Prisoner 6 & 7

[maderr]

Chapter Six


Iah held fast to the arm at his waist, willing, ordering himself not to panic.

The noise. Too much of it. So many people. All around, pressing close, shouting and laughing. The smell of smoke, meat, something sweet. Sweat and dirt and far too many others. In the inns, along the road, he’d been able to handle it. The crush of the people at the Winter Palace, however, was overwhelming.

Sol tugged his arm free and then clasped his hand. “It’s all right,” he said softly in Iah’s ear, daring to speak Illussor. “We’re nearly through to the palace proper.”

Iah nodded, but didn’t let go of Sol’s hand, as weak it made him feel to need such reassurance.

Who was he, to be reduced to this? Certainly not Iah Cehka. No…for now at least he was Erhard Grau. Was it all right, then, to be weak? What had happened to the man he used to be? Now he felt like a frightened boy.

The noises gradually faded, replaced by the more controlled chaos of what he knew immediately must be the palace. It wasn’t simply in the reduction of sound. The air was fresher, laced with the smell of people and food and a bite of frost. But it also carried the scent of flowers; faint traces of perfume.

And something else – blood, Iah realized. Only the faintest bit. He bit back the part of him that wanted to say Krians, it figures. Because in the last two weeks he’d learned what he should have already known. That not all Krians were large, looming men with a seemingly natural-born talent to cut down every threat like so much straw.

The women especially had been kind, reminding him so much of Esta in the way they did exactly as they pleased and woe betide the man that dared to order them otherwise. He had always thought women in Kria must be softer, weaker. And he knew from what Sol had been teaching him that very few women held any sort of authority. Currently, only one woman held a position of power and when they felt they were safe, the peasant women of Kria made their opinions of that woman quite clear.

If he’d caught Esta talking like that, he would knock her upside the head.

Iah almost laughed, but the vanishing of Sol from behind him killed whatever good mood he’d managed to regain.

But then warm hands reached up to help him dismount, and a summer voice helped him relax. He stood quietly by as ‘Lord Grau’ began to snap orders to the servants that had appeared to attend him. “You had best make very certain that my cousin is escorted with all care and comfort to my chambers. No, I do not want a separate room for him. He is unfamiliar with the palace, he will stay close to me at all times.” After that, the Krian became to rapid-fire for him to keep up, and he hoped Sol did not say something which would require his participation.

His Krian was sufficient for amusing peasant women and complimenting their cooking. There was no way he would ever pass muster in the palace. Especially if a soldier wise to the accents of his enemies heard him speak.

Fear began to swallow him, and Iah desperately fought a silent battle against it.

Then abruptly the noise died. Laughter and chatter fell like clothes discarded on the floor. Footsteps broke the silence, but added to the tension that suddenly filled the room. He felt Sol touch his arm, then lips ghosted over his ear as Sol whispered in his ear. “Be silent. For now I will say you cannot speak without difficulty. Around them, do not speak.”

Then the servants and other persons in the room began to murmur; words of respect and greeting.

“Good evening,” said a noncommittal voice. It sounded slow, bored…but there was menace beneath it. A snake resting in the sun. “…Lord Grau, yes?”

“I am humbled the Lord General recalls me.”

“Nonsense,” the slow voice said. “Your witticisms always add to the table.”

“The Lord General flatters me. I am glad to find you well for another season.”

Iah heard the man move. “Yes, yes. Who is this?” Iah forced himself not to freeze, but to relax, act calm.

“Whatever happened to his eyes?” A new voice spoke, and drew close enough Iah could smell her – like honey, and a bit like sweat. Her voice was both appealing and distasteful, like wine that had finally soured.

Sol shifted, as if to cover and protect him. “My cousin suffered a nasty hunting accident. You know how it goes, when peasants trespass on their master’s land. I have brought him with me for a change of pace; usually he prefers to whittle his time away in the monastery.” He referred to the monastery high in the mountains several miles southeast. Those that had no taste for palace life often went there; as did those whose relatives did not want to be humiliated at court by less than shining family members. The implication was that Grau did not have time to take his cousin to the monastery, and since he could not get there under his own power, Grau was forced to endure him for the winter.

Which meant he would be noted and then immediately dismissed. “He is still a little hard of speech, so I beg your forgiveness for his silence.”

“It is no concern,” the woman said. And without another word, they walked on.

Sol wasted no time in seeing they were taken to his rooms; a suite on the far end of the east wing.

The room spelled sweet, freshly cleaned. A slight breeze blew through, making the room cool but not chilly. He heard Sol lock the door, then approach him from behind. “Come,” Sol said, and led him back toward the door. “Starting from this very spot—“ He arranged Iah with his back to the door. “Twenty paces to the window. Ten paces and two to the left will take you to a table. On the north and south ends of it are chairs. Seven paces beyond that is the fireplace; you will feel a bear-fur rug beneath your feet. The rest of the floor is covered in woven rugs. Ten paces and another ten to your right is the bed. To the south of it is a wardrobe and a long mirror on its right side. Against the opposite wall is a small writing desk. Do I need to repeat it?”

“No,” Iah said. Taking a deep breath, he counted paces silently as he traversed the room. He fumbled three times, and walked into the wall once. But an hour later, he felt relatively secure about the lay of the room.

It was hard. Every morning he woke up thinking it had all been a bad dream. Every day he lived the nightmare over again. More nightmares when he slept. But giving up was not an option. There was Tawn, and the Breaker…and he could not leave Esta alone. Though she would probably be horrified…all of them. Would he have any friends left? Or would his blindness – the complete absence of his eyes – scare them all away? He clenched his fists and walked the room again, until hands fell upon his shoulders and held him still.

“You are doing wonderfully,” assured that summer voice. That voice he ached to trust, but couldn’t for too many doubts. He shoved them aside and voiced one of his questions. “The two from earlier?” His Krian was slow, but faster than when he was around Krians.

Sol’s hands slid from his shoulder and he guided Iah to sit. “There is wine here, if you want it.” He placed Iah’s hand on the goblet, then sat down himself. “The man was Ludwig von Eisenberg – the Verdant General. The woman was—“

“The Saffron General,” Iah interrupted. He remembered all the names the peasant women had used. “Heilwig…”

“Heilwig von Dresden.”

Iah took a sip of wine. It was potent stuff, rich, dark and surprisingly sweet. Nothing like the light, bitter stuff back home, which went so well with the softer Illussor foods. “Is there not a single good general?”

“They are all good generals,” Sol said levelly. “Whether they are good people or not is something else altogether.”

“Shouldn’t they be, though?” Iah asked, then laughed at himself. Who was he kidding? War wasn’t about nice.

War isn’t about heroics. It’s about getting yourself killed for one stupid reason or another. You’re not going!

Yes, I am. You can’t stop me. I won’t sit here drinking tea and discussing the weather while the boys I played with are sent away to die.

You played with a prince. You’re a duke. And you have obligations here.

Esta can handle those, you know she can. Mother would let me go!

Your mother was a fool. Why do you think she’s dead?

Take your title back, father. I don’t want it. Tomorrow I’m leaving.

Then don’t come back.

Oh, I’ll come back. But it’ll be either when the war concludes or when it’s time to put me beside my foolish mother.

“There’s many who would agree with you. More than a few wonder why he appointed the four he did. Why he drove his father’s men into retirement.”

“And what do they suggest?”

“No one knows what the Kaiser thinks. He is mercurial, and his favors are dispersed strangely.”

Iah took another sip of wine. “Strange how?”

“He seems to be friends with the Verdant General, though most say he is lazy. Egon von Korbit, the Cobalt General, also finds favor though he is little more than a ghost. And of course you are well acquainted with the popular opinion of the Saffron General.”

“Yes,” Iah said, shaking his head. “Are Krian women always so crude?”

“Only in regards to each other,” Sol said dryly.

Iah pushed his wine aside, liking it far too much to trust himself. Now was no time for alcohol. “What about the Wolf? The Kaiser must think highly of notorious general.”

“Actually…most say the Kaiser hates the Scarlet General.”

“Why?” Iah asked.

“No one knows.”




“How can no one know?” Iah asked, and Sol saw him reach once more for his wine. He smiled briefly.

“Perhaps because that would require knowing something about the Wolf. But no one knows anything about him, not really. He was born a peasant, to a well-known and highly skilled sword smith. He signed up for the army and prospered. One winter he came home, and not two days later his parents were brutally murdered. That is all anyone knows about the boy who later became General Dieter von Adolwulf.” Sol paused and poured a glass of wine for himself.

Though his work was unsettling – indeed this time more than ever he wondered if he would live to see it through to the end – being in Kria was more relaxing than the strains of Salhara, living constantly under the shadow of the Brotherhood that ruled his country while the King behaved like a good puppet. Here the games were open, easy to play. And he was a minor player, so far as all others were concerned.

His rooms were simple, well appointed but not overdone. The rooms of a minor noble who could afford to play at real nobility – and had no aspirations, so was considered safe by those who would otherwise cut him down as a threat. The room was soft, brown and black and gold. And warm, because he never would get how anyone could stand the merciless cold that seemed to plague both Kria and Illussor.

“Who killed his parents?”

“A question never answered, or at least that I could never learn.” Which, he liked to think, meant that no one knew. “But it was a robbery. For peasants, they were rather affluent. As I said, his father was highly regarded as a sword smith. The fond like to say he was the best one in history. Rumors abound, of course. The only thing more interesting than a terrible and frightening general are the stories that theorize what made him so.”

Iah began to move his head in that peculiar fashion which meant he was thinking. Like a bird, bobbing on a branch as it contemplated what song it wanted to sing. “So what are you planning?” he asked finally. Sol wondered what he’d really been thinking.

He took a deep swallow of wine, then set his goblet down and strode over to the window, moving aside the tapestry to peer down at the people below. A massive crush, as the lower classes mixed and melded, celebrated and jostled as they prepared for the long winter months ahead. To leave after the really heavy snows fell was nothing less than suicide. Within the castle walls, most of the snow was kept out or to a minimum. And inside was a vast network of interconnected hallways and tunnels.

Very little drove the Krians outside once winter set in.

Sound exploded in the courtyard, and whereas before people had looked busy now they looked frenzied. Sol dropped the tapestry and returned to the table, though he remained standing.

“What’s wrong?” Iah asked.

“Soldiers are returning; it looks like the last of them. Minus the Scarlet…” Sol poured another glass of wine and sat down. “There is something about the Krians I have not yet told you.”

Iah took a healthy swallow of his own wine. “Because I’m not going to like it.”

“No. I still don’t like it. In this, it is a blessing you cannot see.” He picked up his goblet, then set it down again, rubbing a thumb over one of the small green jewels set below the rim. “The soldiers are dragging several prisoners along with them. Salharan, all of them. The Illussor are lucky they’re considered too dangerous to be taken prisoner.”

“What?”

Sol sighed. “The winter festivities here are begun in the Coliseum. Where every prisoner, every major criminal and whosoever else the Kaiser sees fit are made to fight until there are no more left. It can last for days.”

“That’s awful. Don’t they do enough killing every time the weather warms?”

“It is the way Krians take care of their criminals and prisoners. And what do the civilians know of war? They see only that their men die every year because two other countries are trying to steal Krian land. To them, the coliseum is a way to see prisoners and criminals get what they deserve. I’m sure the nobility find it useful for their own reasons in addition to those.”

“How do you endure it?” Iah asked.

Sol drank deeply from his goblet. “I don’t have a choice.” He sat through it, and acted as though he wanted to be there. But forever he would hear the screams for help, the pleas and desperate cries. All in a language which Lord Grau did not understand, but which Sol heard clearly every time he went to sleep.

He stood up again. “There is a case on the table. Large, square. Covered and lined in velvet. It contains all my “inks” and I wanted to show you how they worked.

“Very well.”

Sol retrieved the case and brought it to the table. He flipped it open, revealing two neat rows of small, fat bottles of dark blue glass. Around the middle of each was a band of silver. He carefully picked one up and pressed it into Iah’s hands. “Feel the band of silver?”

“Yes.”

“Hold it tight, then twist hard on the bottom half of the glass.”

Iah obeyed and the bottle in his hand became two.

“The one with the silver,” Sol said, and touched it. “Is just ink. The other one…”

“Arcen,” Iah whispered.

Sol nodded, then rolled his eyes at himself. “Yes.” He took the bottle back, reassembled it and replaced it. Taking Iah’s hand, he guided him over each of the fourteen bottles. “Five yellow, two orange, two red. Two white. The rest are green, to be used if I must because such weak arcen will not affect me visibly.” He left unsaid that green was only weak to someone well and truly addicted.

At least he’d never had to progress to orange. That was a fate he would leave to his Brothers. He wanted no part of it. “Hopefully I won’t need this for anything other than ink.”

Returning the case to the desk, Sol wandered back to the window. Outside the crowd had calmed again, but eager tension was still thick in the air. Another week and the bloodshed would begin.

“Would you like to go downstairs for dinner, or remain up here?”

Iah shrugged. “I suppose I should go downstairs, yes? But…”

“Why not stay up here? Too much at once will not help anything. I doubt much will be occurring tonight, anyway. I’ll poke around, make our excuses and we can dine up here. Don’t drink too much wine, I’ll be back in a short while.”

Sol slipped out of the room, absently smoothing his hair down. He severely disliked Krian court wear – so many layers and folds. At least he could get away with not wearing the hose that seemed all the rage. His own clothes were predominantly gray, with a green tunic stitched with the snowflakes of the winter princess – though not the same as those that made up the crest of the Cobalt General.

Around him people milled; the halls of the palace were packed. In a few days everything would settle down, but for now there was little in the way of calm or quiet. All buzzed with excitement, dressed in rainbows of color that would severely confuse most Salharans who were used to the somber blacks of the army broken only by the red and blue of the two Sacred Armies they encountered.

Women, noting his arrival, began to beckon to him. They smiled in welcome and drew him into their fold, murmuring and chatting and feeding Sol all the gossip and information he could need.

Of course the greatest rumor was that of the Scarlet. Scouts had found several hundred of them dead. No one at the Regenbogen fort knew how or why. An Illussor Scream had killed most of them, the rest had been slain by Salharan magic.

The body of the Scarlet General had not been amongst the fallen; no one knew what had become of the Wolf. That didn’t keep them from making guesses; most of them bloody and no small part vindictive. Sol shook his head, wondering how a man could excel at being so universally disliked. It made more sense to be a well-liked general.

But much of Krian politics did not make much sense to him, even after so many years of study. The Kaiser held all the power, and below him were his council and the generals. There were some that said the generals would hold the power if not for the fact that the Kaiser had purposely chosen men whom the people would never accept…and he kept all but three of them gone half the year. With the bulk of their men forced to stay and guard the fortresses.

The Kaiser was not a stupid man. Not entirely.

“Hale! Is that Lord Grau I see?”

Sol looked up. “Hale, Burkhard. You are looking well.”

Burkhard smiled and grabbed Sol’s hands, shaking them enthusiastically. “And you, my friend. I am glad you’re back.”

“It is good to be back,” Sol said, as he made his farewells to the women and led Burkhard away to a quieter corner. “Tell me all that I’ve missed. Life in the mountains is so very dull.”

“Dull is something I should like to experience, sometime.” Burkhard was large. At one point in time he no doubt had been as strong and muscular as so many Krian men were, but time had taken his strength. It had also taken his sword, after his right hand had been too badly damaged to ever hold one again. But rather than despair, as would have been expected, Burkhard had taken up the robes of a monk and given over to dwelling at the fringes of court life.

Like Grau, he was eccentric enough to be tolerated. As a wounded soldier, he’d earned a degree of respect. “You’ve not missed much. The fun doesn’t start until everyone is around to watch. What good is being a spectacle if there is no one about to see it? They say Heilwig is finding it harder and harder to hold the Kaiser’s attention.”

“She is getting on in years,” Sol replied levelly. “General von Dresden is beautiful, but there are younger women nearly as beautiful and much more easily manipulated.”

Burkhard bobbed his head in a quick nod. “Yes. But he’s put himself in an awkward position when he took the Lady General for his mistress. One cannot simply dismiss the leader of the Saffron. Anyway, they say she hasn’t quite lost his attention yet.”

“I certainly would not want to be the one to inform her the Kaiser is no longer interested,” Burkhard said with a laugh.

Sol chuckled with him.

Gradually the laughter died, Burkhard sobering as he continued. “Speaking of the Generals, they say Egon has not left his rooms since arriving.”

“Well, it is not as though he ever does much when he is out of them. That man is as invisible as the Wolf is hard to miss.”

Burkhard frowned, his good humor vanishing like the sun behind a cloud. “Yes, the Wolf…”

“Presumed dead?” Sol asked quietly.

“Yes.”

Sol looked past Burkhard’s shoulder at the crowded room. People smiling. Laughing. Joking and playing and happy as anything.

There was no sign anywhere, save in Burkhard’s unhappy face, that one of the four generals was most likely dead. He wondered if that would be his fate, the day he finally died. Would anyone notice? Care? General Sol deVry was seldom seen on the battlefield; most believed his position to be largely for show. Something to keep the traitor’s son out of trouble.

“Is there no chance he lived?”

Burkhard shrugged. “It was a Scream. How does one survive that? Even the Illussor bastards themselves cannot escape that spell. Which only goes to prove just how mad they all are. I was going to light a candle for him, on the winter eve. Would you like to attend? I won’t take much of your time.”

Sol nodded. No man, even the Wolf, should be so ignominiously treated. “I will attend; it is the least the Lord General von Adolwulf deserves. Why is there no ceremony being held for him?”

“That is a question for the Kaiser, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” Sol replied quietly. “Perhaps he is awaiting proof of the General’s demise. Did I mishear when someone said his body had not been among the fallen?”

“There is that,” Burkhard conceded. “Still – even the Salharans with their polluted magic find it hard to survive a scream. How would we?”

Sol agreed, carefully keeping his face clear of his small, private amusement.

The trick for which the Illussor had been named was a spell that allowed the caster to trick his opponent for a certain length of time – that length varying according to skill, circumstances and what exactly he wanted the victim to see. When Illussor focused all their ability together, they could do a great deal of damage.

The worst of it being an illusion of death – all the power focused by one person, who literally made everyone on the field believe they were dead. Real enough everyone died, including the caster and all the men whose power he’d drawn. The spell’s only give away was the strange, thin cry made by the caster – brought on by the agony of the spell. It was the Krians who had first dubbed it a scream of death. ‘Scream’ had stuck.

Salharans could survive it with enough warning and sufficient arcen in their system. The only other ones to survive were those who were unconscious before the Scream was cast.

According to Tawn, nameless had likely survived – no doubt burning off all his arcen to do so. He sincerely doubted von Adolwulf had been unconscious in the middle of a battle.

Speaking of Tawn, where was the star-rejected bastard? Surely it wasn’t taking him this long to find a lone, arcen-less soldier in Krian land? If he didn’t move it, the man would die simply from the elements. How hard could it really be, especially for Tawn?

He could not wait to be rid of him. If it cost him his own place, he would ensure Tawn never became a star in the sky. Not that he thought either of them stood a chance anyway, but for his sister he would make triply sure.

“Is there anything of interest going on tonight?”

“Only the usual antics at supper,” Burkhard said. “The last of the soldiers arrived today, so tomorrow will be the Solemn Feast. But tonight? Everyone plans to get drunk and start the room shuffling.” He winked. “I’m sure you’ll get quite a few offers, my Lord Grau. Are you going to disappointment the ladies again this year?”

Sol laughed. “Unfortunately, I must. My cousin is in no condition to be left alone. His eyes were ruined in a hunting accident and it is hard for him to learn to live in the dark.”

“I see,” Burkhard said. “Well, bring him out sometime and we’ll do what we can to make things more bearable. Until later, my friend. I must be off.”

“Farewell,” Sol called after him. Rejoining the throng in the main hall, Sol snagged a servant and gave orders for dinner to be brought to his chambers.

Missions for the evening accomplished, he found he was eager to return to his rooms. Unusual. But as he stepped inside, the sound of not one but two voices struck him. His good mood instantly turned into a white-hot rage. “Let. Him. Go.” He was across the room in a flash, intending to tear Tawn’s head from his shoulders.

But Tawn shoved Iah toward him, forcing Sol to focus on catching him. “Well, well. What have we here?”

“Stay out of my business, Tawn, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

Tawn approached like a snake in the grass, his bright yellow-orange eyes burning. “The Illussor is my business. You stole him from me. I wondered for a moment if it was you, but I thought no, that couldn’t be. Of what use would an Illussor be to my dear brother-in-law?”

Sol heard Iah start. He wanted to make sure Iah was all right, but the last thing he needed was for Tawn to know that he and Iah were not enemies. “Of course I need him!” he snapped. “How else am I to learn why they attacked the Krians to gain our nameless brother?”

“Indeed,” Tawn said. “Still, he is my prisoner. The Brothers were none too pleased to see him gone.”

“The Brothers will find something else to occupy themselves,” Sol said. “I don’t suppose you did your job and brought nameless with you?”

Tawn grinned, an expression that made Sol want to recoil. “No need. He’ll be here shortly.” And suddenly he began to laugh.

Sol guided Iah to a chair, then took three steps toward Tawn and backhanded him hard. “Enough.”

Tawn touched his cheek and glared hatefully. “One day, dear brother-in-law. One day…”

“Yes, but on that day you will also die – and with my name.”

“Like Ariana died with mine?”

Sol punched him, satisfied to feel the crunching of Tawn’s nose beneath his fist. “You will not speak my sister’s name again.”

“I’ll speak my dead wife’s name all I please,” Tawn said in a wet voice, holding his broken nose as blood poured from it, soaking the floor, his shirt, tears pouring from his eyes.

“Get out,” Sol said. “Make yourself useful and gather information from the Illussor, or go back home and let the Brothers deal with you. I am done.”

Tawn walked stiffly past him and though Sol tensed for an attack, none came. “I’ll be back.”

Sol waited several more minutes, then strode over to Iah. “Are you all right?” He touched fingers gently to Iah’s throat, which was already showing bruises.

“He’s your brother-in-law?” Iah said, voice rough.

“Yes,” Sol said. He strode over to the window. “He married my sister when they were both twenty-one. He had recently become a Brother, obtaining his Seven Star from his master, who on the surface was merely a lower politician but was really in charge of the Brotherhood’s information network. Tawn and I are probably the best spies in Salhara. It is only a matter of time, now, before he realizes what game I play…”

“I told him nothing,” Iah said. “He knows only that you took me away and have been keeping me captive for information. He seemed to believe it.”

“Hmm…” Sol said noncommittally. “Thank you. I know you’ve no reason to trust me…”

Iah stood and made his way slowly to the window, fingers reaching out to grasp Sol’s sleeve. “Part of me screams not to trust you. After all, you are a Salharan Brother who plays a Krian very well but claims to be working for Illussor. You seem fully capable of belonging to any of the three countries. And…would you have left me there, if I had not been useful?”

Sol stared at him, then at the hand on his sleeve. He took it, held it fast in his own. “No. I brought you with me to Kria because I knew you could help, but I would have rescued you regardless. Never would I leave someone at Tawn’s mercy. He claimed to love my sister, and she loved him. He gave her a new name, and they asked that I be the one to bestow a new name upon him. It was I who named him Tawn deVry, and welcomed him into our small family.

“Not a year later he was too busy to notice her. He left her alone, ignored her. Even when she fell sick, he did not return home. My sister, despite his maltreatment, persisted in loving him. She refused to accept that he married her solely for the power of the deVry family. Even without the Seven Star, Tawn is a powerful man. After his work in the field, he will take his place as a Minister of Salhara.

“If he’d come home, my sister might have lived. He didn’t. She grew worse and worse. When the fever took her sight, she gave up. Three weeks after she went blind, she died, and the last thing she said was his name.” Sol let go of Iah’s hand, when he realized he held it too hard. His words were barely a whisper. “I wish she’d had your strength.”

Iah reached out, tentatively, and touched Sol’s face, let his fingers linger there. “I am sorry she did not realize her brother was worth living.”

“Thank you,” Sol said, and lifted his own hand to touch the one at his cheek.



Chapter Seven

Sol sat up, instantly awake. He looked around the room, and wondered what had woken him. Nothing was amiss. Next to him, Iah was asleep – not soundly, he obviously was troubled by nightmares. But he slept.

Perhaps it was simply that which had woken him. Carefully he reached out and laid a hand flat against Iah’s chest, stilling his restless movements.

Iah calmed, relaxed, and after several minutes seemed to be more deeply asleep. Sol sighed and slid from the bed. It was midmorning, meaning he had slept far too long. Snow was falling, little more than a light dusting – but that would change before long. He glanced up at the sky, making note of the clouds. Not as bad as they could be, but nothing to scoff at either.

Perhaps the snow would hit early, and bury them before the coliseum fights began. Hopefully it would be his last year to endure such a thing. He loved so many things about the Krian culture, but the Coliseum he would never learn to even tolerate.

People milled about in the courtyard below. Noblewomen and men alike dressed in layers of color – the close-fitting bright underclothes and flowing tunics and skirts of darker colors. But still so bright, against the relentless gloom of winter. Solders and servants milled about in more somber colors

Iah stirred in bed, and sat up. His hair was up in every direction , the bandages around his eyes somewhat loose. He yawned, then tilted his head slightly to the left in the way that meant he was listening to assess his surroundings. It never failed to awe Sol, how hard Iah worked and how far he’d come.

“Fair morning,” Sol said quietly.

Iah yawned again. “Fair morning.”

“As you’re awake, I shall go fetch breakfast. This time of day, it’s easier than waiting for breakfast to come to us.”

He nodded to a servant who already was already looking hassled, dodging two more as they fought to keep their trays and other burdens balanced while they worked around each other.

“Fair morning, Burkhard.” He greeted the monk as he entered the kitchens. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Burkhard laughed around a bite of bread smothered in cheese. “The same to you, Lord Grau. How does the morning find you?”

“Rested. I always detest returning to my estate in the spring, because it is nowhere near as wickedly comfortable as the Winter Palace.”

“Wicked indeed,” Burkhard said with a snort. “You’re about the only one who doesn’t get up to wickedness.”

Sol laughed and snitched a tray, then began to pile it with food from the trays intended to refill the buffet in the main dining hall. He nibbled on a piece of soft, white cheese as he fetched tea and cups. “So you’ve not truly a man of the cloth, Burkhard?” An old tease.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Burkhard snorted in amusement. “At least I know how to be circumspect. The young ones run around naked between rooms, I swear it. There’s not even any sport to it, nowadays.”

“You’re just old-fashioned, Burkhard. Should find a young miss to show you the modern ways.”

Burkhard bit viciously into his bread. “These modern ways are more likely to kill a man than war. Give me mind tricks and pollution to deal with any day.”

Sol nipped a bit of sausage and said nothing.

“They’re saying we’ll have nearly a 1000 for the fights.”

“That’s an impressive number.” Normally the Coliseum fighters only numbered seven hundred or so – most simply didn’t live long enough to reach the coliseum. Most from neglect, abuse, illness. More than a few from suicide. Sol suddenly didn’t feel so hungry. “Is there a special occasion?”

Burkhard shrugged his wide, bony shoulders. “Not that I’m aware of.” He paused to tear into a sausage.

Sol nodded and lifted the finished tray.

“You’re going to offend the servants, Lord Grau, if you keep doing that yourself.”

“I’m a country bumpkin,” Sol said with a smile. “I’m not used to all the laziness of the palace, as hard as I try to adjust.”

“I see.” Burkhard chewed his sausage slowly, and downed it with a swallow of water. “I’m sure the ladies would love to teach you.”

Sol looked at him. “If I didn’t know any better, Burkhard, I would swear you’re trying to push me toward the women.”

“Well, it’s possible there’s one that’s asked me to make a concerted effort on her behalf.”

“No,” Sol said, stifling a groan. “Forget it. I’m not interested. As I said before, this season I’ve my cousin to take care of. What sort of man leaves a relative in need to go sneaking into a lady’s bedchamber?”

“Wouldn’t say lady, exactly…” Burkhard muttered. Then he nodded. “Very well, I’ll let her know you’re already taken.” He winked. “Though I thought even in the country they frowned upon being with one’s cousin.”

Sol rolled his eyes and turned to leave. Burkhard’s laughter followed him out. From the kitchens, he turned right to go down the smaller corridors, avoiding the more populated main hallways. But even here people busted about – mostly servants.

Nearly colliding with two particularly harried servants, he still managed to make it to the stairs successfully. But halfway up, he couldn’t avoid a young nobleman running like his nether-regions were on fire, sending the tray flying and Sol tumbling, rolling back down the stairs.

Silence fell, then exploded again as he was barraged with apologies and voices asking if he was all right. Sol started to reply, then stopped at the last moment. He went cold.

He’d almost answered in Salharan. What was wrong with him? Well, it didn’t help his head felt like he’d overdosed on red arcen and alcohol and been woken up at role call the next morning. “I’m fine,” he managed, letting them pick him up and brush him off.

“I’m so sorry!” The young man exclaimed. “I was running late! Are you all right, my lord?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Sol reassured gruffly. He turned to a servant. “Would you see that breakfast is brought to my room? For two, please.”

“At once, Lord Grau!” Three servants dashed away. Sol shook his head, then thought better of it. He was too old to be falling down staircases. “If you will pardon me, lad, I think I should like to try the stairs again.”

The man smiled sheepishly. “I’ll be sure to stay off them until you’ve reached the top, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Sol said, and smiled briefly.

Barely had he started to climb than a frenzy erupted from the main courtyard. “Tits of the Winter Princess!” Sol swore. “Beg pardon, ladies,” he said absently to a group of women standing nearby. Stars, what was going on now?

He shoved past the crowd that had appeared seemingly from nowhere, gaining some height by climbing up on the edge of the marble stairs leading from the palace proper to the main courtyard. “By the Summer Princess…” he barely remembered to say instead of his own exclamations. “No wonder Tawn laughed.”

Riding in as though he owned the Winter Palace, head held high, black cloak a blot of darkness amongst the bright nobles, was the Wolf of Kria himself. What he felt or thought was impossible to gauge. Sol shook his head and looked again. It wasn’t the knock of his head against stairs and floor. The Scarlet General was well and truly alive. Iah had been right – if anyone could survive a Scream, it would be the Wolf.

But it wasn’t upon the General his eyes lingered. It was the man riding in front of him.

Pale hair, eyes bright yellow even at a distance, and the scowl that never seemed to leave his face. The nameless Brother of the Seven Star.

General von Adolwulf dismounted, sneering as the people jammed in the courtyard backed away. “How nice to see my people missed me,” he said, then threw his head back and laughed.

“Von Adolwulf!” A voice cut through the noise, killing it, from high above. Sol looked up, just barely able to see Kaiser Benno on the balcony above. Gray hair though he was only in his mid-forties, but his eyes were as sharp as they’d been when he was a young man who never missed his mark when hunting.

“Kaiser,” von Adolwulf replied, and held his right hand, curled in a fist, to his left shoulder in a salute.

“You’re alive.”

“So it would seem.”

They spoke levelly, politely, and the General accorded the Kaiser every measure of respect. Only a fool would miss the fine tension resting beneath the surface. A man famed for his twenty years of service – ten of them as the Scarlet General though all had railed against a man of twenty-six being given such a position.

He had flourished, had held the Regenbogen better than anyone.

Yet no one mourned when he’d been thought dead. No one was happy to see him returned to life. Why? The question burned. It mattered not at all to his mission, but still it persisted in bothering him. Why did a man fight for a Kaiser and country that loathed him? For what reason did a Kaiser keep a man he despised? Why not simply kill him?

The silence stretched a second too long, then the Kaiser’s voice boomed out. “Welcome our Scarlet General home!” And the courtyard flooded with cheers and welcomes, but the enthusiasm was stale. Sol could see von Adolwulf was laughing. Then he turned and grasped nameless, sitting silently in the saddle. Whatever he said, Sol could not make it out, it infuriated nameless. Von Adolwulf dragged him from the saddle, nearly letting nameless hit the ground, laughing harder at what were probably curses being hurled up at him.

Not that making him angry was hard to do, Sol recalled.

The crowd parted to let the General and his prisoner – for it was obvious that the Salharan could be nothing else – pass by. His wrists were bound tightly together in front of him, and he stumbled as von Adolwulf dragged him along.

He fell as he climbed the stairs. Sol started to help him, then froze, realizing his near error. A Krian civilian would never do such a thing.

Von Adolwulf spun around and stooped, hauling nameless back up. His voice just barely reached Sol’s ears as he spoke to his prisoner. “Come, Beraht. We do not want to keep the Kaiser waiting.”

“Yes, we do,” was the muttered reply, and then the pair was gone.

The courtyard once more was overwhelmed by the sound of too many voices speaking at once, but emptied quickly as the witnesses fled to share their exciting news with those who had decided to sleep late or eat breakfast.

Sol barely noticed. His mind replied what he’d heard over and over again.

Nameless…had a name. A Krian name. He’d allowed someone to name him. And it was pretty obvious who had done it. Why in the stars had he allowed the Wolf to give him a name?

Sol felt sick just thinking about it. At least all his names had been given by people he cared about – the Illussor who had rescued him, and were his contacts there. His sister had helped him develop Lord Grau. And his parents had given him his first and dearest name. The one he wished he fit.

To give someone like the General that much power…Sol thought he would have rather died. He shook his head, storing the thoughts away for later. It wasn’t important right now. The Breaker was important, and he’d just walked right past him.

He would have to figure out how to get in contact with him, and bring Iah close enough to tell him if namele—no…if Beraht was indeed their Breaker. Head hurting, both from his fall and all the problems suddenly thrown at him, Sol turned and went back to his room.




Dieter sneered at everyone who worked up the nerve to look at him, smirking when they nearly tripped over themselves in their haste to look away.

Caught in the act, every last one of them. He hadn’t expected anything less where he was concerned, but the bastards could be wearing some acknowledgment of the loss of his men. They weren’t hated, they deserved some measure of respect.

Sometimes….

Dieter killed the thought before it could blossom and hauled Beraht forward, resting a hand on his shoulder nearly hard enough to bruise. “You’d do well to trust me when I say you’ll be better served by keeping your mouth shut. No one here will be as kind to you as I’ve been.”

“Kind?” Beraht repeated. “I wasn’t aware such a word existed in Krian.”

“You should,” Dieter replied. “You speak it well enough, especially for a filthy Salharan.”

Beraht glared. “Fine talk from someone who only speaks his own language.”

Dieter laughed, and then they were stepping through the heavy doors into the Kaiser’s private chambers.

“General,” the Kaiser greeted. On his left was a slender woman in a deep blue skirt and undershirt, overlaid with a dark yellow tunic. Her hair was pulled loosely back, falling softly around her face in a style clearly reminiscent of the statues of the Summer Princess. A stylized sunburst was embroidered with orange thread across the front of her tunic.

On his right were two men. One nearly as large as Dieter, with light brown hair and sharp, narrow blue eyes. He wore dark green with a lighter shade for his tunic, the ivy crest of the Spring Prince stitched in palest green across his chest. The man beside him was dressed in gray and blue, the intricate snowflakes of the Winter Princess across the front of his tunic.

His comrades in arms. Dieter managed not to laugh. He threw Beraht to the ground and bent over in a bow, fist over his heart. “Kaiser. I apologize for my late arrival.”

“From what I hear, Lord General, there is a great deal for which you must apologize.” Away from his people, the Kaiser’s hatred was clear in his voice and the cold way he regarded his returned General. “First explain why you are dragging around this sad looking mongrel? Salharan, yes? Did he have a traitorous whore for a mother? He almost looks Illussor.”

Dieter didn’t let his surprise register. “I wouldn’t know, Kaiser. This is the man responsible for killing my men. He is my prisoner.”

“No, I don’t think he is.” The Kaiser motioned Heilwig forward; she was moving almost before he’d finished the move. “Take the prisoner, and whatever else he has. General, you are suspended until we can determine your level of responsibility in the events that cost me five hundred of my best soldiers.”

The sound of steel against leather was shockingly loud as Dieter drew his sword. Then three more swords were drawn, and three generals faced down one.

Dieter stepped forward, in front of Beraht. “Back away, all of you. Do you think you stand a chance against me? Sheep to kill a Wolf?” He laughed. “I think not. The prisoner is mine. You cannot touch anything of mine until I am dead.”

“That can be arranged,” Heilwig hissed, bringing her sword up in a quick arc.

It was blocked effortlessly by Dieter, who then knocked the weapon away and grabbed Heilwig by the throat of her tunic. “Whores belong in the bedroom,” he hissed. “They do not hold swords.” He sent her stumbling back, then turned to face the remaining two. “Cease. Do you really need to do his work for him?”

“You are treading thin ice, General,” the Kaiser said, sounding more bored than concerned.

“It’s been breaking beneath me for twenty years,” Dieter said. He sheathed his sword. “The prisoner is mine.” His fingers lingered on the hilt of his sword. “And it will be mine even when I’m dead.”

The Kaiser looked at him hatefully. “Get out. You’re suspended until further notice. Be grateful, General, that I don’t simply kill you outright.”

Dieter said nothing, merely picked Beraht up and strode from the room, his dark cape fanning out behind him like a great shadow.

Silence fell wherever he walked, only to burst into noise once he was gone.

He stifled a sigh as he finally reached his rooms, which he was glad to see had been prepared for him. Recently, but prepared all the same. The servants, at least, knew what they were doing.

“So even your Kaiser hates you?” Beraht threw his head back and laughed. “My, my, how interesting.”

Dieter threw him to the floor.

Beraht continued to laugh. “Not returning a hero? You’ve been suspended. Ha!”

“Be grateful,” Dieter said. “That I fought to keep you.”

“Why should I?” Beraht asked, picking himself up. “When will you untie me?”

“When you shut your mouth,” Dieter snapped. Ignoring him, he strode across the room to his wardrobe. A large hook was affixed to the wall beside, sturdy enough that it held his cloak with no complaint.

His room was simple. Rugs scattered across the floor, all black. So too the hangings over the wall, and the bedcovers. Even the bed itself was carved from a dark wood, blackish-red in the light of the fire and three lamps. The only spot of color was the banner on the wall, red with the triad of leaves of the Autumn Prince stitched in a blazon of orange, red, and gold.

Hanging his cloak up, Dieter sat to remove his high boots and then threw his sword on the bed, then strode through the doorway just past the wardrobe that led to a proper bathing room. Not much better public rooms on the ground floor of the palace, but nearly so. If he’d earned nothing else, he’d earned the right to his own bath. Dieter threw his clothes in the corner and began to scrub off, relishing the hot water readied for rinsing. His hair was washed three times, until he was convinced it was well and truly clean. Then he moved to the bath in the middle of the room and slid into the near-scalding water, permitting himself to close his eyes for a brief second.

He opened them again and stared up at the ceiling, striving not to linger too long on any one thought.

“So tell me, General – how do you plan to make me suffer my entire life when it’s pretty obvious you’re not going to have one of your own for much longer.”

Dieter laughed. “By leaving you here to survive without me. If you think I am brutal, Beraht, wait until I am dead. Now leave me in peace.”

“Untie me.”

“When I’m done.”

They glared at each other.

Dieter hefted himself out of the tub and strode back into his room, pulling a dagger quickly from within his wardrobe. Turning back around, he sliced the ropes binding Beraht’s wrists – then shoved him backwards into the bath.

He slid back into the water, laughing as Beraht struggled up and out. “I hate you,” Beraht spat.

“Do you think I care?” Dieter said. “Hate matters little to me. Now bathe properly or get out and leave me in peace.” He watched Beraht leave, then settled back down and this time allowed his thoughts to focus.

Suspended. The first move had been made. Benno was still trying to get what he wanted without having to kill him.

After so many years, he was finally falling through the ice. That would make it more difficult to figure out why the Illussor had been after Beraht.

Did he have a traitorous whore for a mother? He almost looks Illussor.

How had he not seen it? He’d thought Beraht’s hair surprisingly pale. Dieter frowned. But if his mother had dallied with an Illussor soldier, what of it? He would not be the first such child.

Perhaps that explained why he was able to so easily kill his men. Dieter did not deny the level of skill required to execute such a skillful shadow attack. That still did not explain why all his men had died for the sake of one enemy.

Or why the enemy had Screamed. Why risk killing the man they were after?

Questions and questions, but not enough time to acquire the answers. It was tiring. Twenty years he had been walking along the fragile ice, and now it was cracking too quickly for him to even avenge his men.

Dieter climbed out of the bath and dressed before the heat of the bath could fade completely. All black, and his crest in red. If no one else mourned his men, at least he would. “You’re looking a little wet. You should get a bath, the water is quite hot.”

Beraht glared at him. “I’m really going to enjoy watching the way your people loathe and despise you.”

“It gets rather boring,” Dieter replied. “But I guess you don’t have much else to do with your time.”

“Even if I did, I would put it aside for the chance to watch you get your comeuppance.”

Dieter yanked him from his seat and caught his jaw with his other hand, squeezing tight. “Your mouth will be the death of you, Salharan. If you are hoping that your mockery will leave a mark, you may as well give up. The only one who will be bearing marks is you, and you will have many of them if you do not shut up.” He let Beraht go, and watched as he stood up.

The man was up and down more often than anyone he could remember. He almost admired the tenacity – everyone else broke so easily. At times it even seemed that Beraht was not scared of him, though other times he saw the man struggle not to recoil.

“Get washed. If you’re going to continue to plague me—“

“No one said you had to take me prisoner.”

“Then you will at least be clean. I can still send you to the dungeons. They do not come with fires and hot baths and blankets.”

Mention of blankets had Beraht flicking his eyes toward the one bed in the room. “You are not making me sleep with you again.”

Dieter laughed. “You are welcome to sleep on the floor.”

Beraht stormed off to bathe, and Dieter went into the hall and caught a passing servant. “See that clothes are fetched for my prisoner.” He considered the servant. “About your size. Taller, more slender. Also have food brought – and if I so much as glimpse a jug of wine, it will be smashed across your head. Be quick.” He let the man go and watched him run off.

He moved to the bed and retrieved his sword, then removed a bundle from a chest at the foot of his bed. Sitting on the floor beside the fire, he began to clean sword, sheath and belt.

A knock at the door interrupted him, and he barked for the servants to enter, not looking up from his work.

“Dieter?”

His head jerked up. “Burkhard?”

“You really are alive!”

Dieter returned to cleaning his sheath. “Yes.”

“I am glad.”

“Surely you’re not so hard pressed for companions, Burkhard, that you would come to me? What do you want?”

Burkhard sat down and regarded him with a frown. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“So you said. I don’t see what good it does you.” Dieter finished cleaning his belt and packed the supplies away. Standing, he returned them to the chest and then picked up his sword from where it lay beside the fire. He stared at it, bending it so the fire set off the shimmering from deep within. With a barley-restrained snarl, he sheathed it. The firelight lingered on the blood-red stone in the pommel, making it burn and glow.

“Why must you always be this way?” Burkhard asked with a weary sigh.

Dieter shot him a scathing look. “I am what I am. Whatever it is you are hoping to find, old man, you are looking in the wrong place.”

“You didn’t have to become this.”

“Get out. I have enough to handle without the ramblings of an old cripple.”

Burkhard’s face tightened, and he stood stiffly. “As you like, Dieter.”

“I do have a request that might amuse you,” Dieter said as he reached the door.

“What might that be?” Burkhard asked cautiously.

Dieter saw movement from the corner of his eyes. “My prisoner. I will be busy in the coming days. I want you to show him around, acquaint him with the palace.”

“What?” Burkhard strode back over to the fireplace. “He’s a prisoner. Prisoners don’t get ‘shown around,’ Dieter.”

“This one does. By my order and I don’t care if Benno himself tries to countermand it. Until I’m dead, he is mine. I want you to show him around, make him familiar.”

“Why?”

Dieter grinned. “I want to make him Krian. You will help me.”

“As you like, Dieter.” Burkhard shook his head. “You and your mad schemes.”

“They have always worked.”

“Yes,” Burkhard said. “I suppose they have. Very well, I will come by tomorrow and show him around. But if he tries to escape, it is not on my head.”

“He has a tendency to be mouthy, but he won’t run. If he gets too out of line, let me know.”

“Very well. Will I see you at lunch or dinner?”

Dieter shook his head. “Maybe lunch tomorrow. For now I intend only to sleep.”

Burkhard laughed. “Until tomorrow then.” He sketched a brief bow and then was gone.

“You want to make me Krian?” Beraht laughed. “I’ll kill myself first.”

“No, you won’t. Beraht.” Dieter said it slowly, with emphasis. Like the name was precious, except for the cold, mocking undertone. “Nor will you kill me. Should I die, you will still carry my name, won’t you?” He laughed.

A knock at the door and he stalked to open it, startling the servants badly enough they nearly dropped their burdens. He saw Beraht run back into the bathing room, obviously chased there by modesty.

Food was set up on a table tucked against the wall left of the fireplace. Dieter sat and began to help himself. The tea, when he poured it, was dark, strong and sweet. Exactly as he liked it. Despite his efforts to stay awake, and the revitalizing tea, Dieter felt his eyes grow heavy.

Beraht, when he finally reemerged in black breeches and a red tunic that nearly fit him, he looked as tired as Dieter felt. His pale hair was wet, and clung tightly to his head. He sat down with a thump at the table and began to eat without enthusiasm. “You’re not going to make me Krian.”

“You’ll never be Salharan again, either. Best get used to this place, because you will never leave it.”

“After your king kills you, there will be little to keep me here.”

Dieter laughed.

Beraht subsided into a sullen silence. When he finished eating, he shoved away from the table and crossed over to the bed. He climbed into the right side, glaring as Dieter smirked.

“So you decided against the floor then?”

“As you said, I’ve no interest in dying. Not until you take my name away, and not until I see you broken.”

Dieter shrugged. “Then you may go wait with the rest of them and live a life of disappointment. No man will ever ‘break’ me, least of all a filthy Salharan.”

“Yet you sleep with me.”

“There is an old story, in Kria, about two men. Bitter, bitter enemies, and one day they found their fighting had driven them to the coldest parts of the country. They found an old house, and between them their cloaks were sufficient for warmth – but only if they shared. Neither wanted the other to die of cold, because then they would lose the privilege of killing the other. So they called a truce for one night. When they woke the next morning, they continued to fight.”

Beraht rolled his eyes. “How very depressing that my life has become the Krian concept of a good story.” He turned over, putting his back to Dieter.

“I would not expect a weak Salharan to understand.”

A soft snore was Beraht’s only reply. Dieter swallowed the last of his tea and then extinguished the lamps. Then he locked the door and retrieved his sword. He climbed into bed, sword beside him, but as tired as he was it was still some time before sleep finally claimed him.