This time when the blood formed above the trough in the barn, the chair Chargan occupied was better aligned with Syrik’s wooden stool, so that he actually seemed to sit upon it.
Outwardly circumstances were much the same as the last time Vannek had spoken to his brother: the old barn, the reek of blood and horse flesh and the fear of the animals. The labored breath of Syrik, hard at work maintaining the spell.
As Vannek had guessed, Chargan hadn’t been especially moved by news of their younger brother’s death. He was more worried about Vannek holding onto power. For none of the tribal kings would trust him as well.
“Killing his assassins isn’t enough,” Chargan said. “You need to root out the Resistance and crush them.”
If it were a simple matter, Vannek would already have done that. “That’s one of my top priorities.”
“One of them?” Chargan said archly.
“Holding to power is the first. Kaneshi cavalry are here now. Sometimes N’lahr is within the city, and sometimes without. None of our own cavalry patrols return—”
Chargan cut him off. “You have thousands upon thousands of soldiers!”
“Not even a tenth of them are horsemen. And none of them are as good as the Kaneshi. They have us pinned. If we go out, they cut us down.”
“I’m not diverting.”
Vannek felt close to losing his temper, and held it just barely in check. “This is folly, Chargan! Come relieve us, here, and the city and The Fragments will be ours forever. They can’t stand against your dragons.”
“They could have stood against yours, if you hadn’t allowed the fae to poison them!”
Chargan wasted time with arguments that led nowhere. Vannek looked over his shoulder to Syrik, eyes wide, powerful chest heaving, hands taut with fingers splayed, as if invisible threads hung from them. The spell’s complex nature was already taxing him. “Those were Koregan’s arrangements, not mine. How can you even think to conquer Darassus? The supply line will close behind you!” The more Vannek had thought about his brother’s plan, the more foolish it seemed. “Yours is a relief force, not a full-fledged army. Even if you take Darassus you cannot hold it!”
Chargan’s bloodred lips parted to show bloodred teeth in a ghoulish smile. “I never planned to hold it, sister-brother. I will smash its walls. I will tear down its monuments and trample its fields. I will behead their queen and burn their people. They will be broken for generations, and their remaining lands will retreat unto themselves.”
Vannek was astonished by the passion in his brother’s delivery.
“You want me to come help you in Alantris?” Chargan asked. “The steps I take will cripple the fae so thoroughly they will abandon The Fragments, and the rest of their separated lands will pay tribute to keep us at bay! We can ultimately take whatever we want from them! All you have to do is hold an impregnable city with a vast army supplied by immense storehouses. Soon the Dendressi will retreat forever!”
Vannek recognized the strategy behind what his brother said. He recalled lessons from their own father, who taught them that daring action often yielded success because so many others lacked the vision and especially the courage. Probably wide-ranging Kaneshi scouts had detected Chargan’s army advancing through The Fragments via the southeastern passes, and they might have been told from captured soldiers that Chargan brought reinforcements to Alantris, as Chargan had planned with the kings. Only Vannek knew he planned to move straight on for Erymyr. By all accounts, the Dendressi had nearly emptied their central realm to reinforce Arappa and The Fragments, so if there ever was a chance to deliver one swift deadly blow against Darassus, this might be the time.
And if Chargan proved right, his hold on power would be unassailable. If. Vannek needed more. “I need a powerful victory to solidify my position. Lend me some of your dragons.”
Chargan’s red brow clouded. “Because I have bounteous numbers of them, and am overflowing with well-trained men to command them.”
“Give me two.”
“For what purpose?”
“I will send out one of the clans. They’re eager to fight. And when the Dendressi ride out to assault them, I’ll unleash the dragons in a massed attack.”
Behind her, Syrik began to gulp air, as though he was nearing the end of a long run. Chargan had to have heard it, though he fell silent in consideration.
“Your plan has merit. Especially if I send the dragons at night, when the fae may not see them coming.”
Yes, Vannek thought. Finally his brother was seeing reason.
“I will send you one,” Chargan said after another moment.
“One?”
“Yes. One of my two most powerful, piloted by my greatest dragon lord. You will then have three. Use them judiciously. Now, that is all we can say. Our Syrik is almost spent.”
“I don’t have two—one of them is still ailing from the poison!”
Chargan scowled, his displeased expression reminding him suddenly of their dread grandfather. “Make yourself worthy, sister-brother.”
Vannek sneered at that oft used insult.
Chargan continued. “Earn your place. Even two dragons, striking from different directions, should lay waste to mere ground forces. Lure them out near dusk, then send the dragons sweeping over. Now let me be. Expect the dragon in the next few hours. Let him rest through the day.”
Vannek was attempting to mask his displeasure and mime some thanks when the spell failed and his brother disintegrated into a rain of blood.
There was a clattering noise behind and he whirled to see that Syrik had fallen against a stall door and lay with his back against the wood, his legs sprawled across the floor.
Vannek hurried to his side and bent down.
The muscular mage breathed raggedly. His eyelids fluttered as his eyes rolled, as though he couldn’t quite fasten upon anything.
“I’ll call your attendants.” It was improper to show much concern over an underling, but Vannek’s tense tone unmasked his worry
“Wait.” Syrik said weakly. “We must talk.”
Vannek clasped one of Syrik’s powerful arms, pleased by the strength he felt there even as he was repelled by his own attraction. He helped the sorcerer to sit upright and then stepped back.
Syrik watched him as his breath gradually slowed and Vannek stood looking down and hating that he found the man so distracting.
“He takes too great a chance,” Syrik managed finally, “and you know it.” He breathed in and out a few times then spoke with more ease. “If he came here, we would be unstoppable.”
“He’s not coming here. So it’s pointless to talk of it. And your words are treasonous.” Vannek put his hand to knife hilt and crouched beside him. “He trained you. You know he’ll not be swayed and I’ll not give you reason to take me down for his aims.”
Syrik’s deep brown eyes swam with hurt. “Chargan may think I serve him. And we would be right to tread carefully in his presence. But I think the fae stones have warped him. He’s grown overly confident in his power. You are the one who deserves to rule. If you can hold Alantris, the clans will follow you. I know it. No one trusts a sorcerer.”
“So says the sorcerer.”
“I did not ask to be one,” Syrik said fiercely. He pulled himself fully upright and seemed to consider standing. Then he met Vannek’s eyes. “You know you can trust me. I see it in your gaze.”
“You see too much.”
“No, I see the truth. I see how you still feel. I feel the same. I am yours until the end.”
Vannek’s hand tightened on his knife hilt even as his heart raced and his skin warmed. “Don’t say that!”
Syrik refused to look away. “I don’t care what you call yourself. Don’t you see? If you hold Alantris, you can be whatever you want. We can be whatever we want.”
His eyes held, and then there was a split second when Vannek wasn’t sure if he would drive the knife into the fool’s neck.
Instead he pressed his lips to Syrik’s. The shared hunger was so great that it left Vannek breathless and he wished to lose himself completely in the man’s embrace. His fingers tore into Syrik’s dark hair even as his own pressed against Vannek’s back so that their bodies grew ever tighter. He straddled the mage, felt the press of his desire against his thighs and moaned a little for want of him.
Then he forced himself back and away, sitting on his haunches just beyond Syrik’s bootheels. They stared at each other wonderingly, and from the mage’s dazed, predatory look, Vannek knew his cousin longed to throw himself forward and resume their embrace. More than anything, Vannek wished the same. But such a coupling would destroy everything he’d managed to achieve.
He forced himself to stand, hand on knife hilt. “I will hold this broken city,” he said, pleased that his voice sounded stong. “I’m placing you in charge of the dragons. Find out exactly how they work. See that the injured one is healed faster. I think Chargan’s dragon lords lack imagination.”
“Yes,” Syrik said, and gulped. “What clan are you using to draw the Dendressi?”
“The Snowbird,” Vannek said. “With any luck, Tarjezhan will get killed.” The Snowbird king was ever eager for combat, a troublemaker who was quick to critique his rivals and even quicker to flatter his betters.
“And if he comes back a victor?”
“Few like him, and if he does win, it will only make them more jealous. Besides, it will be the dragons who win this conflict.”
“It will be you who wins this conflict,” Syrik said, and dusted himself off as he climbed to his feet.
Vannek nodded, not daring to speak further, and then turned and strode for the door, lest he meet the mage’s eyes again.