Prisoner

[maderr]

Sorry ^^;; I forgot to post it this morning. In apologies, will post three chapters - I need to even it out anyway.



Chapter Eight


“Esta, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Esta folded her arms across her chest. Her quite lovely chest, which was entirely too visible in her pale blue gown. Matthias frowned. “If you’re going to lie, Prince, you had better find someone else to play the fool. Because I know all your tricks.”

“Yes, that’s rather annoying of you.” Matthias grinned, grateful that his desk was between them. “But honestly, I swear it. I said no such thing. I probably just made a joke about it, and everyone blew it out of proportion.”

Esta turned away, tossing a last warning glare over her shoulder. “If you don’t kill it, Matthias, you are going to find yourself doing without me entirely for the yuletide ball.”

“Yes, Duchess.” Matthias shook his head as she left.

Stubborn girl.

“Your courtship leaves much to be desired.” Kalan said from where he’d been leaning against the wall. “Honestly. I think the frogs have us in enough trouble. Why do you always have to go enraging her further?”

Matthias rolled his eyes. “I seriously doubt she’s holding boyish pranks against us. And it’s fun. She wouldn’t take me seriously if I was nice.”

“Clearly you know even less about women than I thought. And I don’t think she’s taking you seriously now. But I forget you see things very selectively where she’s concerned.” Kalan pushed off the wall and strode over to the desk. “Flowers will get you a lot further than whatever it is you’re doing now. And you could have tried asking her to be the Grand Lady.”

“No,” Matthias replied slowly, as if he spoke to a simpleton. “Flowers would be thrown back at me, with the water dumped over my head to finish. And if I’d asked she could have said no.”

“She’s saying no anyway,” Kalan pointed out.

Matthias grinned. “Yeah, but her weakness is duty. By the time of the ball she’ll feel obligated. She’ll ignore me for the first hour or two, but she always caves. Just watch. I might not know women much, but I know Esta.”

“It’s your neck,” Kalan said, and dropped the matter. He strolled to the door and locked it, then locked the room adjoining the small private office to Matthias’s bedroom.

“So what news do you have for me? Something of interest, I hope.”

“Interesting, indeed.” Kalan said. He stood in front of the desk and crossed his arms, a stark contrast to the prince. Where Matthias was handsome, Kalan was severe. Hard lines, dark hair and eyes. “Spiegel sent a missive to his border contacts.”

Matthias’s brows went up, and he set the papers he’d been perusing aside. He began to toy idly with a letter opener. “He’s not been heard from for awhile.”

Kalan shrugged. “I’m sure he plays a delicate game, if he is indeed Salharan. It still unsettles me to work with a man I’ve never seen, but he has never once given me reason to doubt him.”

“What has your Spiegel to say?”

“That he has found the Breaker.”

Matthias dropped the letter opener. “What!”

Kalan repeated himself. “He says he is working on bringing him to us, but it will take time.”

“Where are they?”

“He didn’t say. And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“Spiegel says he’s got an Illussor with him…do you want to guess who?”

Matthias was silent a moment, then drew a sharp breath as realization dawned. “Iah!”

“Right the first time,” Kalan said with a smile. “So it looks like there will be someone to help Esta kill you at Yuletide after all.”

Instead of laughing, however, Matthias frowned. He picked the letter opener up again. It was silver, imprinted with the King’s Eye. “How can an Illussor hide undetected in Kria? Even for Iah, that would be impossible.”

Kalan shrugged. “Spiegel does not give me details, for it is details which get people killed. But obviously they are managing.”

Matthias did not look convinced. “I do not like trusting the fate of my country to a man who by all rights should be our enemy.”

“We should be grateful he is not, and stop questioning. Too many questions leads to unhappy answers.”

“But if we ask too few, we will learn the answers we need too late!” Matthias’s face clouded, as he thought of his brother.

Dead in all but fact. Nothing but a power source. Alone and cold below the ground. If he had only pressed harder, perhaps Benji would not be lost.

“We did the best we could,” Kalan said softly. His expression matched Matthias’s. “It was Benji’s choice. All we can do is keep our promise. Be grateful, at least, that your father knew it had to end. Think of where we would be if it was only us.”

Matthias nodded stiffly.

“And Spiegel aside, we have always needed the enemy to save us.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Matthias rubbed his forehead. “Though I shall probably have to turn to my enemies for after the Breaking as well.”

Kalan shrugged. “I think everyone would agree that at some point the enmity has to end. Shouldn’t peace be our ultimate goal?”

“Yes, Duke.” Matthias smiled. “You have made your point.” He turned to look out the window, at the falling snow. White filled the world. “Send men to all the border crossings. When Spiegel crosses, I want him escorted here with all due haste.”

“Yes, Highness.” Kalan responded. “I suppose we should be getting on with business, then.”

Matthias made a face and stood. “They’ll come and find us, else.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and slid it on, smoothing down the dark blue fabric and fastening the silver frogs. Adjusting the silver-trimmed cuffs, Matthias combed his fingers through his hair and then slowly limped around the desk to join Kalan.

“Cold getting to you?” Kalan asked idly.

“Yes,” Matthias said. He grimaced at his leg, but said nothing more.

Boys’ games, climbing what they should not be climbing. A stupid dare, a stupid cliff. The only intelligent thing he’d done that day was somehow manage to break the worst of his fall and that had been dumb luck.

It had saved his life, but not his leg. Esta had flayed him alive for a day straight. Afterwards, she’d ignored all of them – even Iah – for a solid week.

After that, they’d stopped playing games. Kalan had begun to move toward the road that was even now taking him toward becoming the Minster of the Treasury. Iah, only a few years after the incident, had surrendered his title to join the army.

He’s settled to his own duties. Watched his brother die, watched his wither, his father wither, his mother die…a friend gone to war, with so many other men. Kalan developing an edge he’d never had growing up.

Esta, who strove to dance her misery away. While he could only watch.

If inviting the enemy in was what it took to put everything back the way it should be, then he would do so.

“We can’t tell Esta, can we?” Mathias asked.

The question was rhetorical, but Kalan answered anyway. He looked bored as they walked, picking imaginary lint from his jacket. Any who saw them would assume the prince and his closest friend were discussing the tedious things which royalty must discuss. “No. Do you want to see what would happen to her, should something go awry? Her burdens are enough. Better to think Iah quite likely dead than to tell her he is alive…only to have to break the bad news a second time.”

“I hope he’s all right.”

Kalan shrugged, but his dark grey eyes revealed his worry. “It’s Iah. That bastard always had uncanny luck. Do you remember the time we ran off to the lake?”

“Yes!” Matthias laughed. “Father sent the guard to find us, and we all got dragged home half-naked and soaking wet – and Iah was there in his bedroom. Perfectly dry and looking as though he and his damnable book hadn’t moved all night. He never did tell us how he did it.”

Kalan grinned. “Exactly. So there’s no reason to worry. Leave it to Iah to wind up crossing paths with Spiegel. Uncanny luck.”

“You do have a point.” Matthias smiled, but it faded as they reached the Hall of Ministry. Where most of the castle was done in soft, welcoming colors, decorated with colored glass or bright paintings, the Hall of Ministry was a study in stern. Browns and creams, accented with gold. Austere paintings of past kings and ministers were the only decoration.

The Twelve Ministers of Illussor had long ago decided that the heir and his companion were buffoons destined to ruin the kingdom.

He and Kalan, the only two in their circle of friends to move toward politics – he never got why Kalan did it willingly – had decided at about the same time that the Ministers needed to develop a sense of humor.

Stalemate had been called when the King grew too weak to keep up with all his duties. If not for the restrictions that limited the use of magic inside the castle, he had no doubt something unpleasant would have occurred long ago.

Their retirement couldn’t come soon enough. And minus a few, he had their replacements all set – getting them appointed by popular vote shouldn’t be a problem either.

But he’d let the nobles play those games by themselves. His favoritism extended only to one, and Kalan had earned that partiality thrice over. “So how will it play out today?”

Kalan drummed his fingers against his cheek. “The usual. We say one thing and they disagree out of spite. It’s no way to run a country.”

“They’re just pissy because we’re winning the debate to cut back participation in the war.” Matthias sighed and took his seat at the head of the table. The Ministers had not yet shown. He was long used to the blatant show of disrespect.

That was all right. When they woke up one morning no longer capable of using their magic, they would be as quick as everyone else to listen to the only ones who seemed to understand what was going on.

Because only a select few understood what the Breaker truly was. Even fewer knew that they were searching for something. Anyone with Illussor magic would feel the presence of the Breaker, but they wouldn’t understand what they felt.

Soldiers appointed the task of searching for the Breaker knew only that they must find him – at all costs. Matthias found it harder and harder to sleep with each man that died looking for someone that may or may not exist.

But now it seemed all the sacrifice had been worth it. He hoped those who had died agreed.

He hoped his people would forgive him.




“Tawn.”

Tawn sketched a bow, and said nothing.

“What happened to you?”

His yellow eyes smoldered with anger. He lifted fingers to touch his nose but stopped just short of doing so. It still hurt too much, as did the bruises around his eyes. “A family quarrel,” he managed, voice awkward and ridiculous.

The three men gathered around a large, heavy oak table chuckled. “So what news does Brother Sol have for us.”

Tawn bit back a curse and forced himself to speak, hating the sound of his voice. “He bid me tell you that there is little information to be had from the Krians about the fate of the Scarlet. But you’ll be pleased to know that General Dieter von Adolwulf, though alive, has been suspended.”

The men looked at each other. “That’s interesting,” said the man with his back to a massive fire place. He did not appear to be bothered by his close proximity to the flames. “A drastic move, to suspend their best general. Even if he did err…” Even sitting, his height was obvious. So too his severe thinness; almost as if he were starving. His eyes were dark red, skin pale.

To his left was a man who could not sit still, as if he expected to have to run at any moment. His skin was unusually dark, and it made his orange eyes eerily bright. He laughed. “How fortuitous for us.”

“Yes,” Tawn agreed. “With Von Adolwulf out of the picture, and I’ve no doubt he will be, the disputed lands will be easily taken.”

The last man sneered, but the motion dissolved into a coughing fit. He dabbed his lips with a folded cloth; it came away spotted with red, and the simple motion sent his hands to trembling. He was pale, sickly, and his eyes looked black. “Don’t be hasty, Ormin. We still have three other Generals to contend with. The Cobalt and Verdant are nothing to be sneered at.”

“No, but the Lady General von Dresden might be bought.” Tawn laughed, a sound that made even the men at the table shudder. “She seeks to be favored anew. Come spring, do not be surprised if von Dresden is sent to watch the Western border, while the Verdant General is sent south to the Disputed Lands.”

Ormin closed his orange eyes, bowing his head in thought. “Yes, I could see them playing it that way. The Cobalt General is too good at watching the Eastern border. We cannot get men through there without paying too high a price.”

“DeVry has no trouble.”

“The General has his father’s skills.”

Tawn glowered at the mention of Sol.

“So it would seem our patience is at last paying off.”

“We shall see,” the old, sickly man said. He started coughing again.

Tawn hid a smirk. “Do my lords have orders?”

“You play the humble servant poorly, Tawn.” The man with red eyes looked at him in contempt. “And you have not finished your report. Do that, while you feel like pretending to be meek.”

“Yes, Lord Tiad.” A pause. “What would you like me to report?”

“Tawn!” The sickly man managed to say.

“Lord Jaspar.” Tawn bowed again, yellow-brown eyes flashing. “As I said, Sol has nothing to report on the fate of the Scarlet. He says answers will be best found at the source. The Krians know as much as we about the Deceivers.”

Jaspar grimaced. “No one knows anything!”

Tiad shrugged. “What do you expect from a country of people you cannot look in the eye?”

Tawn started to sneer, but thought better of it as pain lanced through his face. “Eye contact is not required to bespell a victim. Only eyes are required, and if you sneak up from behind…well, they never know what hit them and destroy their eyes, do they?” His eyes burned bright yellow.

Jaspar gave a raspy laugh. “The arcen has you well and strong doesn’t it, Brother Tawn? Or did your brother get your ire up and now you’ve no one upon whom to vent it.”

“I am as I have always been, Lord Jaspar.” Tawn said “Ever your humble servant.”

Tiad grunted. “Enough, Tawn. And speaking of Deceivers – did you ever reacquire our missing captive?”

“No, my lords. Be it his brothers or a traitor in the ranks who took him, I have not yet located him.”

The men exchanged murmurs. “It’s a pity,” Ormin said at last. “That we cannot get anyone into Illussor. Everything we’ve tried has failed miserably.”

“At least they’ve failed just as frequently. They have illusions, but arcen is nothing to sneer at.”

Tawn laughed softly to himself, regarding the men before him with contempt they did not notice. He would have their position someday, but he would not be them. Arcen was a tool; these men had allowed it to become the master. As he watched, they began to twitch and tire and grow irritable. And they’d only been without a dose for an hour.

Jaspar would not live much longer. The arcen was killing him as surely as it had once made him the strongest mage in the country.

The mighty were falling.

“I can get into Illussor,” he declared, breaking into their nattering.

Ormin laughed at him. “Ridiculous. Even with cleansers, one look at your eyes would give you away. Arcen stains, Tawn. Especially when you go too far, which you have done.”

“Am I not a deVry?” Tawn asked, baring his teeth. “And I’ve more skills besides. Let me try. At worst, I die.”

“You’re too valuable to lose, Tawn.” Tiad laughed. “But you are deVry, that’s true. The equal of your brother, easily. Though you could stand to learn a thing or two about obedience from him.”

“Obedience is for those who cannot think for themselves. I do what my Brothers need; there is no cause for complaint.”

Jaspar waved him off. “Be gone. If you want to tackle the Illussor, go ahead. But you are wasting your time and skill. Such foolishness will not get you the positions I know you are angling for, Tawn. I am not dead yet, and age has not made me stupid. Nor does thirty four make you wise.”

“Perhaps,” Tawn said. “My Lords.” He gave a brief bow, then turned on his heel and departed.

The hallway was dark. Few torches lit the western wing of the castle; the myriad guests preferred their identities be as hard to discern as possible.

Tawn blended easily into the wavering shadows cast by flickering torchlight. The faintest shreds of whispering voices reached his ears, but he brushed them aside.

His finger hovered just in front of his nose, eyes flashing bright yellow before settling to smoldering amber. He remembered the pain, and all the blood. Even now it hurt every time the wind rose up. “Bastard,” he hissed.

Sol.

Though he should have been on guard. Well, he’d have the last laugh. Sol was up to something. The bastard was always up to something. Absurdly accurate, the things said about deVrys and scheming. And the man was far too cozy in his Krian skin to be trusted. Next he’d be using a sword.

But Sol was the least of his concerns. Illussor was his destination now. They were the only problem still remaining. By next winter the Krians would be finished, ruined from the inside out.

Unless von Adolwulf managed to survive. Tawn smirked, recalling all that he had overheard.

Unlikely. The Scarlet General would be dead in a matter of weeks, if not days. Salhara had been trying to kill him for more than a decade, with no success. Spell after spell had failed, for reasons both expected and incomprehensible. But it little mattered now, for his own Kaiser was arranging his death.

Tawn laughed, making a nearby guard jump. He strode from the castle and into the courtyard where his horse waited, everything packed and ready to go.

Illussor was the last threat. A reclusive country that seemed to fight the war for no clear reason. And they had wanted Nameless. Tawn threw his head back and laughed. No – they had wanted Beraht.

He was going to find out why. One eye at a time.


Chapter Nine


Von Adolwulf was hot. Beraht supposed he really shouldn’t be surprised – the man raged while he was awake, it seemed perfectly in keeping with him to be hot while he slept as well.

Throwing off the blankets, Beraht slid out of bed and enjoyed the chill dominating the room. Padding over the window, he pulled back the tapestry.

Night. Pitch black. Not a single star to be seen. He couldn’t see anything beyond what little was revealed by the torches scattered about the castle. Soldiers on duty. A man who walked like he was guilty of something.

A dog shuffled through the courtyard, no doubt looking for scraps or something equally interesting.

No stars. No shadowed faces slinking through carefully darkened corridors looking for men who would do whatever was asked if the price was right. Men who were dying, unable or unwilling to give up the very thing that was killing them. Jaspar, who was only fifty but looked twice that on a good day. Ormin and Tiad would not be far behind him. Beraht slid down the wall and stretched his legs out, letting his hands lie in his lap. He lifted one to touch the skin just beneath his eyes. Yellow, he knew. Bright yellow. Too much further and he would need arcen simply to function.

Beraht curled his hands into fists. The need clawed at his mind still, a deep ache in his body for a burn of which it had long been deprived. Better than anything alcohol could do, and sweeter than the finest dessert. It was said after a point even sex became bland alongside it. But the need was fighting a losing battle, because in the heart of Kria he was as likely to find arcen as he was another Salharan.

He felt empty without it. Like some piece of him had been cut away. A voice whispered that it was a dead limb best lost, but Beraht shoved the words ruthlessly aside. Without arcen he was nothing. No longer a soldier. No longer a Brother.

And with his name given by an enemy, no longer truly Salharan.

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

Beraht snorted at the thought. Absurd. He’d purposely forgotten most of his childhood, but he remembered the village. Far to the east, near the coast. Nowhere near the Disputed Lands, or any of the other borders.

And pale hair wasn’t unique to the Illussor. Only their strange eyes, flashing like mirrors whenever they used magic.

Similar, he’d noticed before, to the way arcen-eyes seemed to glow. But Illussor eye color didn’t change with addiction. If he ever wanted to recall the true color of his eyes he would have to never touch arcen again.

But he’d always liked them arcen-touched. Arcen-tainted, some said. Those with homes. Those with families. Those who weren’t made to kill to earn a name. Beraht drew one leg up against his chest and propped his chin on it.

The room grew uncomfortably cold as his overheated body finally cooled. Beraht didn’t move.

So von Adolwulf planned to leave him here to rot. It sounded much like what the Brothers would do. Except for the part where the Brothers would have him screaming in pain right now. Which left him to wonder morosely what von Adolwulf was plotting.

Stars above, why hadn’t he just stayed in the village?

Because he hadn’t wanted to be Nameless. He’d begged and pleaded and worked until his hands bled, hoping to earn a Name. It had taken him a year to reach the capital, to join the army. Because they would give him clothes, food, a place…but not a name. Four other nameless he’d known, then. All of them dead now. Two in the war.

Curse the stars and damn them too. May they all fall to the earth and die.

He was starting to shiver. Despite the thick tapestry – though could you call it that when it was black and nothing more? – a steady draft slunk into the room and chilled everything it touched.

Stars, how did the Krians endure this year after year? The gloom was enough to drive a man insane, if the cold didn’t simply kill him first. Only Krians would consider this home. Surely the Illussor didn’t have it this bad?

On the bright side, if things got too unbearable he could simply go outside and freeze to death. It probably wouldn’t take long.

Beraht looked murderously toward the bed. But that wouldn’t be an option until he was nameless again. He’d spent his whole life trying to obtain a name – one that meant something to someone.

He killed the thought before it grew strong enough to send him plummeting back into the misery that had gotten him here in the first place.

Reluctantly he stood. Freezing to death was an option for the future, not the present. Grimacing at von Adolwulf’s back, Beraht slid back under blankets that were now invitingly warm.

“Were you debating between attacking me and jumping out the window?”

Beraht started, and immediately resented von Adolwulf for it. “Neither. Were you hoping for an excuse to beat me again?”

“I was hoping to sleep a night without interruption.” Von Adolwulf sat up, little more than a slightly different shade of dark in the black room. “Perhaps I should have made you sleep on the floor.”

“You’re welcome to move there yourself,” Beraht said. “Pardon me for finding this entire situation a little too awkward to sleep well.” He rolled over and tugged the blankets up over his head. Already it was getting too hot again. “Too hot. Too cold. Can’t you damned Krians learn the art of a comfortable medium?”

“Perhaps Salharans are simply weak.” Von Adolwulf turned away.

Beraht made a face at what he thought was von Adolwulf’s back. “At least we don’t sleep with our swords in place of lovers.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Salharan. And it is no different than taking an extra dose of arcen before bedding down. Now shut up or you will find yourself sleeping on the floor. Naked.”

Beraht started to reply – then for once thought better of it. If there was one thing that had been made clear ever since his capture, it was that von Adolwulf did not make idle threats.



Come morning, he found the blankets were not too horrible a thing to have. “Why is it so cold!”

Von Adolwulf laughed at him. “Weak Salharan.”

“This from the man who keeps five blankets on his bed.”

“Makes it harder to determine where exactly I am.”

Beraht mulled over that. “How very sad that you feel threatened in your own home. I’d feel sorry for you, but I’ve no doubt you deserve it.” He threw back the blankets, determined, and immediately regretted it. Stars how did they do it? It would take a lot more than anyone could – or would – give him to make him live in a country like this for the rest of his life. He stalked across the room to the table, and sat down to pull on the boots that were all that remained of his own belongings.

There was a knock at the door. Von Adolwulf moved to open it, and stood back to admit the old man from the night before. Burkhard, he recalled.

“Good morning, Dieter.” Burkhard dared a smile, which von Adolwulf did not return. “I was surprised you summoned me. Feeling rested?”

Von Adolwulf nodded. “Take him. Do whatever you feel. No one is to touch him. If you have problems,” he turned and looked at Beraht as he spoke. “Send for me.”

Beraht ignored them both and finished lacing up his knee-high boots. “So what tortures are planned for me today?”

“A tour.” Burkhard eyed him pensively, then turned back to Dieter. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I’m sure it’s a better idea not to question my orders,” Dieter replied. He lifted his cloak from the wall and swung it over his shoulders, then stalked across the room. Beraht didn’t struggle when von Adolwulf grabbed his chin and forced his face up, though his grip was hard enough he could already feel bruises forming.

He barely noticed them anymore. “So what are my orders?”

“Behave,” von Adolwulf said. “Or I’ll give you a taste of what being a prisoner normally means.”

Beraht grunted as von Adolwulf roughly let him go. “So what does one do, exactly, when one is a suspended and universally hated general?” He smirked as Dieter stiffened, but it turned to a frown when he realized no other reaction was forthcoming. “Bastard,” he muttered softly in Salharan.

The door slammed as von Adolwulf left.

“So,” Beraht said into the silence, regarding his keeper with disinterest. He looked religious, but there was a definite look of old soldier about him, right down to the nasty scar that spelled out quite neatly why he was no longer in the army “Is this where you show me around like a good little lackey and then we take me to the ‘special’ room and I get thrashed to a bloody pulp?”

Burkhard regarded him coolly. Beraht felt suddenly like a green recruit who had succeeded in pissing off his Captain. He’d done it rather often. “The General—”

“Suspended General.”

“Has ordered you’re not to be harmed. I will carry out his orders.”

Beraht snorted but said nothing. The game was all too familiar. Unfortunately his last beating had been Salharan in nature. A magic trouncing was, he imagined, quite a bit different from a Krian beating.

“Come along…do you have a name, Salharan?”

He flinched. “Beraht,” he said. Lying was not something one did with names.

“Beraht.” Burkhard considered him, and again Beraht felt as though he were a fresh recruit under the eye of his Captain. “I see.”

Beraht didn’t bother to ask ‘see what.’ Burkhard wouldn’t be forthcoming for answers. “So what am I to see first, Burkhard?”

“Your Krian isn’t bad for a Salharan,” Burkhard said, ignoring the question. “Where did you learn to speak it?”

“War,” Beraht said.

Burkhard nodded. “Come. I want a good breakfast if I am to be forced to this ridiculous task. The Autumn Prince had best remember this when my leaf falls from the tree…”

Stifling a sigh of his own, Beraht followed him out into the hall.

He glared at every single person who stared at them. Most looked away. A few started toward their swords before a gesture from Burkhard stilled them. If he was going to be forced to endure this ridiculous form of torture, then he was going to make sure everyone suffered with him. Though he was secretly relieved when they bypassed the too-crowded dining hall and went straight into the kitchens.

He had to give von Adolwulf credit. However begrudgingly. This was torture. He hoped the bastard was suffering just as miserably wherever he was. A plate was set before him at the table and Beraht made himself eat.

The food he’d eaten while they’d traveled had not been terribly appetizing. But if there was one thing all soldiers had in common no matter what their country of origin, it was bad food.

This wasn’t bad. A little heavy on the seasonings, but heartier than Salharan fare. He guessed even Krians couldn’t screw everything up.

“Lord Grau!” Burkhard crowed. “Fair morning!”

Beraht looked up and watched the new arrival with mild interest. Just how common was it for the gentry to visit the kitchens directly? But a longer look said this one wasn’t true nobility – he looked more like a country bumpkin. Though so far as he knew, they didn’t visit the kitchens either if servants were available to do the hard work for them.

He listened to their conversation, but the Krian they spoke was too fast for him to keep up with. And, he realized, it was still nothing like what he’d heard von Adolwulf speak to the bandit. Perhaps that was something crude, used only by bandits and bastards. He bit hard into a piece of bread, surprised to find that it was slightly sweet.

Lord Grau said something which set Burkhard laughing. Grau turned to him. “Do my eyes deceive me, Burkhard, or is that Lord General von Adolwulf’s prisoner?”

“Your eyes read right. Dieter bid me show him around.” Burkhard shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you why.”

“One never knows what the Wolf is thinking,” Grau said. “So what are you planning to do?”

Burkhard shrugged. “Show him around. Feels a bit silly, but orders are orders.” He thought a moment. “Perhaps to the yards. Show him the Krian steel that always defeats Salharan pollution.”

Beraht bit back a reply.

Lord Grau laughed. “Just be careful not to show him too much, Burkhard. If he slips away, he’ll take our secrets with him.” He snapped his fingers suddenly. “How could I forget? Is it true they’ve suspended the Lord General von Adolwulf?”

Burkhard’s face clouded. “Yes.”

“I am sorry for you,” Grau said gently. “For whatever reason, I know you do not hate the man. I’m sure he’ll be reinstated. Where would the Regenbogen be without the Scarlet Wolf?”

“That is true,” Burkhard agreed, but his voice was full of doubt.

Beraht tried to keep his mouth shut and failed. “It would be given to those who would actually use it, instead of being soaked in blood because the Krians are too damn greedy to share what they don’t use.”

Burkhard eyed him. “It is our land.”

“Che,” Beraht said, and fell silent.

A crash broke off whatever remained of the argument. Burkhard spun around, then immediately rushed over to help the maid who had dropped her burden all across the kitchen.

Beraht noticed Lord Grau wander near and help himself to a small hunk of soft, white cheese. He focused on his plate.

“You have a name, Brother.”

The Salharan words made Beraht choke, and he quickly picked up a nearby glass of water to avoid anyone noticing. He flicked his eyes toward Grau, and they widened in shock to notice the telltale burn behind brown eyes.

Arcen. Just the slightest bit. Probably only a sip. Enough to upset a maid’s tray from across the room. And then he burned with shame, to realize that a Brother had discovered his shame. “Yes,” he said softly, looking at his food.

“Why?”

“I did not want to die.” He tore a piece of bread into small shreds. “Who?”

A barely audible laugh. “I am offended, lieutenant. You once fought beneath my banner.”

Beraht nearly choked on his food again. “General deVry!” he hissed.

“Yes,” Sol answered. “And we’ve much to discuss. But later.” He finished filling two plates with food as Burkhard returned to them. “Good luck, Burkhard.” Grau clapped him on the shoulder. “Be steady. Spring always follows winter.”

Burkhard stared at Beraht, who glared back. “Yes, but I sense this winter is going to be especially long.”

“You have no idea,” Beraht muttered, and went back to eating.

His mind was racing however. What was General deVry doing here? He was a spy?

But suddenly it made sense. The deVry family was in disgrace ever since the General’s father had been found guilty of treason. And he’d known deVry was a Seven Star. Of course they would put him to such work – who better to shame than a man who already suffered?

Seven to watch the house. Seven to watch the field. Seven to watch the neighbors.

Except General Sol deVry had always appeared to be one of the seven on the field. But such deception would be perfectly in keeping with the Brothers. His shoulders hunched unconsciously. A painful reminded that he wasn’t a Brother. He’d known they’d only sent him off to die and take as many Scarlet as possible with him. Which had only made him determined to prove them all wrong.

Another hard dose of reality. Beraht shoved away what remained of his food. “Well, keeper. How about those yards?”

“Dieter was right,” Burkhard said slowly. “You have a mouth on you.”

“Just tell him to beat me,” Beraht said. He found suddenly he was beyond caring. Let von Adolwulf do whatever he wanted.

Because unwanted he might be, but General deVry had just made his presence known. And said they had much to discuss. Which meant he was going to do something to help. He hoped.

“I will, be assured.” Burkhard finished his own plate and then led the way from the kitchen. “This way.” He led the way through the halls, and Beraht continued to glare people down.

Though he really should remember that without arcen, he had no real idea how to fight. Minimal practice with a short sword would be little more than a joke against a Krian soldier. Stars, even the nobles could probably fight better than he.

Not once since he’d left home had he felt so inadequate. Even among the Brothers, it was acknowledged he knew his away around magic. Who else could have killed so many Scarlet alone! In one night! And with a single dose of yellow. He hadn’t needed to stray anywhere near orange.

The clash of steel against steel, mingling with shouts and cries, broke into his reverie. Burkhard lead the way down an smaller hallway and then out onto a balcony encircling a large, dirt-packed ring below. It was massive, easily the size of the grand hall and then some.

Men fought. Practicing. Though it didn’t really look much different from the battlefield.

Though it was nice not to be on the receiving end of it. Krians. Was there a season they didn’t spend fighting? “So you stop fighting in the winter to…come home and fight some more?”

Burkhard looked at him in disbelief and contempt. “Surely even the polluted have to practice their artificial tricks?”

“Strange,” Beraht said. “That wound on your hand doesn’t look artificial. More like a light knife spell.”

“You are lucky, Salharan, that I would rather die than disobey the Lord General.”

“Suspended Lord General,” Beraht corrected. He leaned his elbows on the railing and watched the fighting, feeling the angry eyes glaring at his back. “Speaking of the Wolf – I’m surprised he’s not here beating them all into the ground.”

“That’s because he could beat them all into the ground,” Burkhard said. “No one will fight him anymore. They get tired of losing.”

Beraht sneered. “Then they should get better.”

“We’ve all tried,” Burkhard said. “But Dieter and his nameless sword have no equal.”

“Nameless sword?” Beraht asked absently, fascinated despite himself by the display below. Vulgar, most Salharans would have called it. Physical brutality was for animals, peasants too poor to afford even violet arcen. It was crude, primitive. Uncultured. And yet, he had to admit, these men almost made it look like an art form. It had never seemed so when the sword was coming at your head, but high and safe it was hard not to admit. Then his words struck him. “Krians name their swords?” He stifled a laugh. Somehow he wasn’t surprised. “You really do treat your swords like lovers, don’t you? Too busy fighting to bother with a flesh and blood lover?”

Burkhard looked as though he wanted nothing more than to throw Beraht over the balcony. Btu he didn’t move, and a minute later his face had resumed its blank, polite mien. “Swords are not lovers – they are named after them. So that when we die with sword in hand, we do not die alone.”

Beraht started to say something snide, then stopped. He nodded and turned back to watching the soldiers below. And realized that he was noticing the swords now. Who would have thought the bloody Krians were so idiotically romantic?

And Dieter with a nameless sword. He could have guessed that. How had they not beaten him in the decades he’d been a soldier, Beraht suddenly wondered. The man was proving to be painfully predictable.

Good to know for later.

“So what’s my next lesson, keeper?” Beraht asked. “Shall we go to the library and brush up on my Krian history? Study a few wars?” Then Beraht stopped, and realized what else might be in the library.

Maps. Krian maps. He wondered if they extended into Salhara and Illussor – the countries had not communicated beyond war for more decades than anyone could remember. So how outdated would the maps be?

Salharan maps were hideous things. People relied on magic to travel, and much territory was forbidden to the general public. The most detailed maps in Salhara all revolved around the Disputed Lands. He’d had one, but it had been ruined along with his clothes. The Krians who’d caught him had sneered at it. Beraht still felt the sting, for he’d worked hard at adding to it and making it almost presentable.

“What has taken your mind, Salharan?” Burkhard interrupted. He was looking quizzically at Beraht.

“Nothing,” Beraht replied. Then chanced it. The worst that could be said was no, and he was already racking up beatings. What was one more? “Krians are famous for their maps,” he said.

Burkhard looked surprised. “You’ve an interest in maps?”

“Yes,” Beraht said, feeling uncomfortable. Suddenly it felt too much like he was cooperating with his enemies.

“Then if you will behave, Beraht, I will show you a few maps. There can be no harm in one or two of them.”

Beraht thought for a moment. He was cooperating with the enemies. But he supposed there was little harm in going along peacefully until deVry arranged to help him escape. Besides, if he seemed to be enjoying himself, it would anger Dieter. So this plan was definitely looking toward the stars. “Agreed,” he said at last.

Looking mildly disbelieving, but eager for an easy solution to the problem of the Salharan prisoner, Burkhard led him from the balcony and downstairs to the ground level of the palace. He turned away from the front and toward the back, out a door there and across a massive lawn. Snow made the stone path slick, forcing Beraht to walk slowly.

Burkhard realized he was losing his prisoner and slowed down.

“What is that?” Beraht asked. He pointed his head toward a large, round building. It had no roof.

“The coliseum,” Burkhard replied. “Kaiser Benno announced last night that the winter fights were to be postponed a bit, as a few pertinent trials have yet to be concluded.” He made a face. “They take forever deciding things.” He slid his eyes toward Beraht. “You should be grateful the Scarlet General is the one who captured you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because normally all prisoners of war go straight to the coliseum. Many of your comrades have killed themselves the night before a fight.”

“Naturally,” Beraht said contemptuously. “Far better than being reduced to something so barbaric.”

Burkhard did not look apologetic. “And it’s perfectly all right to keep a country obedient by drugging them.”

“You know nothing about arcen,” Beraht snapped.

“You know nothing about Kria.”

Beraht curled his lip but said nothing more. Behaving was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated. “Why would I want to get to know a country who thinks killing is a form of entertainment?”

“At least I do not have to drug myself to do my job.”

“No, clearly you murder for the fun of it!”

Burkhard started to reply, but his eyes fixed on something past Beraht’s shoulder. Beraht turned.

A man was approaching, dressed in blue with snowflakes stitched in a line across his chest. Beraht thought a moment for the Cobalt General’s name. Egon von Kortig. His hair was dark brown and slightly too long; though his age showed in the lines of his face, there was no gray in his hair. Beraht thought briefly of von Adolwulf, who by contrast was relatively young but had silver at his temples.

It was almost interesting.

“Burkhard, what you are doing with the Salharan prisoner?”

“Fair morning, Lord General.” Burkhard sketched a bow. “Lord General von Adolwulf bid me guide him around the palace.”

Egon lifted a brow. The affectation made him look a bit ridiculous. Beraht held his tongue. “I do not think the Kaiser would approve of a prisoner of war being shown around. Take him to the cells where he belongs.”

“Lord General,” Burkhard said. “I’m afraid the General’s orders were quite explicit. I am to give the prisoner a tour, no matter what anyone else says. Nor is he to be so much as touched by any but the Lord General himself.”

“General von Adolwulf has been suspended. He is in no position to be giving orders. Now take the prisoner to the dungeons or you will find yourself joining him.”

Beraht caught sight of a black shadow from the corner of his eye. He turned to watch as Dieter approached. His eyes flicked briefly to the building from which he was clearly coming. A temple of some sort.

“Beraht,” Dieter greeted. “How much trouble have you caused so far?” He looked at Burkhard, acting as though Egon were not there. “What has he done?”

“He is mouthy, as you warned, but nothing more than that.”

Egon stepped forward, grabbing hold of Beraht’s shoulder. “What is this prisoner doing out, Dieter?”

“That is my affair, not yours.”

“He’s a prisoner.”

“No,” Dieter said, gray-green eyes taking on an edge Beraht was far too familiar with. “He is my prisoner Let him go or you will find yourself missing an arm.”

Egon let go of Beraht – by shoving him roughly into Dieter. “Is he really your prisoner? I wonder.”

Dieter caught him, then set him aside. “You will watch your words, von Kortig.” Dieter’s hand moved to his sword. “Do not question my actions when your greatest moment was winning the Cobalt seat simply because all the real candidates were dead.”

Beraht rolled his eyes.

Egon was less than amused, and his hand strayed toward his own sword. “I will not hear those words from a man—“

“Who was made a general when he was half your age? And has done a better job of it? Draw your sword, Egon. Go ahead.” Dieter grinned.

Like a wolf, Beraht thought. A mad wolf. Stars he wished he’d never been given a Seven Star. Or that the Brothers had chosen to kill him and pass it to someone else. Anything but this whole ridiculous situation.

“I won’t feel guilty about taking every last one of you with me.”

Egon let go of his sword, and threw his head back laughing. “Of course, how stupid of me. I’m wasting my time. The Kaiser will deal with you soon enough. I do believe your trial has been arranged for the day after tomorrow. We will see you there.”

“Trial?” Beraht asked into the silence. “Barbarians actually bother with those?”

Dieter grabbed him by the throat and hauled him close. And up – the toes of his boots only just brushed the ground. “Do you want to be locked in the dungeons, Beraht? I warned you about behaving.”

“He started it,” Beraht ground out. “I was doing fine until he came along and decided to start bellowing orders.”

“Burkhard?” Dieter asked.

“It’s true,” the monk replied.

Dieter let him go with a teeth-rattling shake.

At least, Beraht noted, he hadn’t thrown him on the ground. He grit his teeth and stayed silent.

“Where are you going?” Dieter asked Burkhard.

“To the Grand Library,” Burkhard said. “We agreed that if he behaved, I would show him some of our maps.”

Dieter nodded. “Fine. Have him back before the dinner hour.”

“What am I,” Beraht asked. “A maiden being escorted around by a suitor before being returned to her father?” He met the glares sent his way with a scowl of his own. “Honestly. The greatest torture of being in Kria is the sheer idiocy of the place.”

Burkhard looked as though he would like nothing more than to cuff him soundly upside the head. “Keep up the mockery, Salharan, and you can always go to the Coliseum.”

“Whatever,” Beraht snapped.

Dieter spared him a warning look, then abruptly turned on his heel to head back toward the castle. They watched him go. “So what does a suspended General do all day?”

“Normally,” Burkhard said. “He would wake before dawn and train with his men in the yard. They eat breakfast afterwards, while everyone else is practicing. Then he normally rides his horse, if weather permits. Then there are the meetings he would normally have with his own advisors and strategists. The war does not stop just because the snow halts the fighting. But now that he’s suspended and his men dead?” Burkhard shrugged. “He was probably lighting candles for the dead soldiers. No one mentioned them at the Solemn Banquet you slept through.”

Beraht frowned. “I’m guessing that’s something to honor dead soldiers?”

“Yes.”

“So why did no one acknowledge their deaths? Because of the Scarlet Wolf?”

“To insult him, yes.”

Beraht thought on that. “Why does the Kaiser hate him?”

“Why do you care?” Burkhard challenged.

“Because I am trying to make sense of the stupidity that seems to run rampant in Kria. A king should not hate his generals or the generals their king. It does not make for a peaceful country. Salharan Generals are regarded as heroes.” Puppets, perhaps, but the common people didn’t know that. The Seven Star weren’t that stupid – countries needed heroes.

Burkhard turned away and resumed walking. “If you insist on regarding us as stupid, I have nothing to say to you.”

Beraht muttered under his breath in Salharan, but otherwise kept his thoughts to himself.