part0023

P airas slouched at the foot of Aric’s bed, long legs crossed at the ankles, his gaze brooding and distant.

If another man demanded punishment for falling prey to a woman’s wiles, Aric might tease him about her eyes like deep, shadowed pools, her hair of silken midnight.

His captain too quickly drew blame upon his shoulders. Aric knew the cause: a raving, drunken father who berated his young son daily as stupid and useless.

Pairas had fled to Tide’s End as a thin child wearing rags, eyes hollowed by misery, unable to take the beatings any longer. He had found some sense of self as a soldier, but Aric recognised the fragile spirit beneath that rigid, patterned shield of duty.

“The Quisnaf trained Judith Damadar as a seductress. She’s a weapon, not a woman,” he said. “Of course you liked her.”

Pairas shifted irritably. “I didn’t say I liked her. Just when we talked, something stirred—”

Aric wriggled his brows. “Stirred.”

His captain forced a half-hearted grin and lumbered to his feet. “What do the Damadars want with you, Aric? Your cursed blood? I heard a few drops brew up nicely in a potion. ”

Aric shrugged. He had other concerns. Cathmor, for one, intent on spilling every drop of his blood. All that morning, the king’s messenger had argued with his father and uncle behind closed doors. Threatening, cajoling, bargaining.

“Why should it be my blood for brewing? Maybe Judith Damadar heard I’m charming. She hopes to, ah, stir me, the way she stirred you.”

“Ha, ha. Throw on a funny hat, and you can entertain us all as a jester.”

Grief lumped in Aric’s belly. Azenor had teased him about his jests before the ambush.

Ambush. He’d led his sister to her death. He, the commander of Tide’s End, tournament champion of Telor, could not save her or his men.

Now he couldn’t save Kaell.

When ghouls seized him and Azenor, he was helpless, his skill as a bladesman worthless. Imprisoned by the king, helpless again. He was free only because of a stranger’s kind heart and courage. A stranger about to ride into an ambush.

“Stirring or not,” Pairas muttered. “Judith comes with an appendage—her brother. He’s the one asking questions about you.”

“The appendage is a fire dancer. Not beaten in the arena since he was sixteen.”

One summer he and Heath had become unlikely friends while their elders hammered out a marriage contract between Gendrick and Heath’s eldest sister, Deborah. It came to nothing.

Deborah died—suspiciously.

But what Aric remembered most of that summer was Heath’s sarcastic wit. He liked him. He hoped fate didn’t demand he kill Heath Damadar… one day.

“Fire dancer. A fire dance is a ritualistic fight in an abyss of flames. The defeated warrior’s death is an offering to those cruel Icelands gods. ”

Pairas looked astonished. “How do you know this?”

Aric grinned. “How do we learn anything in Tide’s End? The rumour cesspool of the world. Isn’t that what they call this city in Dal-Kanu? You hear everything here: the Venivans plot about their princes, the Wardorians boast of war and plunder. And Icemen whisper in awe about Heath Damadar, beloved of the gods.”

“The gods do not love him near as much as he loves himself.” Pairas rocked to his feet. “I know what you’re thinking, Aric. But it’s too late. That boy from Vraymorg is already dead. You’d never reach Thom to warn him. You can’t hold the reins, let alone a sword.”

Aric squeezed his eyes shut. He imagined the scene the high priestess described: the knot of men, their desperate shouts, the clanging steel, the iron taste of blood, and pungent fear as wave after wave of ghouls fell upon them like beasts.

He pictured the ravens circling, foxes slinking from the trees to sniff at the stench of death. Sweat wet his armpits. It was all a terrible echo of Dal-Gorma.

“Kaell is alone,” Aingear had told him when he begged to know the reason for her questions. “Badly wounded, tracked by his enemies. They will have him.”

Aric shifted his sling. Before he lifted a sword again, Kaell would be dead. Helplessness, as heavy as armour after a battle, bowed his shoulders.

“I owe Kaell my life.”

“He’s a warrior bonded to Khir,” Pairas said. “He’ll die young. You know this. You’re the one who reads old stories in your creepy tower.”

“It’s called a library, Pairas.”

“Whatever. It still creeps. So you tell me, Aric. How long do bonded warriors live?”

As long as the gods willed. And who was he to defy gods that weren’t his? Gods—according to the high priestess—who had now abandoned Kaell.

THE SADDLE CRASHED to the ground. Aric fell after it. He struggled to his hands and knees to crawl. Blood from ripped wounds dripped on dirty straw stinking of horseflesh and manure.

He slapped a palm into the ground, furious at his weakness.

The Three help him. He must at least save Kaell, must . His fault, all of it.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” he shouted at Ethne in his dreams. “He rides into an ambush; he dies because his gods turned from him. Your magic did that. The magic you used to save me. I would rather die than carry this guilt.”

He glimpsed Kaell, arms bound. But when Aric stretched a hand to help, the dream always slipped away.

Dust motes danced in sunlight through the stable door. The early morning light dazed. He clambered to his knees, his fingers clamped to his sticky belly. The world tilted, blurred into nonsensical images, snatches of memory. Aric slumped into emptiness.

When his wits returned, his cheek lay in straw. A face faded in and out. “I’ve found him.” Hands lifted and carried him. Darkness rushed him, tossed and tumbled him like a stormy sea, and he fell into it with a sigh.

Through a fog of sleep, Aric recognised his father’s voice. Reluctantly, he stirred. Sunlight warmed his face. Damp cloth cooled his brow. The scent of sea and old parchment swirled, tantalisingly familiar.

Where was he? Not the stables. Nor his bedchamber, though he lay on a feather mattress. Stone walls circled. Leather-bound books cluttered shelves, and a tangy breeze through a low window rippled papers scattered on a table .

The Sea Tower. Why was he here?

His father leaned from a bedside stool. “How do you feel?”

Aric thought about that. “I don’t know. A little strange.”

“You lost more blood. The physician tended to you day and night. I thank The Three you live.” His father’s lined face clouded with pain. “I could not lose another child—could not.”

Aric looked away, unable to bear this man’s grief. Do you blame me? Do you hate me? I didn’t save her. Couldn’t.

Sorrow and guilt warred in his gut. No, do not think of Azenor.

He coughed. “How long—”

“You slept two days.”

“Why am I in the Sea Tower? Not my chamber?”

“I ordered a bed moved here. This room has a heavy door and lock.”

“You’ve locked me in? How dare you.”

His father shot to his feet. “I dare because you’re a reckless fool. You were in the stables. Muttering in your delirium about riding to warn that boy.”

Aric rose to his elbows. “Is there any word? Of Kaell?”

“Father, let me find him. Warn him.”

Hatton did not reply, only went to the door to issue a command. When a servant returned with a tray, he sat in silence as Aric ate. More than once his gaze fell upon his son then darted away.

Aric put down his spoon. “What? What won’t you say?”

Shoulders hunched, his father still didn’t speak. The castle bristled with sounds, voices, thuds, footfall. Like a menacing undertone, the broiling ocean surged against the tower walls.

Aric sighed, understanding. “The king demands you surrender me. You should do it.”

“You are my son.”

“I am also guilty.”

“No.” Hatton rose, went to the window, and flung the shutters wider. Wind flickered his greying hair about his face. He looked weary. Pity tugged at Aric.

I couldn’t save her, Father. I’m sorry. Gods, I’d willingly give my life for hers.

“No.” Hatton gazed at the waves or perhaps a ship entering the bay. The sea lanes about Tide’s End thickened with vessels at this time of year. “I won’t offer you up to appease this vicious man’s anger. If Cathmor wants war, then so be it.”

This time Hatton turned.

Aric snatched a heavy breath. He tried again. “Let me go. I must warn him. Kaell. He risked punishment or even execution to free me. Now he rides towards certain death.”

His father’s expression softened. “There is nothing you can do. I sent a messenger, but the river is up at Dal-Gorma.”

“I must try. I failed to save my men, my sister. Let me at least try to save him.”

“Enough.” Hatton tapped his fingers on the wall. “That boy’s fate lies with his gods.”

“Kaell rides into an ambush because those gods turned from him,” Aric said. “Because of Ethne. She only healed Kaell with blood magic in the hope Cathmor wouldn’t execute me if Kaell survived. This is a matter of honour. If you stop me, you shame me.”

“Honour is an empty word, Aric. You’re ill. You won’t get to the mountains in time to warn him. You’d risk your life for nothing.” Still his fingers tapped. The beat jarred in Aric’s temples. Tap. Tap. Tap. Stop it, he wanted to shout. Just stop it.

“I can’t just let him die.”

His father turned, advanced. He gripped Aric’s arm. “Swear you won’t leave Tide’s End. Vow you won’t go after this boy who may already be dead.”

Long seconds passed in silence. Hatton drew his hand away. “Then you will remain here, a guard at your door, until you see sense.”

Aric’s shoulders stiffened in disbelief. “So I am a prisoner. You can’t do that.”

The king’s gaze held no sympathy. “I can, and I will.”

“I was ready to die in Dal-Kanu,” Aric said coldly. “I wronged not only Kaell but the men who rode with me. Cass—” His voice shattered.

Azenor. Dead, because he did not save her. Where was her accusing ghost? Where were the ghosts of those he didn’t protect? He deserved their curses.

“I led my men into an ambush. I was ready to pay for that, to put my head on the block for Cathmor’s executioner. Let me go. Helping this man will ease my guilt.”

“No. You’ll stay here until you see sense or—” His father shook his head.

Shoulders bowed, Hatton walked to the door. He paused.

For a moment Aric thought his father would turn and explain what he meant.