Prisoner 13 & 14

[maderr]

Chapter Thirteen

Dieter shivered despite himself. The room was cold – warmer than it had been all night but cold all the same.

In less than an hour he was going to die in a place he had always despised. He didn’t know why he’d expected anything less of the Kaiser. A soldier’s death? Dieter laughed silently at himself.

Voices outside. Faint. Even so he could hear the fear in them. Over the course of the night he’d had no less than six visits. Sleep had not been option.

Three men had died. Only the sly cat with the yellow eyes had not tried to attack him. His mind still reeled with the knowledge that the innocuous Lord Grau was really a Salharan General – and a Seven Star Brother. It was further evidence of Salharan stupidity that they’d allowed themselves to lose someone as skillful as Sol deVry. A pity he wasn’t Krian; the war would have ended years ago.

Though speaking of visitors, Dieter was surprised Burkhard had not come to say goodbye. He’d been trying to get the man off his back for years…it only figured he succeeded now. It little mattered.

Keys rattled and the door protested being opened yet again as the guards stepped inside.

Dieter looked down at the glass vial in his hand – then threw it up and out the window above him.

He stood up as the men approached, smirking at the way two froze and the third stumbled back. A fourth lingered outside, waiting until he had no choice but to do the duty assigned him. Contemptible. If he’d caught a Scarlet acting as the Saffron did, he would have cuffed the man and drilled him until he no longer feared anything except being made to do more drills.

Dieter allowed them to lead him out, through the halls that were eerily silent. The night before, plenty had jeered as the former Scarlet General joined them in their fate. But after the third body had been carried out by trembling comrades, they’d stopped. It was bad enough some of them would be facing him come morning. Better not to make it personal. Dieter bit back the urge to laugh.

The guards led him none too gently up the ground level…and out into the coliseum proper. But rather than leave him, they continued to march him across it.

Thousand upon thousands filled the seats. Those few who did not spend the winter months in the palace still fought to make it to the coliseum if they could. And they had, racing all the more as the rumors of the Wolf’s fate spread.

Yet all was silent. Nothing stirred, no one spoke. Only the wind blew, making everyone not dressed against it shiver. But otherwise there was only silence. Deeper, somehow, than the silence that dominated the coliseum when it was empty. Dieter resisted another urge to laugh, make them jump, wonder if his mind had finally snapped. Were they starting to feel guilty? He doubted it.

On the far side of the arena, two soldiers moved forward to unlock a door, and then Dieter was led up the stairs beyond it to the landing where the Kaiser sat. Around him were the remaining three Generals, dressed in their formal uniforms. The colors seemed garish in the coliseum, and far too bright for the winter weather.

Immediately to the Kaiser’s right was Beraht. Dressed in court finery. Dieter nearly laughed. His idiot prisoner must be dying from the effort it took not to lash out at something. He wore brown and pale gold, the colors drawing out what now seemed his glaringly obvious Illussor heritage. Dieter was still confounded he’d missed it. At least he knew why the Illussor had been after him, and why his men had died.

At least it had not been a stupid reason, though he thought it plenty idiotic.

Someone had combed Beraht’s hair. He almost looked civilized. Dieter wonder if he was the only one who noticed the murderous rage that made his eyes shine like a summer sun at midday. The first time Beraht had been thrown at his feet, those eyes had blazed the same way. Dieter didn’t think it was entirely because of the arcen.

The Kaiser looked bored as he spoke, but his voice carried a smug undertone. “So, Dieter. Have you any last words? Requests? Apologies?”

Dieter said nothing, at last dragging his eyes to the man he wanted to kill more than anything. But wouldn’t, because death was not nearly so pleasing as watching Benno live with himself. He could see the hate, hotter and stronger than ever now that Benno was aware how much Dieter had always known. What Dieter had told him.

His sword was unsheathed, point to the ground, Benno’s hand tight around the hilt. Like some sort of cane. Dieter curled his lip in contempt but remained silent.

“Nothing to say at all, Dieter?”

He ignored him. If Benno thought he’d crack…but Benno had always been a fool. Dieter remained silent.

“How unlike you,” Benno continued to goad him. Across the coliseum, the dead silence remained unbroken. All listened to Benno speak, though only those nearest him could understand what he said. “No parting shots for your Kaiser?” His hand moved, and light caught the sword he held. “Perhaps if you ask nicely enough, I’ll let you die with your sword.”

Dieter still said nothing. His eyes spoke his hatred plenty, the gray-green of them dark rather than light. Even with his split lip, the abrasions on his face and arms, clothes torn from fighting in confined quarters, he was the most intimidating man on the dais. The generals touched their swords, made sure they were loose in their scabbards even though they had done so as Dieter climbed the stairs.

He wasn’t stupid. The Kaiser had no intention of giving his sword back. It wasn’t enough that he was killing Dieter – he wanted Dieter to die humiliated and completely alone.

The Kaiser began to look annoyed at Dieter’s continued silence. “Well, if the prisoner is not interested in begging for mercy, I see no reason to keep my people waiting.” He smiled mockingly. “Though of course I won’t send you off without a proper farewell. The Lady Heilwig has said she would kiss you goodbye.”

Heilwig, from the way she jumped, had clearly been unaware she’d volunteered for any such thing.

“Of course if there’s a different lady you’ve in mind, do say so. You are, my former General, entitled to that much.” His smiled grated. Dieter wanted nothing more than to smash it.

He wasn’t going to give Benno the satisfaction of seeing him snap.

“We haven’t got all day. Declare your choice or none at all.” He bared his teeth. “There are lots of men to get through.”

Dieter smirked, ever so faintly, and moved faster than anyone had thought would be possible after his night of cold and attempted beatings. Chains clinked and rattled as he grabbed Beraht’s shirt, jerked him close and kissed him hard. He used Beraht’s surprise to force his mouth open, press the kiss deep, hands holding him in place despite the manacles. The cut on his lip opened again but Dieter didn’t stop.

Beraht struggled, muttering Salharan curses into Dieter’s mouth – then he froze, yellow eyes going wide and then sliding shut.

Dieter laughed as Beraht began to kiss him back.



Beraht shuddered, mind reeling as he pressed closer to Dieter, fingers digging into the smooth fabric of his shirt, the cold metal of the cuffs biting into his skin. But he pressed closer, kissed hard, tongue fighting with Dieter’s, sweeping his mouth, searching for every last trace of arcen he could get.

Red arcen. He’d never had it, but he knew that’s what it was. Bitter and sweet. Like dark tea with too much honey. Mixed with it was the tang of Dieter’s blood.

Where had the stars cursed bastard obtained red arcen?

Sol?

But why?

Beraht’s mind tried to formulate thoughts, but it was overwhelmed into silence by his burning need for the arcen Dieter was giving him. He kissed him until his lips were bruised and raw. He licked them, tasting arcen and blood.

Then he began to feel it. The thrumming burn of arcen in his system, the too-fast beating of his heart as it dealt with a level of power to which it had not carefully been made accustomed. He pulled away with a gasp, locking onto the gray-green eyes watching him so intently.

“Meet him at the crossroads,” Dieter said against his mouth.

In Salharan.

Beraht was going to kill him.

“A mile north of the castle.” Then Dieter shoved him away, stumbling back, falling hard on his back beside the Kaiser.

Dieter laughed at the horrified looks on the Kaiser and the people around him. “Goodbye,” he said, and descended into the arena without a backward glance. Beraht watched him go, debating the merits of wasting arcen just to give the bloody bastard a parting shot.

But that bastard had also just saved his life. Had given him arcen. Freedom.

Why?

Probably just to infuriate him. Beraht glowered at the spot where Dieter had been when he realized that Dieter had freed him – but not stricken his name. Which meant when Dieter died, he’d be stuck with the name the rest of his life.

Fine. Whatever. It wasn’t like he was going back to Salhara anyway. No one in Illussor would know how bad it was and Sol was in no position to deride him. Beraht twisted to get his hands under him, leverage himself up. His eyes caught on Dieter’s sword as he struggled, caught by the strange, deep, rainbow shimmer. It was familiar somehow. Shock rippled through him as he suddenly realized why.

Arcen

Dieter’s sword had been made with arcen. Beraht took a closer look as he pretended to struggle to stand up.

The way it shimmered from deep within. How the shimmering exploded when the sun hit it. Like light on fine crushed glass. Dieter’s father had put arcen powder in the steel. Beraht choked on a laugh as he finally stood up. How had he not noticed before? He couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face when he told Dieter his sword was polluted.

Except he wouldn’t get to tell Dieter that.

Beraht frowned and stared down into the arena.

What had Burkhard told him? That Dieter would not be leaving the arena. One by one opponents would come out to face him. To live, Dieter would have to kill every last one of the thousands of prisoners in the cages below. Impossible. Beraht grimaced. His own skill was in killing men while they slept. Fair play was for men who could afford to obey the rules. But at least he was fighting a war.

This was just brutal.

He watched as Dieter was given a sword – it looked like a toy next to the sword currently in the emperor’s possession. Far too small, and Beraht doubted it was up to the challenge. How cowardly could one man get? At least when he killed, he did it mercifully. He’d never made anyone suffer.

“Enjoying yourself, prisoner?”

Beraht stiffened and moved away from the fingers that touched his hip. “What is there to enjoy about barbarism? Krians are as uncivilized bastards.”

“Salharans are simply weak.” The Kaiser reached out to touch him again, amused by the way Beraht seemed to shy away. Beraht carefully did not look at him, uncertain of the effect the red arcen would have had on his eyes.

Though he doubted anyone would notice. The one man who would immediately note the change had been the one to feed it to him. Beraht’s lips were sore; Dieter kissed as brutally as he did everything else. There were no soft edges to him.

Dieter did not seem to react as the first prisoner was presented to him.

With a cry born of fear and panic, the ragged man in grungy clothes charged Dieter.

He was killed swiftly, immediately. Had not even lasted a minute.

“At least we are not bloodthirsty,” Beraht said, finally responding to the Kaiser’s earlier comment. “Why, after sending your men to die most of the year, do you bring them home and inflict more deaths upon your people? Anyone watching this will be doomed to remain on earth. They will never be stars in the sky.”

The Kaiser laughed tolerantly. “I would rather be in the earth than high in the sky. I will leave the stars to flighty Salharans.” A pause as he watched Dieter kill a fourth and fifth man. “He’s rather boring, really. I was expecting more of my Scarlet Wolf.”

Beraht’s mouth moved before he could think to stop it. “Wolves kill cleanly. Torture is a human thing. And near as I can tell, Dieter was never your Wolf even though he was meant to be. But I guess that’s your fault.”

He swore he saw stars as his head knocked hard against the ground. A fresh bruise on top of the knot that was still healing.

What was it with Krians that they thought the solution to everything was to throw him to the ground with as much force as possible? Beraht picked himself up, in pain but pleased that he’d angered the Kaiser.

Down in the ring, Dieter killed another one. Beraht wondered why he bothered. Wouldn’t it be easier just to die?

But that, he had to admit, wouldn’t be Dieter.

His movements – powerful, strong, confident, precise – weren’t as graceful as usual. When he’d killed the bandits, he’d moved…almost liquidly. A deadly dance. He glanced sideways at the sword in the Kaiser’s hand.

Swords are not lovers – they are named after them. So that when we die with sword in hand, we do not die alone.

Beraht looked again at Dieter’s sword. The Kaiser held it like a lover, but also like a man who knew it was his only because he’d stolen it. Beraht turned away as the arcen thrummed in his blood, knowing it would make his eyes glow. Even the Kaiser would not be able to miss it this close.

He watched Dieter, who was up to…eleven? Twelve? Beraht had lost count. Was he tiring? It was hard to tell.

So that when we die with sword in hand, we do not die alone.

Stars refuse them all!! Beraht forced his mind on his escape. With red arcen, it should be easy enough. Vanishing from here, grabbing what supplies he could and then steal a horse. Everyone was in the coliseum – they would not know where he had gone until too late. All he had to do was focus, cast the spell and be gone.

But he didn’t move. Metal shimmered at the corner of his eye.




Dieter cut down the fifteenth man. Weak, all of them. From hunger. Fear. Hate. Despair. They weren’t even trying, just throwing themselves at him. Salharans, mostly. A few Krians who had never learned how to properly wield a sword. Young, reckless, probably caught doing the stupid things young men always did. Some were more deadly, but the reality of the coliseum had rendered them unable to make the most of their skills. He wondered what they thought now that they were the ones in the ring.

He cut another one down, moving away from the crowd of bodies at his feet. The sword in his hand was repugnant. Balance poor, too short, too light. Mostly likely made by an apprentice too concerned with looks to not the less visible merits of a sword. It was a mockery. A final sting.

Another man charged him, screaming Salharan prayers for mercy. Dieter stepped to the side and slashed the man’s throat open. Moved and waited for the next one. He was not tired yet, but he was beginning to feel it. And killing was tiring work anyway.

No doubt the real fighters were being held back until he was no longer a challenge.

Dieter dodged a half-hearted lunge and then cut the man down. He looked briefly toward the arena – and was shocked to see Beraht was still there. That he hadn’t heard an uproar he took to mean Beraht had slipped away without being noticed. Why was he still there?

The arcen burned in his system, fouler than alcohol. This was what the Salharans fought them for? A field to make a drug that made his whole body feel as though it suffered from some strange fever?

It made his head ache, and he had only a bit of it in his system. Tits of the Winter Princess, the stuff was foul. No wonder the Salharans wee such idiots.

Dieter killed another one, this time catching the edge of a sword on his arm. He swore and examined the cut. Bloody but shallow. But it meant he was tiring. As if it mattered. He didn’t even know why he was bothering to kill them all.

Though the way they seemed mostly to just run at his poor excuse for the sword, it would be hard to get them to kill him. He remembered the jeers that had greeted his arrival the night before, as the Krians locked in cages realized who had joined them in the dark. The guards. Those who had tried to beat the humbled general.

The next man died quickly, unable to so much as scream

Dieter knelt to clean his sword on the man’s filthy tunic. When he stood again, his next opponent was walking toward him.

He stood. This one was a Krian soldier, in the bedraggled remains of a Verdant uniform. He couldn’t be much more than twenty. “So what did you do?”

“Protested what my Lord General did to prisoners,” the young soldier said. “He shipped me off for insubordination.”

Dieter grunted in acknowledgement. A serious crime, especially during times of war. Most simply killed the soldier in question…but Ludwig would find this more effective a way to keep his other soldiers obedient. That was what the coliseum was for, after all. “So what do you want?”

“I want to fight, Lord General. No one ever gave me the chance. You’ll kill me, but at least my mother will see me go down fighting.”

Dieter hefted his pathetic sword. “You would have done better under my command than his.”

“I was scared, Lord General, of the Scarlet Wolf.” The man smiled weakly. “I learned too late maybe that was a reason to press forward.” He shrugged. “Perhaps in Spring I will be a stronger leaf on a new tree.”

For reply, Dieter lifted his sword and motioned for the man to attack.

The fight did not last long, but it lasted long enough.

Dieter cleaned his sword on the same shirt he’d used before, and cast a glance toward the Kaiser.

The Kaiser watched him, he knew. And the way he sat said he was displeased by something.

Beraht was still by his side. What was wrong with the damnable man that he remained? Was he too stupid to take freedom even when it was shoved down his throat?

Dieter touched his lip, which still bled. Every time it started to close up, he tore it open anew. And it wasn’t cold enough for the blood to freeze.

The next man came out at a dead run, sword at the ready. Dieter blocked his first swing, steel crashing against steel. The sound was jarring, loud – even when he’d fought the soldier, the fight had not been in earnest. Nothing like this.

Here was a man, finally, who wanted to kill him. Not that he’d succeed, but at least now he could see an end.

Dieter shoved him back, reached out to kick the man’s knee and lunged forward as he fell.

Well that had been a disappointment.

He wiped sweat from his brow, grateful that it was at least cold. This would be pure agony in the heat. How many had he killed so far? He’d lost count.

The next man was worth considering. Massive, easily his equal in size. Dark skin, bronzed by the sun. Strange wounds in his ears, as if something had been torn from them – gold hoops, or jewels, Dieter guessed. A man from the coast. Dieter wondered who he’d angered or killed to be forced all the way up the river to the Kria Coliseum.

He swung hard, jarring Dieter’s arms. The skill of a man of the sea and a sword just enough better than Dieter’s own to be problematic. Dieter slid his sword away, shoving hard forward. But the man recovered quickly, coming in with an upward swing.

The fight began in earnest. Though Dieter was matched in skill, he could not compete in weaponry. His sword was too short, too poor, to give him the leverage he needed to fight a man of his own skill.

He pressed on, just barely keeping even. But he was already tired, and exhausting quickly. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Just the fight. He would go down fighting. Down proudly.

Another hard downward blow jolted his tired arms, and Dieter faltered. He grit his teeth and then screamed as he drove the man back, but he was getting slower and the other man had been waiting all day.

It would be easy to just give up, let go – if he did it right, he would even die quickly, almost painlessly. But…

That wasn’t what he wanted. All his life he’d been waiting to die. But not like this.

And he wished—

Steel crashed, drowned out by voices suddenly screaming themselves hoarse as they began, finally, to cheer enthusiastically for whomever they had chosen to favor. The screams were indistinct, but Dieter thought he would have heard his name if someone called it.

No one did.

He faltered, slipped to one knee in the dirt, could not raise his head, sword barely lifted up in time to block the blow coming down hard—

And the sound of sword against sword was different. The ring of steel was familiar. True.

He realized the sword in his grasp fit. Was not what it had been. The man above him had stopped moving. Dieter looked up.

His sword.

Dieter looked at the man above him, who was just as bewildered – then surged up, driving the other man back, lunging forward, sword arcing – and his opponent fell.

He spun around and looked to where Beraht was on the ledge, throwing himself down into the arena. “Tits of the Winter Princess!” his voice boomed across the arena, startling more than a few into a silence that spread – then erupted again into chaos.



Beraht ran for dear life, dropping the manacles broken by magic to the ground as he did so.

Vanishing had not worked. His body didn’t like the red arcen; already his head was throbbing; he couldn’t use the harder spells correctly. He had to get away until his body settled enough for him to try again.

Why had he helped the bastard? Stupid. If he had just left, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

He ran toward Dieter, barely managing a weak spell to protect him from the worst damage of the arrows he kept expecting to feel in his back.

Then he realized Dieter was running toward him as well, and heard his shout. Typical. He did the bastard a favor and got called a fool. Stars take them all.

When he and Dieter met near the middle, Beraht wasn’t surprised to find himself being throttled. “What are you doing, Beraht? Are you that stupid?” Dieter’s head turned at the sound of the gates being lifted. Prisoners released en masse.

Beraht swore. “Shut up. I’m already sorry I did it, don’t make me kill you myself.” The world titled, spun, and he fell forward, caught roughly by Dieter. “Arcen,” he gasped, feeling his heart beating too fast in his chest.

“We have to get out of here,” Dieter said.

“You don’t say?” Beraht snapped. Taking a deep breath, ignoring the protests of his body, holding reluctantly to Dieter’s tunic to avoid toppling, he whispered the words that would take them away.

Then they vanished.

It took several minutes, in the crowd of men released into the arena, for the crowd to realize that the Scarlet Wolf and his Salharan prisoner were gone. When it was confirmed, the entirety of the coliseum heard the Kaiser’s scream of range. Those closest saw the way he held his hand. It looked as though it had been burned.



Beraht swore as he crashed yet again to the floor. Two weeks with no arcen and he was acting like a kid with his first sip of green. Pathetic. He stood up, limbs shaking with the effects of red arcen.

“Why are we in my room?” Dieter asked.

“You’re welcome,” Beraht muttered. “It’s the room I’m most familiar with. Easier to transfer to.”

Dieter looked at him. “Don’t ever do that again. By the Autumn Prince, how do you make it a lifetime using that stuff?”

“The same way you build a life with that sword – no choice. Do you know how to say thank you?”

“I did not ask you to save me, Beraht.”

Beraht opened his mouth, then realized something. He burst out laughing. “You’re an outcast now! Just like me!” He backed away. “Don’t hit me – we have to get out of here. Unless you’re really in that much of a hurry to die.”

Dieter grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. “Do not get too confident, Beraht.”

“Whatever. What do we need?”

“Winter gear. It is going to be far colder than you or that sly cat realizes. This weather is merely a calm.”

Beraht grinned, riding arcen and adrenaline. “That’s what arcen is for.”

“I am not so foolish as to trust to your drugs.” Dieter looked at him in contempt, then yanked open his wardrobe and began to yank things out of it. He threw them at Beraht. “Dress. Bundle the majority of it. We will have to procure food; I doubt your general packed enough for four, if even three. Wait here.” Dieter vanished.

Beraht washed off quickly, eager to be rid of the smells clogging his nose – blood, sweat, and worst the cloying, sickly-sweet smell of Heilwig’s perfume from when she’d grabbed him and the equally wretched stuff the Kaiser wore. Like half-rotted fruit. He scrubbed quickly and dressed even more rapidly.

He sat down to put his boots on and realized he no longer had them. They’d been taken away when he’d been given the clothes ordered by the Kaiser. His curses filled the room, and he was still swearing when Dieter returned.

Dieter threw a pair of boots at him. “Too big, as you’re so wretchedly weak and thin, but they’re better for the conditions we’ll be traveling in. He didn’t wait for a reply, but set to packing away the food he’d stolen from the kitchen.

Beraht examined the black, knee high boots. They were larger, more cumbersome – because they were lined, he realized as he pulled one on. With fur. The bottom had an unusual, jagged tread.

For walking in snow and ice, he realized. He laced them up quickly, knotting the laces securely. They certainly wouldn’t be coming off anytime soon. The fit wasn’t all that bad. He tugged on an over shirt and short tunic – both far too big, but belting them down helped. All black; he was starting to look as grim as his companion. He packed away the rest of the clothing thrown at him, arranging it carefully in a set of saddlebags, doing his best to balance the weight.

“Here,” Dieter threw something else at him. “Stow it.”

Beraht bit back a retort and obeyed.

Dieter finished bandaging his arm, then pulled on his clothes, and finished by wrapping his sword belt around his waist. He sheathed his sword, then looked toward the empty hook on the wall beside the wardrobe.

“There,” Beraht pointed toward the table. Where Dieter’s cloak lay half in a chair, half on the floor. “Burkhard took it from the Kaiser’s room.”

Dieter said nothing, merely crossed the room and swung the immense, heavy cloak up and over his shoulders.

He looked almost exactly as he had the day Beraht had met him. “Ready?” he asked. Dieter nodded, and carrying their bags they made their way from the room.

The palace was empty save for a few stray servants who were quick to duck into hallways.

In the stables, Dieter made immediately for his own horse.

“We’re not sharing again, are we?”

“No,” Dieter said scathingly. “Take that one.” He pointed to a horse directly across from his own. “I assume you know how to manage a horse.”

“A horse, yes. These monsters? No.” They were huge. Beraht examined the one Dieter had indicated. Dark brown, hair the same. It was just as high and massive as Deiter’s. Krian horses were bred for war and the cold.

Dieter sneered at him. “He’ll only hurt you if you’re timid, Beraht.”

Beraht met the challenge in his voice, opening the stall door and leading the horse out. “What’s his name?” he asked, petting the horse’s nose before setting to work readying him fit for travel.

“Krone.”

“Crown?”

Then Dieter gave one of his wolfish smiles. “The Kaiser’s horse.”

Beraht laughed in response, and with only minor struggle mounted the enormous horse.

Dieter swung his own horse around and led the way out of the stable.

There were guards at the gate, but Beraht knocked them out before Dieter could reach for his sword. He returned the glare shot his way, and let Dieter get down to open the gates.

Minutes later they were free of the palace and racing for the crossroads in the distance.




Chapter Fourteen

Sol tensed as he heard not one but two horses thundering toward them. He had seen them from a distance, and thought they must be soldiers sent out on a mission – but as they drew closer he recognized both shapes.

Beraht of course by his pale hair – how they had all thought him pure Salharan Sol still wondered.

But beside him was the unmistakable form of Dieter. Sol motioned his own horse forward, out of the small copse of trees hiding him from sight. He watched as the men approached. “This is an interesting development.”

“You’ll have to ask Beraht,” Dieter said. “It was his idea.”

Beraht looked as if he’d much rather kill Dieter. “I only meant to return your damned sword! I didn’t expect the red arcen to be this difficult.” His hands fisted tightly on the reigns. “Shouldn’t we be going?”

“Yes,” Sol agreed. His arm tightened around Iah’s waist. “We can discuss this later.” What in the stars’ names were they going to do with Dieter? That had not been a possibility in any of his plans. “Come, our best bet is to follow the river.” He turned his horse.

“If you want to get caught,” Dieter said, not moving. “With daylight, we’ll be too easily spotted. And the river runs a direct course to the borders. Are we in a hurry?”

Sol bit back a retort. “Shouldn’t we be?”

“If they have waited this long for their damnable Breaker,” Dieter said, “They can wait a few extra days. The river is more expedient, but the forest is a better choice.”

Beraht nodded in agreement, surprising Sol. His eyes were distant, as if he was seeing something no one else could. “Through the forest, west almost to the Salhara border, then straight down. Pass into Salhara just west of the Regenbogen. Then we curve back north, up through Illussor to Fallhara.”

“Exactly,” Dieter said, and Sol realized he was just as surprised.

“That will nearly triple the journey.”

“Yes,” Dieter agreed. He turned his horse around. “But it’s better than going by the river.”

Sol nodded, stifling any arguments. Let the native guide them. He slid a look toward Beraht as they raced off. “How did you come to know the lay of the land so well?”

“Maps,” Beraht said. “Burkhard let me see some of the Krian maps.”

“I see,” Sol said, and fell silent. Burkhard…he looked at Dieter back. He wondered if anyone had told him the man was dead. Sol stifled a sigh. Something would have to be said when they broke camp. Burkhard had, he knew, been fond of the general. Dieter would not be pleased to hear how and why he had died.

Fingers brushed against the back of his hand, tangled with his reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it,” Iah said. “Not right now.”

Sol nodded and held more tightly to Iah’s waist, his other hand tight on the reigns. Traveling would be easier if Iah had his own horse, but that wasn’t a possibility. And he didn’t mind, really.

He glanced toward the castle, where it seemed no one had yet raised an alarm. But they wouldn’t, not yet – assuming Beraht had simply vanished, they would have no way of knowing where they’d gone. No one would notice anything until they returned to the castle, which would take them a few minutes. Longer still to notice who else was missing, and that there were four men missing, not two.

Sol’s eyes flicked to the unmistakable red jewel in the hilt of Dieter’s sword, where it occasionally peeked from beneath Dieter’s cloak. What in the stars’ names had occurred?

How had they wound up with a fourth member? By the stars, what was he supposed to do with the man? Sol sighed and shoved the thoughts away for later. Their escape was plenty demanding enough.

Dieter slowed after they’d been in the forest for some time.

“What’s wrong?” Sol asked. He followed Dieter’s gaze upward.

“Snow,” Dieter said. “We’re going to get hit hard before too much longer.”

Sol looked up at the sky again.

“The sky is perfectly clear,” Beraht said. “How can it snow when there are no clouds?”

Dieter didn’t bother to reply, speaking to Sol instead. “We have to travel quickly. Can your horse travel hard with the extra burden?”

“Yes,” Sol said.

“We can always take turns,” Dieter said. “If it begins to tire. Make sure your heavier gear is easily accessed. The temperature will drop quickly. We will be traveling until dark, and if we press hard enough there is a place to stay for a night.” Without another word, he once more took off.

Iah laughed softly as they followed after him. “He certainly knows how to take command, doesn’t he?”

“Apparently,” Sol said, unable to resist a soft laugh of his own. Even over the horses and the wind, he could hear Beraht shooting curses at Dieter, who seemed not to notice.

Several hours later they stopped for a short break. Sol unpacked food from his bags after they cared for the horses. He pressed some into Iah’s hands, and then dispersed the rest. Brushing snow from a rock, he sat down and looked at Beraht. “So explain.”

Beraht made a face but obeyed. “I gave him his sword…but the arcen wasn’t working right.” He closed his mouth, then grimaced and started speaking again. “I wasn’t using the arcen correctly. The jump from yellow to red arcen was nastier than I expected. I wasted some of it transferring the sword.” Beraht grinned, suddenly looking far too pleased with himself. “Which reminds me…”

“What?” Sol asked warily, not liking the look on his face.

They all looked at Beraht like he’d gone insane when he threw his head back and laughed. Beraht set his food aside and stood, stalking over to Dieter. “Let me see your sword?”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Dieter glared at him a moment, but drew his sword. Even beneath the clouds that Sol had sourly noticed were gathering, it shimmered. Not just on the surface, but from deep within. “Look at it,” Beraht said, motioning Sol to come closer. “Does it remind you of anything?”

Sol tilted his head as he examined the sword. Compared to the short swords Salharans used only when they had to – generally against Illussor, who used no weapons at all – it was massive. Long, with a sharp double edge and he doubted he could hold it without humiliating himself. Yet he’d seen Dieter wield it like it weighed nothing, as if swordsmanship was a game easily mastered.

The way it shimmered…swords didn’t do that. So many colors, pale, faint. Like there was something in the metal itself. Colors like that… “Arcen!” he said, as realization struck him.

“What?” Dieter said in a dangerous tone.

Beraht laughed at him. “Your sword had arcen in it.”

“My sword does not have arcen.”

“Yes, it does.” Sol said quietly, staring in amazement at the deep, rainbow shimmer. “How strange. I never would have thought to use it thus…”

Dieter sheathed his sword. “Get away.”

“A little miffed to know you’re as pollution-reliant as the rest of us?” Beraht taunted.

Sol backed away. If Beraht wanted to be stupid, let him. He resumed his seat and watched, somewhat amused, as Dieter grabbed Beraht and then threw him face first into the snow.

“The Breaker has a death wish,” Iah said softly.

“Apparently,” Sol replied. He ate quickly, enjoying the brief respite from horseback. Something told him such breaks would become fewer as they went along.

Dieter reached into the snow and hauled Beraht up, then shoved him toward his horse. “It’s time to go.”

“You do remember that you weren’t invited on this journey, right?” Beraht retrieved his food and began to finish it.

“You do remember you’re the one responsible for my being here?”

Beraht was silent as he mounted his horse.

“Is this hostility between you two going to be a problem?” Sol asked.

“No,” Dieter said. “Because if he persists in aggravating me, he’ll be too busy recovering from a dunking in the river to annoy me further.”

Sol waited for Beraht’s retort – and looked at him when he stayed silent. Lifting a brow, he merely helped Iah mount and then followed Dieter and Beraht from the clearing.

An hour later the snow began to fall. In earnest. Dieter halted them again and ordered they done heavier gear. “What do the clouds look like?” Iah asked.

“Heavy,” Dieter answered.

Iah nodded. “Then we have to ride hard. Our only chance is to reach the border as quickly as possible.” He drew the cloak Sol gave him tightly around his shoulders, pulling the hood up far enough it hid the bandages on his face. “Let’s hope the temperature doesn’t drop further.”

“It won’t,” Dieter said. “Not yet. It will snow for days first.”

Sol noticed that while the rest of them put on the cumbersome gear for harsh weather, Dieter merely pulled up the hood of his cloak. “I keep forgetting, Iah, that you’re as accustomed to this abysmal weather as Dieter.”

Iah laughed. “It’s not that awful. Winter is the best time of year.”

“Snow and cold are wretched,” Beraht disagreed. “Give me summer any day, even if I have to spend it fighting.” He urged his horse onward, leaving the rest to catch up.

Sol hung back, both to avoid the argument he could already hear mounting and to guard the rear. He doubted they were being followed, or that they would encounter anyone – especially if the weather continued to worsen, as Dieter and Iah seemed sure it would. But at least the snow had forced them to a slower pace. It gave him room to think.

Once they reached Illussor, everything was out of his hands. His plans ran to getting Iah and Beraht to Illussor.

He was still amazed it had all worked with only a few minor problems. It would have been much preferable if Burkhard had not died…but at least his had been the only lost life. What would happen after they reached Illussor?

Sol had always imagined he would hand the Breaker over and then vanish to the hills of Illussor, to settle somewhere and leave his soldering life behind for good. In reality, he knew, it would never be that simple. There was still much work to do.

There was still the matter of Tawn, for one. Sol realized he’d not thought about his brother-in-law for some time. But he doubted Tawn had forgotten him, not after the way Sol had broken his nose. That had felt good. Perhaps that was how the Krians often felt when accomplishing something. Much different than the fading of arcen as spell after spell was cast, leaving only pain and irritability when the rush was gone.

But there was an end to the road he was on, and it was getting close enough to see. What surprised him about that end was Iah. Unconsciously his arm tightened around Iah’s waist.

“What are you thinking about?” Iah asked. “Does your mind ever stop?”

“No,” Sol replied with a laugh. “I don’t think it does. But I was dwelling on what will happen after we reach Illussor. My plans only stretched to reaching it.”

Iah laughed. “I’m not surprised. But our arrival is easy enough to predict – my sister will attack me and then proceed to not let me out of her sight. Matti and Kalan will harass me. Matti will probably declare you some sort of hero and Kalan will try to drag you into his own schemes – you know, it didn’t even occur to me until now that the two of you are a bit alike in that. Always plotting. It’s why he’ll be Minister of Finances someday.”

A thought struck Sol. “When you say Matti…”

“Prince Matthias,” Iah said. “We grew up together. Kalan is the Duke of Ferra. His lands border mine, in the southern plains of Illussor. Well, they used to be my lands.” Iah shook his head. “I bet Esta will try to make me take the title back. So will Matti, since he’s still scheming to make her his Queen. But…” He shrugged, and Sol could see his head fall. “I’m not exactly fit for leading anymore, am I?”

Sol curved his arm around Iah’s waist, fingers splaying to stroke his side through the layers of cloth and fur. “Nonsense. Eyesight does not a leader make. The three that lead the Seven Star Brother cannot even leave their seats without great effort. But their minds, for all that they are filled with the need for arcen, are dangerously sharp.” He laughed suddenly. “Besides, who would dare disobey the brother of a soon-to-be queen?”

“There is that,” Iah said, and Sol was relieved to hear the smile in his voice. “And…I’ll have you…”

“Yes,” Sol said after a moment, still surprised by what he was finding with Iah. “You will.”

“Good.”



Beraht shivered. Would the cold never stop? The nastiest Salharan winter looked like spring next to this abysmal weather. Stars he would give anything to be warm right now. Instead the world was drowning in white. Too much like his first journey in the stuff. At least he wasn’t riding with the bastard this time.

Though, he had to admit, that had been a lot warmer. He could just see Dieter ahead of him, through the snow. A dark massive shape. If he was suffering at all, it didn’t show.

Stars what had he been thinking? Why had he done it? He frowned over his own behavior. He’d been watching Dieter fight…if you could call it that. It had looked like Dieter wasn’t even trying, really. Even with that soldier…Beraht wondered what that had been about.

After that fight, he’d really meant to run and leave Dieter to the stars. Who stayed around for twenty years working for the man who killed his parents? An idiot, that’s who.

Clearly the arcen had been warping his brain in all new ways, if he’d thought giving Dieter his damned sword back had been a good idea. All it did was make the man more insufferable and now he was stuck with him!

Maybe he’d get himself killed in this damnable snow. Beraht huddled down further into his clothes. Boots, cloak, both lines with fur. Even his clothes were made with heavy wool, trimmed with dark fur, and his leather gloves were lined with fur softer than any he’d ever felt. He was still freezing. How did Kria and Illussor endure it?

Beraht thought he knew. It was no wonder emotions ran so high in the palace. How many of those dead prisoners were dirty secrets being got rid of? He remembered the way the Kaiser had kept touching him, each touch longer than the one before it. It would seem Kria frowned upon that sort of thing about as much as Salhara did – only in the daylight.

He touched his fingers to his lips, which were half-frozen with cold but still sore. Bruised. The bastard had better not get too out of line or he’d have no qualms bring up that little incident. Who would have thought the bastard even knew how to kiss? He didn’t seem the type to attract suitors or pay for whores. Then again, his father had apparently been the king’s favorite bedmate. So who knew.

Why was he even thinking about it? Stars he could not wait to get to Illussor and do whatever it was he had to do there.

Breaker. He was going to destroy the Illussor ability to use magic.

He was half Illussor. Ridiculous. He couldn’t be. But Beraht thought on his hair, fine and pale. And his eyes had not been terribly dark either, before the arcen took them over and buried the natural color. But how had he wound up in a remote coastal village, nearly as far from the Disputed Lands as was possible?

A question that would never be answered. If his parents were alive…well, probably they wouldn’t have abandoned him. Beraht turned his thoughts elsewhere.

What would he do in Illussor, after he played hero? Assuming it didn’t kill him. Beraht snorted at the idea of anyone regarding him as a hero. He hunched down further in the saddle, holding tightly as he let the horse lead. Stars knew he had very little grasp of where they were. He could picture maps all day but it would only go so far.

If all went as everyone was apparently planning…where would he go? He’d always worked for Salhara. Of late for the Brothers. He doubted most of Illussor would be terribly happy with him. So he’d have to go. What would he do if he stayed anyway? His Illussor wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great. Illussor was hard to learn, and he’d only managed most of what he knew from reluctant tutors and carefully sneaking around Illussor camps when he could. It had always been something of a miracle that he survived those trips.

Though…was that because he was the Breaker? Sol had said they could sense his…uncorrupted magic. Which made no sense, because he’d never had Illussor magic. Surely he would have noticed an ability like that? All he’d ever had was arcen.

Which still thrummed in his blood. Beraht knew he was getting dangerously close to the point of no return. Knew it because he didn’t care. The arcen was trying to take over. He shuddered, thinking of the three men who led the Seven Star. Did he really want to become that?

But when the arcen was there he didn’t feel so… His thoughts were interrupted as his horse came to a rough halt alongside Dieter. “What’s going on?”

“We’re stopping,” Dieter said. He dismounted and led them through the deep snow to what turned out to be a barn.

How the stars did he see all this stuff? Between the snow and the darkening sky, it was impossible for Beraht to see anything – even seeing his own hand was becoming a feat. He started to make a comment about animals and seeing in the dark, but suddenly felt too tired.

They wasted no time bedding down the horses, Iah standing with the bags while the other three worked. Then Dieter led them back out into the snow, and they followed him in a tight line, clinging to one another’s cloaks, through the snow and wind until they reached a house that seemed farther away than it really was.

It was dark. Cold and empty. In the entryway, a large sunken area slightly apart from the rest of the house, Dieter shrugged out of his cloak and stamped the snow from his boots. He combed snow from his hair, then stepped into the house proper. The others followed suite, Sol assisting Iah as needed.

Beraht gathered up wood stacked by the door and lit a fire with a softly muttered word. He heard Dieter behind him, and steeled himself for insult, knowing he was being sneered at. But Dieter said nothing, merely traveling around the house to light the few lanterns. Three in all, and with the fire they managed to fill the large, one-roomed cabin with a warm, friendly light.

Warmth. Beraht thought he could die happy. He stayed by the fire until the sounds of food being brought out drew his attention, and even then he was reluctant to leave the fireside. But his stomach grumbled, and finally Beraht moved to join the others. He sat down next to Dieter, directly across from…Beraht frowned, searching for the name.

Iah. That was it. “So you’re Illussor?” he said into the silence.

“Yes,” Iah said. He turned his head in Beraht’s direction. “It is an honor to meet you. I did not think I would live to see the day…”

Beraht grunted. “I don’t know about that. So what does ‘uncorrupted magic’ mean? Sol didn’t really explain that.”

“It’s like…” Iah began to move his head back and forth. Peculiar. Like a bird who didn’t know how to hold still. “Arcen flowers, I guess. That’s the easiest way to explain it to you.”

“You mean before they’re turned into a drug,” Beraht said.

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” Beraht mulled over that as he ate the bread, cheese and dried meat that was probably going to be all they ate for the length of the journey. He tried not to grimace. “I don’t suppose our hosts left some form of alcohol for us?”

Sol laughed. “Trying to warm up still?”

“I saw you shivering,” Beraht retorted. He stood up and went to explore the meager kitchen area himself. And crowed a victory when he found a heavy earthen jug full of what smelled like a potent if somewhat crude wine. “Does anyone want to indulge with me?”

“Why not?” Sol asked. Beside him Iah agreed.

Beraht eyed Dieter. “What about you, Wolf with the arcen sword?”

“Did you want to wear that wine, Beraht?”

It still made him twitch, the way Dieter said his name. Damn the man he knew it too. Like…Beraht didn’t know what. But he didn’t like it. “So is that a no?” he asked, unclenching his teeth.

“I don’t drink,” Dieter said. He moved to go tend the fire. Probably didn’t trust the magic that had started it, Beraht thought resentfully. He slammed down the cups he’d dug out of a cupboard and filled them nearly to the brim.

He downed it in one swallow. He watched Sol help Iah as he refilled his cup. “What happened to your eyes?”

Iah stiffened, then slowly relaxed.

Sol shot him a warning look. “You need to learn tact, Lieutenant.”

“My apologies, General.” Beraht muttered into his wine. “It was just a question.”

“Tawn happened,” Sol said after several minutes.

Beraht winced.

“I…” Iah frowned, fingers moving restlessly on his cup of wine. “To be honest, I’m surprised it hasn’t been done before. It’s horrible from my perspective, but from a Salharan or Krian perspective…”

Dieter startled all of them when he replied. “It has been done before. I beat six of my men nearly to death for doing it. Von Kortig may seem idle, a ‘ghost’ as most call him, but amongst the soldiers it’s well known he has a taste for torture. More than a few of his victims have been blinded Illussor.”

“The Salharans, I guess, never thought of it.” Sol frowned pensively. “Until Tawn. Safer to kill them outright.”

Dieter remained by the fire. “Who is this Tawn?”

“A Brother,” Sol said. “As good as I at playing games, and with a taste for more brutal methods. Not unlike von Kortig, I suppose. Do not be surprised if we see him at some point…there are personal matters between he and I that need to be resolved.”

Dieter said nothing.

Beraht raised his brows but did not ask. He had known that Sol deVry and his brother in law were not close friends, but he had not known they were hostile. Something in Sol’s face told him his questions would not be taken well. Not that he particularly cared. The Brothers were the real ruling body in Salhara, but that didn’t mean they got along. Hostility generally seemed to be the preferred state of things.

Whatever. He didn’t have to worry about it anymore; not until the Seven Star learned they were traitors and came for their stars. He swore he could feel it burn on his back, and wondered if the empty spaces had started to fill in. The mark was passed along when a bearer died; no other way. Given, through a spell, to whomever the Brothers chose. His Captain had given Beraht his star. Beraht had thought it would mean he finally had a place to really belong. Something better than the army.

As usual, he’d been horrifically wrong but had continued to press anyway. Now he was in a cabin with a Salharan traitor, a blind Illussor and a man he longed to shove off a cliff. Beraht downed the remains of his wine, and considered pouring a third. But too much and tomorrow would be more of an agony than it was already looking to be. “So where are we all sleeping?”

“Perhaps the thin-blooded Salharans should take the bed,” Dieter said, looking directly at him.

Beraht considered pitching his cup at Dieter’s head. “So long as I don’t have to sleep with you again. You put off more heat than a house caught on fire in the middle of summer.”

“Too cold, too hot – is nothing good enough for you? If you insist, then by all means take the floor.” Dieter stood and stalked across the room to the kitchen area. Stripping off his tunic and shirts, he then ripped off the blood-soaked bandages on his arm. From a saddlebag in the kitchen, he drew out fresh bandages and rewrapped the wound.

“Does that need stitches?” Sol asked.

“No,” Dieter said. “A night’s rest will suffice.” He pulled his clothes back on, then grabbed his cloak from by the door and sat by the fire with it over his shoulders. The thing had to be soaking wet, but Dieter acted like it was dry and comfortable. They watched in silence as he drew his sword and began meticulously to clean it.

“Che,” Beraht said, stifling a yawn. Enough with the waking world. It was time to sleep. The bed in the corner was neatly made, covered in a heavy, hand-made quilt and probably had a few more blankets beneath it. At the foot was folded another blanket. Grabbing the spare blanket, Beraht stretched out by the fire. He ignored Dieter, who continued to work on his sword. He was nearly asleep when he heard the others move, saw the room go dark as the lamps were extinguished, leaving only the crackling fire to provide light. The bed creaked as Sol and Iah lay down.

Dieter lay out on the floor beside him, all but buried by his cloak, though Beraht could just see where one hand lay on his sword. He turned his head the other way and fell almost immediately to sleep.