by Beraht's nails. "Do your worst. The more excuses I have to beat you, the better."
"You don't strike me as the type to need an excuse."
"Think what you like." He turned away, dismissing Beraht entirely to examine their dinner, which had singed slightly. "Come. Eat."
Beraht for a moment thought to refuse, but his stomach growled and he was forced to admit - to himself - that a war, even a private one, could not be waged on an empty stomach. Reluctantly he sat down and accepted what the General gave him, eyeing it warily before biting into meat that, though singed, was the best thing he'd had in months.
"You need clothes."
"Wouldn't you prefer to see me freeze to death slowly?"
"Not until I've paid you back for killing my men."
"The Illussor killed your men." Beraht glared. "I had nothing to do with it."
"You were the motive."
"Unwitting."
"Irrelevant."
"You're every bit the bastard I've always heard you to be."
The General sneered. "Hoping to regain ground with compliments?"
"There is nothing about you worth complimenting."
Not bothering to respond, the General rose to his feet and strode to a set of saddlebags hanging from a tree. Rifling through it, he pulled out a shirt and over tunic.
"Those are far too big for me."
"If you do not put them on, I will do it for you."
Finishing his meat, Beraht threw the stick to the ground and snatched at the clothes held out to him. "Would you like to search me for pollution before I change?"
"I already did," the General said.
Biting off his curses, refusing to let the thrice-cursed Krian see how disconcerting that statement was, Beraht began to change. Von Adolwulf’s clothes were far too large, but they were warmer than his own. If he was going to become a prisoner of Kria, why couldn’t it have waited until Spring?
Von Adolwulf put out the fire, and in minutes it was hard to tell anyone had ever made camp there. “Come, we have far to go.”
Beraht started to protest, then thought better of it.
The horse was as much a monster as the master. Which reminded him - where had his chains gone? He looked at his wrists, which had partially healed as a side-effect of the protect spell. "Do you miss them?" von Adolwulf asked.
"Don't you?" Beraht replied. "I am not the one who must worry about a knife in my back."
Von Adolwulf laughed. "Are you admitting to cowardice then, Salharan? And I've no need to fear a betrayal from you, Beraht. Do I?" He urged his horse forward, pulling up alongside Beraht. "Come. I don't have all day. You can ride the easy way or the hard way."
"So we're not going to drag me around in chains this time?" Beraht said.
"I gave you a chance," von Adolwulf replied. He reached down and grabbed Beraht by his tunic, then hauled him up and over the saddle like most would a sack.
"Let me go!" Beraht said, twisting around in a vain attempt to knock them both down. Von Adolwulf laughed and threw him to the ground. "Would you like to try again? I suggest you do it properly, because my patience is wearing thin. We won't be stopping until we reach the Stone Temple, and that is several hours away."
Beraht grimaced and mounted the horse. Morosely he wondered how many times he would be picking himself up off the ground, as von Adolwulf seemed to delight in throwing him down. He must be sporting more than a dozen bruises; no doubt he’d break something before the journey concluded.
They rode in a silence broken only by the sound of hooves speeding over dirt and grass. Von Adolwulf had chosen to avoid the roads, and so there were not even other people to distract his attention. Nor even any animals.
Winter was falling hard and fast throughout Kria. Only the southern area usually escaped the worst of the weather which fell with lethal force across Kria and most of Illussor. The snow in Salhara was not nearly so bad. It was lighter back home, and for the first time since he’d left it Beraht found himself missing his flat, sandy home.
But after another hour of riding, even those memories could not distract from the pain in his head. Like knives driven into the back of his skull and pushed through to the front. He bit back any sounds that would give away his discomfort and desperately sought for any distraction. It had been a long time since he’d had to live longer than a few hours without arcen easily accessible.
The pain was as bad as he’d been warned. He needed more.
Distraction. He needed distraction. Casting his eyes out, Beraht encountered nothing but brown field and a swiftly approaching forest – the dark, heavy, always green trees not usually found in Salhara. There was something bizarre about a tree that was always green. He’d always liked them.
As they entered the trees, the going grew rougher and despite himself Beraht held fast to the arm heavy around his waist. He looked at it, not quite able to look at the trees rushing toward and at the last past them.
Von Adolwulf was strong. In a handful of days he’d been better acquainted with that strength more than he’d ever wanted. He ached in places he hadn’t known were part of his body until Von Adolwulf managed to bruise them. His wrists would not soon forget the chains…nor would his dignity. Even traitors in Salhara did not get carted around in chains. Chains were for slaves; something they’d outlawed years ago, when it grew more and more important that they have able, willing soldiers to fight against the Krians – and the Illussor when they showed up.
The arm around his waist held him with no effort. He wondered if von Adolwulf even remembered he was here. Nor did his monster horse appear to notice the extra weight. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear the beast was enjoying itself.
At least the pace and the company, hated as it was, kept him warm. Only the air he breathed in told him how chilly it was – and it was getting colder. Hopefully this temple von Adolwulf had mentioned would prove to be a real shelter. He frowned, flipping through what he knew of Krian geography in this area.
No temple came to mind. So it was insignificant enough even the Krians didn’t bother to mark it on a map? He’d never heard of them neglecting such a marker before. At the rate they were traveling, they’d be a hundred miles or more northeast of the Disputed Fields by nightfall.
Of course it was foolish to think that the Krians let their best maps anywhere near their enemies. The ones they had were probably the work of children when compared to what must accompany Krian generals into the field. How he’d love to get his hands on one of those, rather than the crummy, faded scrap he’d been working with ever since he’d been given his stars-cursed assignment.
The Stone Temple was exactly that. Stone. And a temple. No wonder he’d never seen it noted on any map. It had to be the most boring thing he’d ever seen. That Krian taste for simplicity that more often ran toward painfully dull. Was there a spark of imagination in them anywhere?
Back home temples were pretty things. Fine wood polished to a shine, draped with soft, jewel-tone fabrics. Lit by beeswax candles, filled with candles and the songs of the devout. But here…it smelled damp. And stale. There were no candles, and only moonlight and wind filled the barren, open space. A single statue stood at the far end of the room. Beraht conceded the statue was impressive, eight feet high and depicting a man who looked as though everything amused him greatly. He pondered what little he knew of Krian religion – this would be the Spring Prince? It was not as grand as it could have been. There was not half the design to it that a similar statue back home would have carried.
Still…he had never been in a Krian building before. His experiences were limited to the battlefield and sneaking around at night to do further harm. The only worship he ever saw there was the strange Krian obsession with their swords.
“Krians love their swords more than their gods, I’d say. Maybe divine displeasure is why you travel home a failure every season.” He was beginning to enjoy pissing the General off, though only the Stars knew why.
But then von Adolwulf laughed, and Beraht found himself looking briefly between the general and the statue.
“A failure? I think not. Every year I succeed in keeping you thrice-damned Salharans from laying claim to the Regenbogen. Perhaps it’s all the time and effort you waste making your shrines look pretty that cost you all that skill on the battlefield.” He sneered. “Then again, it’s not like you can expect skill from someone so polluted he needs that pollution to function normally.”
Beraht returned the sneer. “If I had arcen with me now—“
Steel hissed against leather, and Beraht found himself between cold stone and colder steel. “If you had your drugs with you now, you still would be dead. Pollution is no substitute for steel, to which many of your dead comrades will attest.”
“That sword didn’t save your men, did it?” Beraht barely had the sentence out before his world spun out from underneath him in a flash of pain. He crumbled, holding his stomach, and watched through watery eyes as von Adolwulf stalked away.
Dieter seethed. He sheathed his sword as he approached the statue of the Autumn Prince, and reached out with one hand to touch the tip of one boot in respect. Killing Beraht would be the easiest recourse. But killing him wouldn’t bring his men back. Hundreds of men, some of the best in Kria, killed by a Scream by the thrice-cursed Illussor.
All because of a Salharan. He spared a brief look over his shoulder at Beraht, who still was on the ground. Dieter sneered. Perhaps his people were mocked for favoring weapons over “magic” but it was steel that had held the Regenbogen decade after decade. The bastard Salharan could not even block a simple gut punch.
Polluted fools.
Dieter drew his cape from his shoulders and reached into a pocket buried by folds of fur. He withdrew a small ring of keys and flipped through several before settling on a small, plain steel key. Touching the boot of his patron god once more, he moved around the statue and fit the key to a hole hidden by the overhanging edge of the pedestal. A soft click was snatched away by the wind.
He contemplated Beraht, who was slowly standing. Pain was quickly masked by anger. Dieter smirked, amused. The last few prisoners taken had not lasted more than a day against ‘Krian brutality.’ Of course, a man who had single-handedly taken out so many of his Scarlet in the span of a few hours was obviously cut from different cloth. But he was a Brother – for all the good that had done him. Dieter’s mood soured further. Returning the keys to his cloak, he stalked toward Beraht and grabbed his arm. “I should leave you up here to suffer in the wind…but any suffering you endure will be at my hand.” He grinned in the way that had sent green soldiers running into walls in their haste to find a door.
Beraht grinned back just as nastily. “We’ll see who suffers, General. By the end, you’ll beg me to be gone.”
“Don’t make me laugh.” He hauled Beraht along, not giving him a chance to find his feet. “And I can always tie you up, Beraht.” The Salharan cringed at the sound of Dieter speaking his name, and Dieter laughed to rub salt in the wound. The Salharan obsession with names was the one thing he’d never been able to understand. One hand strayed to his sword, fingertips touching the hilt briefly. Names were important, but they were not as important as other things. He dragged Beraht behind the statue, and pulled at a sconce on the wall.
The wall swung open, revealing a set of spiraling stairs. It was a short flight, the true temple was not all that deep underground.
He heard Beraht mutter something in his native language, and smirked.
Stupid Salharans.
Temples for the Autumn Prince were always underground, a show of respect to the dead buried underground. This particular temple was empty; it took him a couple of minutes to get all the torches lit, but when he did the room was a beauty to behold. Black and red and gold, the colors of the Autumn Prince. And the Scarlet.
Beraht was still muttering to himself in Salharan; it was the first time since he’d encountered him that he’d bothered to speak his native tongue. The temple was warm despite its location, and the numerous torches dispersed the last remnants of what chill had lingered.
They were a hundred and fifteen miles north of Regenbogen, making this the last temple – really more of a refuge – before entering what Kria considered battleground. He grabbed Beraht and all but threw the man deeper into the temple, swinging shut the wooden door that sealed off the stairs. Later he would lock it. “Make yourself at home,” he said.
He left Beraht to continue gawking at the temple. It was a medium-sized room, one corner given over to bedding, another to a low table for eating, relaxing. Off the right side would be a room for business – a high table, with maps and other tools for war. Off the left side was a bathing room, though Dieter regretted it did not have a proper bath. But that would come soon enough; if he continued to push home was a little less than two weeks away.
Instead of the three or more it would have taken with his men. He focused on his anger, blocking out all else as he cleaned himself up. They would all pay…after he determined what was going on. It frustrated him that, near as he could tell, Beraht seemed genuinely confused as to why the Illussor had wanted him. There would be few to no clues coming from that quarter.
Dieter scrubbed angrily, until he was red and raw from cleaning. From cedar chests in the corner he drew out clothes left the last time he’d passed through. When he remerged in the main chamber, he was not surprised to see Beraht out cold amongst the heap of bedding in the far back corner. He stalked across the room and hauled him to his feet, shaking him awake. “Now, now, little prisoner. I don’t want you infesting this place with more vermin than absolutely necessary.”
“What? Even your vile little brothers can’t stand your company?” Yellow eyes flashed with anger. Strange that they were still so bright, when he could tell from the way Beraht had been holding his head that he was suffering severely from withdrawal.
He half shoved, half threw him in the direction of the bathing room. “Get clean. Then maybe I’ll let you sleep.”
The words hurled at him were uttered in Salharan. Dieter laughed. Settling himself amongst the bedding, tossing aside extraneous pillows, he drew his sword and stared at it in silence. Through his head ran the names of his third-in-command, his assistants, strategists and so many others who would not make it home. All because of a Salharan and the damned Illussor.
And he, who should have been aware of the Illussor trick. But his punishment would come soon enough. Of that he had no doubt. He allowed his mind to wander, though one ear was ever on the sounds of Beraht in the other room.
His sword glinted in the light, and for a moment it seemed as though colors shimmered deep within. It was a long sword, old but much cared for. Made with skill. The hilt and pommel were black, and in the bottom of the pommel was set a large, round, blood red stone. Even in his youth, it had been decided he would someday lead the Scarlet. Dieter sheathed it and drew the keys from his cloak before setting both aside. He locked the door and returned to his bed. A few minutes later Beraht emerged.
Clean, he looked almost completely different. Shaven, he looked young. Perhaps thirty, but Dieter wondered if he might be younger. His hair was not as dark a blonde as he’d thought; it was actually quite pale. But the eyes were still as yellow, even dulled with exhaustion. Somewhere he’d found clothes that fit, and his glare dared Dieter to protest his taking them.
As if he cared. “Now you may sleep,” he said, and smirked to see the ire that flashed across the man’s face. It was like toying with a new recruit. Far too easy. “And I don’t suggest attacking me in my sleep.”
“You’re not worth losing sleep over,” Beraht returned. And saying nothing more, he reclaimed his section of bedding and fell almost immediately to sleep.
Dieter sneered at his still form.
Headaches. Exhaustion. Beraht was progressing rapidly through the stages of withdrawal. It would be amusing when he woke up starving in a few hours, with no idea where to find food.
Beraht sat up, instantly awake. The room had been dimmed down from nearly two dozen to only four torches, and he was painfully aware of the fact that they were underground, with no sun and stale air. It was little better than living in a cave.
Heathen Krians. As beautiful as the room was, it was still a hole in the ground.
Stars above he was hungry. For something very specific, but he was as likely to find arcen here as he was to get along with his bastard keeper. He stood up, resisting the urge to kick the man who slept only a few steps away…one hand on his sword. Beraht snorted. Krians and their weapons. If he took the sword away, would von Adolwulf snarl or cry?
Probably kill him. Which was an idea to keep in reserve. There was no telling what was in store for him when getting to safety was no longer a priority. Though he had no intention of dying bearing a Krian name, it was possible that there would be no other recourse.
Beraht realized suddenly that he had no idea where to find food. There was no obvious cupboard. They were already in a cellar. Damn it. At least the pain in his head had dulled. Stars he just wanted to go back to sleep.
“Hungry?” An all too smug voice made Beraht start. He hoped the bastard hadn’t noticed. Had he been awake the entire time? Probably. One day the tables would be turned, and oh the revenge he would have.
Instead of answering, Beraht curled back up in his bedding. Everything smelled like the trees outside, mixing with dust and some strange powder that he’d determined kept out insects and the like.
Laughter met his silence, and he heard von Adolwulf lay back down. Eventually his breathing evened out. Beraht turned over to his other side and stared at the general’s shadowy form.
Shaggy, black, silver-touched hair. Even asleep he dwarfed his surroundings. He slept soundlessly, breaths audible only because there was literally no other sound in the room. Beraht was surprised. A man like von Adolwulf he would have expected to sleep with one eye open…perhaps he did. Could he kill him now?
With what? Beraht snorted softly. If he had arcen, the problem would already be resolved. But without his magic, and suffering from a lack of it, he doubted he could best von Adolwulf if he had all the weapons and the general was already wounded.
He turned back over. How twisted that his captor was the person he had the least interest in killing. Names are power. Power of life. Power of death. Do not give a name lightly. Do not take a name lightly. Do not share a name lightly. Do not speak a name lightly. Beraht choked on a sound that was half laughter, half sob.
Nameless his entire life. Only to be offered a place on the condition he killed. To have even that taken away, forced to take a name bestowed by a Krian.
Not by a parent. Not by a spouse. Not by a brother.
By an enemy.
He curled up tightly, ignoring the pains of both body and mind as best he could, until sleep finally carried him away again.
Chapter Three
“Lord Grau,” an older woman greeted him with a smile. “We were just finishing up.”
“Excellent,” Sol said, returning the smile. He looked at Iah, who sat quiet and motionless in an old, wooden chair. The cottage wasn’t much, but over the years it was probably the place he thought of most fondly. Lying in the woods, just shy of the northern border between Salhara and Kria, it was an ideal place for him to switch identities. He paused to look in the mirror just inside the main cabin, having gone outside to treat his hair.
Rather than gray, it was a dark, nutty brown. His eyes too had been altered with chemicals, dimming their distinctive yellow to a dim, brownish amber. It didn’t hurt that treating them thus also gave him a slow look. Lord Grau was an amusement in the Emperor’s court, ‘endearing’ to a few of the kinder women. A lotion, yet another handy trick developed by the clever Mella, darkened his skin. In a few weeks he would not need it, the sun bowing to winter’s strength, but for now it would look strange if he did not have tanned skin.
Mella clucked at him. “It’s always strange, the way you alter your appearance. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
“I’m not used to it, Mella. Why should you be? How fair you, Captain?” Sol dropped to one knee and carefully took one of his hands, letting Iah know exactly where he was. He spoke in Iah’s language.
“Well enough, all thing’s considered.” Iah lifted a hand to his bandaged eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”
“I would imagine not,” Sol replied. He stood slowly, never releasing Iah’s hand. “I doubt you find it reassuring,” he said teasingly. “But you make for a fine Krian.”
Iah laughed sadly. “At least I make for a good something. Certainly I’m not much of an Illussor anymore.”
“Now don’t say that,” Sol said. He tugged Iah up, gently adjusting his clothes so that they fell properly. It had taken him a long time to adjust to Krian clothing; the heavy fabrics and intricate fastenings, everything lined or trimmed in fur. But Iah seemed to wear his long coat fine – perhaps because unlike Salhara, Illussor spent almost as much time buried in the cold as Kria. “When you bring home the Breaker, all will call you a hero.” He touched the bandages softly.
“I suppose…” Iah said, then changed the subject. “I would imagine we can’t go around calling me Iah, can we?”
Sol hesitated. “No, we cannot.”
Iah smiled. “Am I running up against a stigma with names? You shall have to explain it all to me sometime. I fear I do not understand it.”
“Names are power. Power of life. Power of death. Do not give a name lightly. Do not take a name lightly. Do not share a name lightly. Do not speak a name lightly,” Sol recited. “To give a name is to give a life. To strike a name is to kill a man. Whosoever names you has power over you.”
“I still don’t really understand.”
Sol nodded. “I will explain over dinner, if time permits. For now, more important matters. Do you speak Krian at all?”
“Only battle speech,” Iah said. It wasn’t unusual for soldiers to pick up a measure of fluency in the language of his enemies. Krian, Salharan and Illussor soldiers alike all managed to learn at least a bit of one another’s language.
“Then we will practice on the journey. You will have to be fluent.”
Iah smiled. “Or I could be mute.”
“That will be our last resort,” Sol said. He stood and tugged Iah to his feet. “We will also have to drill you on Krian custom. I don’t suppose you know any of that?”
Iah frowned, and his head swayed back and forth in thought. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped, a pang in his chest. Captain’s bobbing like a bird again. We’re in for it now! “They’re obsessed with their weapons,” he said finally.
Sol threw his head back and laughed. “Obsession is what we would call it. Krians know weapons. How to fight the old way. They take it very seriously.”
“Yes,” Iah said. He shook his head, recalling things that had never made much sense to him. “I’ve been told they name their swords. The more absurd rumors state they treat their swords like lovers.”
“Sort of,” Sol said quietly. “A man names his sword after the person he loves.”
Iah grimaced. “How Krian, to call a tool for killing after a beloved.”
Sol’s voice carried a gentle reprimand. “Krian soldiers go into battle assuming they will die. Like all of us. They call their swords after their ‘beloved’ so that they’ll die with the person they love beside them.”
“I have never heard such a thing,” Iah said softly, ducking his head.
“Neither had I,” Sol said more gently. “It will take us two weeks to reach the Winter Palace. Let us hope we can make you properly Krian by the time we reach it.”
Iah nodded.
“Come,” Sol took his arm and tucked it into his elbow. “We will eat the dinner Mella has prepared and begin your instruction tonight. By journey’s end, you will be as comfortable as a native.” He laughed briefly. “Provided of course that you do not get into any fights. If there is one thing even I will not attempt, it is to fight a Krian. Nothing would single me out as foreign faster.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
“Come then,” Sol said. His words were not the up and down tones of Illussor, nor the clipped, sharp words of his own country. They were the gruff, rolling words of the Krians, and Sol spoke it as flawlessly as he had Illussor. “Dinner awaits and I’m starving.”
He guided Iah into his chair and contemplated the man as he took his own seat. Even blind and uncertain, Iah had an inherent dignity about him. Sol remembered the way he’d trembled during the meeting of the Seven Star. Shock and fear must have been overwhelming, for no one ever dared to take an Illussor captive. For Salhara, who relied so heavily on arcen to perform magic, Illussor was feared as much as despised for its natural magic. And the dreaded spell for which they had come to be named. Whatever the country had once been called – for that hadn’t always been its name – it was lost.
The Salharan in him winced at the idea of a name being not only discarded but forgotten. But Illussor was fitting, so perhaps the stars knew something he didn’t. He snorted softly and turned his mind back to Iah.
Strange how complacent the man was…but perhaps it was simply desperation. It was not as though he’d had many options. Still. If it were his eyes, he would not be so calm.
Of course, if Tawn ever tried to attack him it would not end in his eyes being harmed. Sol forced himself to relax before his tension relayed itself to Iah. Tawn was a problem he would take care of in time. Likely neither of them would survive the encounter. In the mean time, the bastard was useful.
May his sister forgive him.
Sol closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Thank you, Mella.” He smiled at her and indicated for her to go. Mella nodded and departed, leaving the two men alone. Sol switched to Krian, and the language was both strange and familiar on his tongue. He had learned it back when it was frowned upon to have anything to do with the enemy. Before he’d been made a soldier. The Krian language was easy to love – far simpler than the flowery words of the Illussor, and so different from his own. Though he did not love the country, he did not hate it either. Not like he did Salhara. “A bowl of stew is directly in front of you; utensils to the immediate right. A glass of wine to the left and up slightly. Napkin south of the bowl. Bread below the wine glass. If you need anything, you’ve only to say.”
Iah seemed uncertain, and Sol repeated the words again, slowly. Iah nodded, and after he began to eat Sol did likewise.
“You…” Iah spoke slowly, his Illussor accent glaringly apparent. “Know my problem.”
“My sister,” Sol said. “She fell sick. The fever took her sight.” Calmly Sol ate, enjoying the hearty stew made from a lingering deer he had killed the previous day. All too soon such meat would be hard to come by.
“I am sorry. What was her name?” Frustration laced the awkward words, punctuated by the way he fumbled to eat.
Sol took pity and switched to Illussor. “Her name was Ariana.” He bit back the bitter words he wanted to speak. The name was a pretty one, even if the giver had proven unworthy. It suited her, he must remember that.
Silence fell, and Sol listened to the wind outside. “It is going to snow,” he said in Krian. “We will have to travel quickly, or we will be caught in it.” Iah nodded and he continued. “The Winter Princess is ruthless to those who disobey her will.”
“What?” Iah asked.
Sol switched back to Illussor. “Do you know anything about Krian religion?”
“They worship the seasons,” Iah said after a moment of thought. “I’ve heard ‘Winter Princess’ before, along with ‘Spring Lord.’ But that’s all I know.”
“The Autumn Prince presides over death. After the dying of all things in autumn, the Winter Princess brings a time of slumber, for things to mourn and heal, until the Spring Prince coaxes Winter from her sadness and she once again brings warmth as the Summer Princess.”
“I see…” Iah said, not really seeing at all.
Sol laughed. “All you really need to know is that anything bad can be laid at the feet of Autumn and Winter. All good things are attributed to Spring and Summer. Technically they’re the gods and goddesses of the various seasons. I don’t think even the Krians know why they call them prince and princess – I would hazard to say its affection, but that doesn’t fit at all.”
Iah smiled briefly.
“The most common epithet you’ll hear is—“
“Tits of the Winter Princess!” Iah said, and the Krian rolled easily off his tongue that time. He laughed. “That phrase I know – my men were rather fond of it. I’m afraid their image of a winter princess is probably not very Krian. And I suppose it is rather more fun to say than “Goddess curse you!”
It surprised Sol when he laughed again. He smiled across the table at his companion, then remembered that Iah could not see him. A familiar pang, and for a moment he saw not Iah but his sister. Dead three years and at the end she may as well have been dead. After her vision had gone, Ariana had given up.
Not that he could blame her.
He watched Iah eat, the confidence that grew with every successful effort.
Strange to have a companion when he was used to working alone. Fitting that the companion was Illussor. And when this journey concluded, he would well and truly find an end. In Illussor. The closest he would ever have to home.
If he didn’t die killing Tawn first.
“You still have not said anything about my Krian name.” Iah smiled ruefully. “It’s strange. I recognized your name, and indeed I would recognize a number of Salharans. But the only Krian I know by name is the General von Adolwulf.” He stumbled over the name, native sing-song syllables clashing with the harder Krian.
Sol snorted in amusement. “That is because when the General is around, it is hard to notice anything else. The Scarlet Wolf...” He leaned back in his seat, tapping his spoon against the table as he thought. “I wonder if he is still alive. Tawn voiced doubts; it was a Scream after all…”
“If anyone could survive a Scream, it would be the Wolf of Kria.”
“At least we know the Breaker survived.”
Iah nodded. He smiled a moment later. “You are still avoiding the matter of giving me a name. As I said before, I would pick one – but my knowledge of Krian names is limited to the Wolf. I think people might notice a resemblance.”
“Yes, perhaps.” Sol managed a laugh, then fell silent.
“Is it really so hard a thing? To pick a name?”
“A weak name will result in a weak person.”
“Ridiculous.” Iah reached carefully for his wine glass, fingertips knocking into it enough to jar but not quite spill. He held it in both hands and sipped slowly. “A man is weak or not; his name does not decide that.”
Sol did not bother to argue. “I do not want to pick a name that does not suit.”
“It will suit.”
“Why are you so eager to take up a new name?”
Iah touched the bandages covering his empty sockets. “Perhaps because I no longer feel like myself. It would be nice to be someone else for a little while.”
“Erhard,” Sol said it heavily, as if they meant something. “Erhard Grau. My cousin, whom I have brought with me after a hunting accident cost him his vision. That will also account for why you may falter and speak slowly – or occasionally not at all.”
“Erhard,” Iah repeated. He said it a few more times, growing comfortable with the syllables. “And you are Lord Grau?”
“Alban Grau,” Sol said. “You will call me Alban, or cousin.”
Iah nodded, and he continued to drill Iah on Krian culture, pausing only just long enough for Mella to bring out their dessert when she returned from her walk.
Sleep was not forthcoming. Would he ever grow used to the permanent dark? Every morning he woke up expecting to see the sun. A moment of panic as he realized he couldn’t see.
Followed by a wave of grief as he remembered he would never see again.
Only Sol and his summer voice kept the grief from consuming him. Steady, patient – the voice of a teacher or a priest. It was hard to fit it with what he knew of the soldier. Fourth General Sol deVry. Well known for his magical dexterity and the burning yellow, not quite orange of his eyes. Almost but not quite to the point where there would be no escaping the deadly effects of the flower the Salharans called arcen.
Doubts mingled with the fear that kept him awake. Fear for the moment of waking; doubts for his current circumstances. Only days ago he had been telling stories with his men around a campfire.
Then his commander had lost all reason, driving them into battle against five hundred Scarlet. Because he’d sensed the Breaker.
Iah had felt it too, right at the end.
Uncorrupted. Untapped. Pure as forbidden crystal.
Had they really found their Breaker at last? What if the Scream had killed him? How many more years would they have to search for another? What if he lived? Would he agree? Why should a Krian or Salharan agree to help?
But a Salharan was helping. And that brought more doubts to the fore. What was Sol’s real game? A man who played all sides was conceivably playing more. How did a Salharan General come to know so much about what only a select few Illussor knew? Even he wasn’t supposed to know as much as he did.
Iah shuddered and turned his mind off. Too many things. Too much of it wrong. Only the dark to turn to now. He’d never see his sister’s face again, or those of his friends. Not their graves, not their families. Never would he see his home.
No more magic. Perhaps there was a blessing there…but better to die an Illussor than to live as…whatever he was now.
This wasn’t helping. He hadn’t quit when Tawn had ruined his life. He wouldn’t quit now.
An owl broke the still night, and Iah pulled his blankets up further. Opposite him, Sol slept soundlessly. The man was as quiet in sleep as he was awake. Iah reached a hand outside the blanket, feeling the heat of the fire. Slowly he sat up, and shifted and turned and fumbled until his head was near the fire rather than far from it. Feeling the heat of it wash over him, he began to whisper softly all the Krian words he could think of, repeating them until he felt he had a grasp for how it should be properly said.
There was no way anyone would think him Krian, not after only two weeks of study. But he would try, and die doing it if he must. To bring the Breaker to his King. That Esta might smile again, though he would never see it.
So possibly his friends and comrades would not be reviled by his blindness.
And, if he were honest, for that summer voice.
Gradually the words grew slower, and fainter, until Iah fell asleep with Krian words half-formed on his lips.
“Ready, Cousin?” Sol spoke slowly, as if to a child – or a man badly injured in an accident.
“Yes,” Iah said. His voice was low, and he pronounced everything slowly. Though their audience was only Mella and Sol’s manservant – Dal? – there would be no room for error later. Better to get it right from the beginning. He still felt as though he were sleeping, dreaming, to be preparing for a journey into the heart of Kria. How many times had he heard his comrades and superiors bemoan their inability to breach Kria? None got past the Scarlet Fortress and lived for long.
He did not even begin to understand how Sol fit easily into not only Krian court life but also apparently into Illussor. The man was tricky, no two ways about it. Spiegel. Mirror. Interesting that his countrymen had given their Salharan spy a Krian name. No doubt it was part of the game.
A sharp wind blew up, and Iah felt homesick. In only a month or so the palace would be half-buried in snow. Esta would insist on dragging him out and do her very best to see they froze to death doing things normally reserved for children.
Iah forced the thoughts aside and focused on the tasks at hand. Carefully he held out a hand, quelling the relief that sprang up when Sol gently took it and guided it toward the waiting horse.
He would miss horse-riding, for there was no way he could ever do it solo now. Another pang to be shoved aside for later. There was no time for such things. Sol helped him up, steadying him until Iah felt comfortably settled, then mounted behind him. He spoke rapidly in Krian to Mella; most of the words were lost on Iah. To his left he heard Dal mount his own horse and second later they were off.
“What is the view?” As Sol began to talk in slow, careful Krian, Iah felt himself relax despite the frustration that tried to rise when he was forced to have Sol repeat things. But Sol was patient, and bit by bit he began to understand what was being described.
Snow, with the promise of more from the clouds above. Trees, the sort that were green in winter. Smoke in the distance, from villages and towns. And little more than a shadow, the city where the Krian emperor lived in spring and summer. The land was rolling, up and down and very seldom flat.
“We travel due north for a bit, then we turn and go west. That will take us past the summer palace and on toward the Winter Palace, where we will meet up with the king and his court. If we attempted to go to the summer palace, we would find ourselves very alone.” Sol laughed.
Iah smiled, despite himself. “How do you move so easily?” he asked in halting Krian. For three days he’d been studying it, before they finally left the cottage. He had another fourteen to get the hang of it. “In this country?”
“Many years of study,” Sol replied. “I studied the languages for years before I become a soldier, and one cannot study a language without learning about the culture. I know enough about a lot that I can get by in many a situation. The skill was enough to make me a Brother of the Seven Star," he spoke levelly, but there was bitterness beneath the calm that Iah could not miss.
"People trust you easily, don't they?"
Sol was silent for a moment, obviously startled. "Yes. I suppose so. Certainly you did not protest as I thought you would."
"I have little choice," Iah said, but he knew that wasn't all of it. Sol inspired trust, even when you didn't want to give it. It would be all too easy for him to fall into doing exactly that. He wondered what would become of his homeland if Sol proved ultimately to be only a loyal Salharan.
After another silence, Sol resumed speaking - in Illussor. It made Iah dizzy, how smoothly he switched between three such different languages. Clearly he'd been blessed with a sharp ear and clever tongue. It was little wonder his magical ability was said to be impressive. "As we're merely minor nobility from the country, having weapons is not expected of us. Not all Krians can be soldiers, after all. That is fortunate for us, as all my skill cannot duplicate the Krian fighting ability. However, on that note, a lack of general knowledge will give us away just as fast. Even the poorest peasant knows the difference between a long sword, a short sword, a dagger, and so on."
"First and foremost, you should always make note of someone's weapon the first time you meet them. Obviously you will not be able to say much -- but you can ask what manner of sword a man bears and the sword's name. Then compliment the name - say it's pretty, strong, anything of that sort."
"All right..." Iah said slowly. He was considered skilled with his short sword - the only kind Illussor bothered with. Like Salhara, they relied more on magic and when many a battle could be won by a brief tricking of the mind...who needed weapons? They were tools. One did not give a name to his hammer or his belt. Yet the Krians named their swords, and obviously treated them with an accord usually reserved for people.
This journey so far was only increasing the strangeness of the Krians. They mocked their neighbors for using magic but named their swords. Iah shook his head. And they said the Illussor suffered problems of the mind.
Which they did, but that was neither here nor there. Iah snorted softly. "So what should I not say? It seems that would be more crucial."
A soft laugh. "Yes, indeed. The man to most be pitied, and in a strange way respected, is the man whose sword does not have a name."
Iah nodded, understanding. "A man with no one."
"Exactly. Of late, it has become rather a notorious position in which to be."
"Why is that?" Iah asked, hearing the amusement in Sol's voice.
"Because the most powerful man in the kingdom has not named his sword. Nor has the most infamous man in Kria."
Iah thought for a moment. "The Emperor, of course, and while I know who I think the most infamous man in Kria is, I sincerely doubt Kria agrees.”
“On the contrary. The Wolf of Kria is infamous everywhere.” Sol’s arms tightened around his waist. “Steady,” he said, switching to Krian. “Travelers on the road.” Iah had already heard the sound of additional horses and voices which were becoming clearer. The words they spoke were nothing like the curses and screams and threats he knew from fighting. These people sounded happy, their words still the rougher sounds of Krian but softer than he was accustomed; smoother. Perhaps because they were completely lacking in fear and anger. Their voices lacked the knowledge that any moment they would die.
“Hale,” Sol returned the greetings cast their way. “To town for winter?” He laughed at the reply given by what Iah guessed was an elderly man. The words eluded him. This was the speed at which he would be expected to speak? He felt a moment of panic – perhaps they should play that he was mute. Was there any real reason to do otherwise? Speaking wouldn’t be necessary to identifying the Breaker.
Realization struck him so hard it made him gasp. He felt Sol’s arm tense around his waist but barely noticed what else was going on around him.
He couldn’t identify the Breaker. Without his eyes his magic was dead. There would be no way to tell if the Breaker was present without it. Which meant he was completely useless. How could he have been so stupid?
“Iah?” Sol asked softly, and Iah realized suddenly that it had once again grown quiet. “What’s wrong?”
The words lodged in his throat, choking him. Iah forced himself to take a deep breath, but it didn’t dispel the misery of realizing that he was really and truly completely useless now. “I can’t—I just realized—there’s no way for me to identify the Breaker. He could be standing next to me and I’d never know…”
“Nonsense. You rely too much on your magic being controlled by your eyes. Control and source are not the same thing, are they? There is no doubt in my mind that you will be able to sense him.”
Iah nodded stiffly, unconvinced.
Mixed into the misery, the fear, was the realization – surprisingly bitter – that if Sol had not thought him useful in identifying the Breaker he would still be in the dark, completely at Tawn’s mercy. Surely Sol was not so cold as that.
He was a spy, though, and one who played three sides. A man who, according to the beliefs of his country, did not know who he was. And for the first time the ideology began to make sense. How did you trust a man when no one knew who he really was? Iah desperately forced the insidious thoughts aside. He would do himself no favors by doubting his rescuer now.
But the doubts lingered.
Sol contemplated his companion. Ever since his fears regarding the Breaker, Iah had been silent, withdrawn. Though they’d only been together for just over a week, Sol realized he missed their conversations. It was rare he had anyone but Dal for conversation.
Iah, he’d found, was hard to read. Many emotions and reactions could be anticipated, given what he knew of Iah’s situation and of course personal experience with being thrown into deep, murky waters. But outside of that, he had no glimmer of the man’s thoughts.
It was more than a little frustrating.
But what had he been expecting? Had there ever been a time when the three countries were not raised to loathe one another? Every year more men went to “private school” and too many families were left crying. Never mind what Tawn had done to Iah’s eyes. It was at least as bad as being declared Nameless, if not worse. Of course he would withdraw, as the disorientation faded and his senses returned to full strength.
Sol bit back a sigh and schooled his expression. Master the outward, bury the inward. When he was reasonably certain he had everything under control, he spoke. “Are you feeling unwell, Cousin?” Outside in the hallway were the sounds normal for a busy inn. This time of year everyone from the country was moving into the nearest village or city. Those that could afford it, like Lord Grau, were headed for the Winter Palace. No place in Kria was finer for enduring the seemingly endless cold.
“I am well,” Iah said slowly. A knock at the door cut him off before he could say more.
“Come in, come in,” Sol said, smiling and chatting with the women who brought in food for them, politely turning down the invitation in their glances. They took it in good grace; there were plenty of other rich men to choose from.
One girl knelt and arranged the food before Iah as Sol had dictated to her earlier. She muttered to herself and fussed over Iah, who started at the unexpected attention. “Poor, poor thing,” she said. “Such a waste of a handsome man.” She turned to Sol. “Your cousin is very brave, to continue on like this.”
“Yes, Erhard is quite brave. He would have made a fine soldier, had he not been his mother’s only son.”
“Sad, sad,” the woman said, and fussed with his hair. The story was a familiar one. At last she stood, shooed by her companion. “Enjoy; tell me what you think of my cooking!”
Iah shook his head slowly. “That was…” he fumbled for the word. “Unexpected.”
“They were mourning,” Sol said, and laughed. “If you’d been able to see, I doubt they would have let you refuse them.”
“I see,” Iah said, amused.
Sol smiled briefly. “Your plate is in front of you. Sausage north, potato cakes east, bread to the south. Have you ever had Krian food?”
“No, I haven’t. It smells strange, but good.”
Sol nodded and began to cut into his own sausage. Everything in Kria was heavier than in Salhara, stronger than anything in Illussor. “It’s very good. Strange, especially as Illussor food tends not to use the spices or the quantities favored by the Krians.” He paused. “Except for that spicy dish I refuse to eat. It nearly killed me the first time I had it.”
A pause, then Iah burst out laughing, throwing his head back and shaking with amusement. “Kimmi? I have not had that in months. I would have liked to have seen a foreigner try that for the first time!”
Sol caught himself staring and forced his attention back on his food. “I am glad you are laughing, though it is at my expense,” he said teasingly. “You have been somber since this morning and it troubled me.”
The laughter faded. He missed it. “My mind will not settle,” Iah said quietly as he hesitantly began to eat. “This is good,” he said, surprised. “A little overwhelming…but I could get used to it.”
“Your mind will not settle?” Sol pressed.
Iah played with his fork, then set it carefully down. “It is nothing,” he said whisper soft, speaking Illussor.
A clear indication that the discussion was one best not overheard. Discussing food was one thing.
Sol followed the trail of his thoughts easily enough. Nor could he blame him. Sol was not the sort of person to be trusted, least of all by those who employed him. Never mind the man that now knew more about him than any other living individual. Iah didn’t trust him.
It was only reasonable. He shouldn’t have expected otherwise.
So why had he?
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Date: 2006-07-21 02:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-21 02:15 am (UTC)Heh. Any good western fangirl should know better than to shoot blanks.
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Date: 2006-07-21 02:18 am (UTC)I was maybe hoping I could wrangle bribing of some sortI'd find some way of getting the truth out no matter what you convinced BJ or D to do, and 3) *shrug* It was still worth a shot, right?no subject
Date: 2006-07-21 02:21 am (UTC)What manner of bribe might you be accepting? Because I'll pay it. WANT STORIES GODDAMN YOU.
See. I was trying to be all level headed and cool. You broke me.
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Date: 2006-07-21 02:30 am (UTC)Maybe I'll even write the Dragoon one. Well, one of them anyway. There are three of them after all..Y'know what... I think I'm just gonna start making private voice posts until I can afford my recorder.
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Date: 2006-07-21 02:33 am (UTC)I shall get creative, then XD Dragon! Dragon!
That's a good idea. Why the hell did'nt you think of it sooner?
Off to bed now ^^ Have a good rest of the night, Sip. Catch ya on the flipside.
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Date: 2006-07-21 02:35 am (UTC)