They’d arrived at a town called Woodingdene. It was a pretty place, from what they could tell, nestling within a small fertile valley, with the mountains still a distant frame and its splendid cobblestoned market square cradled by pastel colored buildings, almost all devoted to the government of the empire. It was here at Woodingdene that Loethar had established much of his administration—his mint, for instance, required a large workforce and the town was clearly thriving on the gold imperials and silver compasses in particular that were struck. The old copper trents from sovereign days had been retained, minted using dies.
Despite Kirin’s escalating worry of being here rather than on the road to finding Clovis—and, more importantly, Piven, if the boy in question was indeed the adopted son of the Valisars—he was intrigued to learn more about the famous mint that had once struck coins for three of the other realms from the old Set. Now it was responsible for a simple trio of coins that served all compasses. The individuality that had made the Set realms so interesting was beginning to be lost through imperial rule, he realized.
Everyone was tired, having journeyed through the night and once the soldiers felt satisfied that Kirin and his companion were not planning to make any trouble for them, the pair had been largely left alone. They could speak freely enough.
“Now would be a very good time to tell me who you really are,” Kirin murmured. “There is nothing to be gained from the secrecy.”
The woman at his side sighed. “My name is Lilyan. I was sent to keep an eye on you.”
“I see. So Freath really doesn’t trust me.”
“I don’t know Freath—only of him—so I can’t answer that.”
He glanced at her, seeking out guile, resisting the urge to use his magic. He couldn’t face the sickness, not when he’d spent most of the journey recovering from the last bout. He couldn’t see her clearly in the pre-dawn light. They were of similar age and over the course of the night he’d decided she was prettier than he’d originally thought. He stared at her, relying on his own instincts and what she reflected from those green eyes to tell him what he needed to know. “Not Freath,” he echoed. “So who? Who is your master, Lily?”
“I have none. No one makes me do anything I don’t want to.”
He sighed inwardly. Why were women so complicated? Everything a man said could be taken wrongly. Little wonder he had not pursued a long-term relationship with anyone. “Let me say it a different way. Who are your accomplices in this venture to keep an eye on me?”
She lowered her voice still further. “Kilt Faris.”
“Fa—!”
She glared at him to stop him repeating the name too loudly, nodding once to confirm it. “He didn’t understand why you were splitting up from Freath. Asked me to find out.”
“You’re a spy?”
“Of sorts. Now I’m a prisoner of sorts.”
Kirin sighed. “Not if we’re careful. I am attached loosely to the palace and they will find nothing to hold me for. But you, that was a stupid claim to make.”
“I had to think of a way to remain alongside you. How was I to know what they were going to spring on us?”
“Well, now you’re a liability of sorts.”
She bristled. “I’ll tell them I just didn’t want to be separated from my husband.”
“Oh yes? Inspired. And what do you think will occur when they discover that Kirin Felt is not married, has been living alone at Brighthelm for the past decade?” He could see Lily didn’t have an answer to this. “Why is your friend interested in me anyway?” he demanded. “Surely his interest is with Master Freath, whom he was meeting last night.”
Lily looked surprised. “My friend doesn’t explain everything. I’ve told you what I know. I had anticipated traveling to Brighthelm, ensuring this journey was not connected with any guile on your part and then returning to the north.”
Kirin ground his jaw. “Perhaps we still can.”
“Hardly,” Lily said, her mouth twisting with worry. “You’re not married and I’m not Vested.” Before he could reply, she added: “Another thing, take a look at our companions. They don’t seem so cheery now, do they?”
Kirin had ignored the other Vested during the journey. The last thing he wanted was to be lumped in with them. But Lily was right. “They look morose,” Kirin said.
Kirin glanced at her as she studied them. Her gaze had narrowed. “You know, I could be wrong but even by lamplight and from this distance I think those people have been drugged.”
“What makes you say that?”
She gave a small shrug. “Years of understanding how herbals and soporifics work. Look at that woman,” she said, jutting her chin slightly toward a middle-aged woman. “Look at her pallor, those droopy lids. And they’re all weary, we know that—they’re tired from traveling but there’s something else. Look at how restless they seem in spite of that fatigue.”
She was definitely right. Kirin could see it now. “He lied to us?” he wondered quietly.
“I don’t know why but yes, I think either our friendly barbarian soldier lied to us or he genuinely didn’t know they were drugged.”
Kirin gave a sound of disgust. “Now I want to know why.”
“Are you really Vested?” Her voice was grave.
He nodded. “Unfortunately, I am.”
“How unfortunate?”
Could he trust her? He had to risk it. He trickled his magic, just for a moment or two, knowing the price for this alone would be enough. Lily was so open a flood of information crashed into his mind, overwhelming him.
“Kirin?”
Familiar nausea rose. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look it. Suddenly you look like that woman we were just talking about.”
“You asked me a question.”
“Are you going to answer me?”
“Yes, I have the misfortune of being heavily Vested. But only two people, and now you, know it.”
They both realized the caravan of people, horses and carts had stopped. “Looks as though we’re here,” Lily commented, “wherever here is.” She looked over at Kirin. “So you trust me?”
“What makes you say that?”
“I know a thing or two about keeping secrets. I don’t think that was easy for you to share…but you did. So you must trust me. Kirin, you don’t look fine at all.”
“No, but I’ll survive.”
“This happened earlier. What is it?”
“I lied about indulging in too much Rough. I get headaches. I’ve had one all night. I thought I’d rid myself of it,” he lied. “Now it’s back,” he added truthfully.
“I can help with that.”
He looked at her as steadily as he could given his plunging stomach.
She gave a small, sheepish smile. “When I’m not playing at spy, or prisoner…or liability, I’m adept with herbs.” She dug into a pouch slung around her body. “Try these.”
He stared at the tiny black seeds.
“Trust me,” she urged. “Just suck on a few of them. Once the shell breaks, allow the juice to slide slowly down your throat. You’ll be tempted to chew them but don’t. Keep them in your mouth as long as you can. The longer you can suck them, the more potent their effect.”
“What are these?”
“Seeds,” she said evasively. “Put them in your mouth, Kirin, and tell me you aren’t feeling brighter in a very short while.”
He knew they couldn’t help him. “And if you’re wrong?”
She gave a flick of her dark hair. “You can have your wicked way with me. That’s how confident I am!”
Kirin blushed and Lily looked away, suddenly embarrassed.
The soldier they had spoken to earlier in the journey approached slowly on his horse. “As you can gather, we’re stopping here.”
“Why are the Vested so…depressed?” Lily asked. Kirin glared at her.
The soldier fortunately didn’t notice the look between them. He shrugged. “Tired, I imagine. They’ve traveled without stopping twice as far as you have. Anyway, we plan that you will both be seen first.”
Kirin returned the man’s gaze, forcing an innocent, quizzical expression. “Why the hurry?”
The man appeared equally innocent. “I know you’re here because we insisted you accompany us. It’s only fair we deal with you quickly and get you on your way.”
“And my wife,” Kirin stressed.
“Yes, of course, both of you,” the soldier replied. “It’s tiring, I know, but I am happy to escort you immediately to the authorities.”
“Authorities?”
“A single person,” the soldier qualified. “His name is Master Vulpan.”
Kirin had expected this but even so the mention of the man’s name made his belly clench. Vulpan was the reason Freath and he had rushed north. He wondered if Freath had found Faris. He hadn’t even asked Lily whether Leonel lived. He almost laughed at his own apathy. He’d been so furious at being entrapped by these men that he’d forgotten what this whole struggle was about.
“Fine,” he said, finding a tight smile. “If he’s up at this time of the morning, then lead the way. Come, my love. Let’s get this all cleared up, shall we?”
Lily grasped his mood, it seemed. She returned the adoring glance and nodded to the two men who permitted her to move ahead of them.
“We’re aiming for that pale building over on the right,” their companion said.
Kirin sucked on his seeds, hardly daring to believe the nausea might be disappearing, and feeling a fresh thrill of fear at what Vulpan was going to make of him and his Vested “wife” of no magic.
Pandemonium raged in the village of Green Herbery. A barn filled with bales of hay and stores for the winter had gone up in flames, threatening various houses and Herbery’s only inn. Even from this distance Piven could see it would be impossible to get the fire under control. People would have to watch their livelihoods go up in smoke and their homes burned to the ground. As he drew closer he could see it was not just buildings and provisions at stake.
Women were screaming. Piven began to run.
Dawn was waking to an unpleasantness; the orange of the flames and their dirty gray smoke were a blot on the otherwise picturesque setting. Now he could hear the ferocity of the fire as new flames erupted and a shower of sparks exploded from somewhere in the barn. Villagers stood by helplessly holding dripping buckets and vessels, contents long ago exhausted and useless against such a force. New flames began to lick around the sides of the barn, the older flames already arching further afield for fresh tinder.
“Help them!” screamed one of the women.
Piven ran headlong into the crowd, which was suddenly still, no doubt feeling the dread of the situation. He pushed his way forward to where a sobbing woman sat by an unconscious man. In the man’s arms was a child, also unconscious it seemed, possibly even dead. It was a boy, Piven thought. People tried to loosen the man’s grip on the child but to no avail and the woman, lost in her despair, screamed at them to leave him alone, while still beseeching someone for help.
Both man and boy were badly injured. Clothes were partly burned off, skin was scorched and the smell of cooked flesh permeated the otherwise crisp early morning air. People had begun to retch and the injured man, still holding the child, had begun trembling as the initial shock wore off and was replaced by pain. It was a tremble that would accompany him to his death, Piven believed; death was not so far away now.
“He ran in to save young Roddy,” a bystander said. “Now they’re both dying.”
“Don’t say that!” the mother screeched, looking around wildly. “Don’t you dare!” she repeated before dissolving into helpless sobs as she bent over her son, her head resting on the child’s small chest.
A friend stooped to hug her. A man, presumably the inn-keeper, arrived with a cask of liquor.
“Get some of this down his throat—as much as you can,” he said. “Let him die drunk, feeling nothing.”
“Let’s all pray,” someone else said.
“I agree with Ralf. Numb both with the Rough,” another agreed.
“He can’t swallow. His whole throat will be scorched,” yet another countered.
“Let’s speed them on their way to Lo.”
“Is Roddy dead?” a child wondered.
The mother seemed to swoon and then a fresh cry went up from around the back of the barn as the structure began to collapse. People began to run, leaving behind the dying pair, still clasped by the virtually unconscious woman, and the single woman who held her, plus the concerned innkeeper.
Piven took his chance. He turned to the innkeeper, who was still holding the flagon of Rough. “Could you and this woman pick him up, please?”
Ralf looked at him dumbly.
“Now!” Piven urged.
Obediently, still in a shocked stupor, the man gently unwrapped the mother’s grip from her child, lifting him off the man’s chest. Piven turned to the female comforter, who eyed him suspiciously. “Help Ralf carry him.”
“Who are you?” she snapped, distraught.
“A stranger, as you see, but I can help if you do as I say and you do it quickly.”
“She’s unconscious!” the woman hissed, gesturing at the woman she was still uselessly comforting.
“Not anymore,” Piven said, reaching out to touch the prone woman, who roused immediately, moaning and whimpering. “Stand her up and lead the way back to her house—quickly, before the mob returns.” He looked back at Ralf. “Get him between you and her,” he said, pointing to the helper. “This man’s life is almost given to Lo. You have to hurry now.”
Piven didn’t wait for any more questions. He bent and picked up the child. “Hurry,” he growled, and suddenly everyone was moving.
The mother of the child could barely focus. She was disoriented and confused but her helpers urged her forward with encouraging words and soon enough Piven could see that they were all headed to a very small cottage on the rim of the village.
“Inside, quickly,” he ordered.
The dying man groaned softly.
“Let him die,” Ralf said.
Piven sensed he was concerned that they were simply adding to the injured man’s agony. “His pain is so intense, more is hardly felt,” Piven said reassuringly. “Put him on that pallet, then go and tend to your inn. Help the others.”
“I want to—”
“Go!” Piven ordered, staring at him hard. The man finally turned without another word and left, glancing once over his shoulder.
Piven had already forgotten him. “We need fresh linens, fresh water, and some animal fat. Fetch it quickly,” he ordered the woman. She moved without protest, not aware that he was giving empty orders simply to occupy her, and remove her from the room.
Now Piven looked at the mother, who had been unconscious just moments ago. “How are you feeling?”
“You’re not even a man yet, ordering us about. Who are you? Why are they following your orders?”
“I need you to get up and leave.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Please leave if you want your family to live.” And then Piven smiled. Its warmth reached across the room and stilled her shivering; it seemed to calm her ragged mind and ease her heart of the pain.
“This is not my fam…why must I leave?”
“It could be dangerous for you to be near,” he said reasonably.
“My son, I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” Piven answered. He glanced at the pair on the bed. “We have only moments. If you want your boy to live, go!”
The appeal in his voice must have got through to her because she hurried toward the door. “Are you really going to help them?”
“No one else can,” he replied gravely. “Shut the door behind you.”
When he heard the latch of the door dutifully drop closed, Piven moved swiftly. Laying a hand on each victim, he raised his head, closed his eyes, and reached for the light within. He found it easily and as soon as he touched its blinding brilliance he channeled it through him and from him, gathering it up into an invisible force that he shepherded toward his suffering companions.
“Let this work,” he muttered to himself.
He could just hear the man’s rasping breath so he knew he clung to life. Looking within the child, he saw that the flame of life flickered unsteadily with none of the heat that now raged around the child’s body. Something about this pair niggled on the edge of his mind but he ignored it. He needed to give this his all.
Cooling and calming and life-giving, Piven’s magic moved with a sure touch, finding every inch of its recipients that needed healing. And as he felt the deftness of that healing touch working its miracle, Piven heard the roar of the flames outside intensifying, screaming their rage that he would dare defy their fury.
But there was also another reason for those flames talking to him. They knew and they were ready to fill him with their darkness.
Mercifully, no other villagers had been burned; the only other victims that were touched by the repercussion of the fire’s wrath were a few hundred mice, several starlings and a sleeping cat trapped inside with the hay.
Outside, the people of Green Herbery watched with a horrified fascination as the barn finally collapsed in on itself and then—they would swear it must have been a rogue gust of wind—the fire appeared to surge with a new ferocity, burning with a queer “blackness,” as some of them would later agree. The flames arching, bending, reaching almost as one, straining to leap across several houses to scorch the trees surrounding the cottage of the Widow Layton.
Inside, Piven felt the invisible shadows creep deeper with sinister stealth within. He possessed no ability to control this new entity that seemed to be gathering around and within him. He found a smile, though, as the boy seemed to slough off his stupor.
“Who are you?” the little voice asked.
“I’m Petor,” Piven answered. “And you’re Roddy, aren’t you?”
The boy nodded, eyes wide and wondering. “I ran into the barn to get Plod.”
“Plod?”
“My cat.”
“Ah,” Piven said, fearing Plod was cooked, but he was saved a response by the door bursting open.
Roddy’s mother’s scream came out silently. Her hands were clasped to her mouth and her eyes were even wider than her son’s, filled with disbelief.
“He’s well,” Piven said as she swept Roddy into her arms. He cleared his throat. “But I’m not sure about your husband, let’s see if—”
“He’s not my husband,” the woman stammered through tears and shock. She kept kissing Roddy’s head. “He’s a stranger, like you. He told us his name but I’ve forgotten it.”
Piven blinked.
“Is he alive?” she asked, haltingly, none of the amazement from her voice gone.
“He hasn’t moved. Perhaps we lost him.”
At these words, the man on the straw pallet flinched; his whole body jerked, in fact, and then he groaned.
Piven was at his side in a moment. “Slowly, breathe slowly, deeply. No, don’t move, not just yet.” He stared into the man’s face, still blackened, though only from the smoke and dust. “I’m Petor.”
“Help me up,” the man said, his voice raspy.
Piven pulled him to a sitting position. An awkward silence settled around the strange quartet in the room, broken by the arrival of the woman who’d gone to get supplies, balancing a jug of water, linens, the animal fat salve and various other items she’d obviously grabbed in her frantic rush to do as she had been told. “I think I’ve got everything. I even brought some—” She stopped still, her mouth open, her expression filled with a dozen questions.
“Look, Aunty Fru, I’m not burned,” Roddy said, standing proudly to twirl around and prove that he was whole.
The jug smashed to the boards and as it broke spilling water everywhere, it broke the spell within the room. Suddenly everyone but Roddy was demanding an explanation from Piven.
Piven put his hands in the air, buying time. But he couldn’t think of anything to say.
“How can you explain this?” Roddy’s mother asked. “How? I saw my son—he was roasted like a piece of meat.”
“Hush, Em,” the woman called Fru admonished, nodding at Roddy.
“The pain,” the man commented. “I know I slipped into death. I’m…I’m certain of it.”
Piven looked around at them wildly. He had been stupid. He should have let Lo take his own as he saw fit. If their god wanted to claim their lives, who was he to deny him? Another god? his mind’s voice queried. Why else would he be able to wield this magic? He was a good person. He knew it. He wanted to help others, he wanted to be loved as he’d been as an invalid youngster. He’d been trapped for so long; mute, his thoughts unable to be expressed, his ability limited to simple actions. Even though his mind could handle complex ideas, it was as though they could only last for so long before they fractured into thousands of pieces. And all he had been able to do for too long was smile. He craved affection and gave it in droves. He had loved everyone and he knew he had been loved in return. Why shouldn’t he save people from death with this ability of his?
“You weren’t dead,” he answered the man. “Just close. A minute or two of life left, perhaps.”
“But they were burned!” Fru exclaimed. “Now look at them,” she said, wiping away soot and grime from Roddy’s face to reveal perfect skin beneath. “Not so much as a light scorch!”
Piven looked at the women’s expressions of accusation. It was as though he had done something wicked rather than good. He felt the now familiar fury rising.
“What are you?” Roddy’s mother demanded, looking suddenly repulsed by him.
Her horror shocked him. The aunt’s expression reflected the same sentiment. Pained by their fear and naked loathing, he surrendered to the darkness that had been tapping at his shoulder for too long.
His face contorted into an expression of hate. “You will remember none of this,” he said, his hand making a slow, small sweeping motion.
Without looking back, Piven ran out of the Widow Layton’s cottage, using the back door to escape being seen. He headed cross-country, following the tiny rivulet that would lead him back to Greven and safety.
He didn’t see a man stagger slightly as he watched Piven’s retreating figure, nor did he see a boy whose sharp eyesight watched Piven until he was no longer visible. And neither of the watchers was aware of each other, or their silent promise to follow the stranger.
Freath looked down at the sword in his belly, clearly baffled by what he saw. “Majesty?” he groaned.
Faris’s shock was overwhelming; he was down on his knees between king and servant, immediately cradling the wilting Freath. “Leo,” he all but whispered in his disbelief. “What have you done?”
Leo’s lips were pulled back from his teeth in a primeval snarl. He withdrew Faeroe and flung the sword to the side, where it clanged against a boulder. The king looked somewhat confused, a mix of loathing and triumph on his face. “I have fulfilled my oath. Freath himself gave me permission.”
Jewd was already signaling for help but Faris could see it was no use. “He risked so much for you,” he accused, his own fury threatening to explode.
The dying man must have sensed it, despite his shock and pain. “Stop,” Freath choked out. “It is done. The king has acted.”
Leo stood over Freath. “Just as I could never know what passed between you and my mother, you could never know what promise I made that was witnessed by Gavriel de Vis. But he will never forget, Freath, and wherever he is, I hope he feels this moment and knows it to be the moment of your death as I promised him a decade ago. You killed my mother. What ever your reasons were, however honorable they might have been, you murdered the queen of Penraven and I have now avenged her death as a dutiful son and fulfilled my oath.”
Faris saw the deep sorrow in Freath’s eyes, watched the man nod his acceptance of the accusation but murmur nothing in reply. Faris exerted all his willpower to refrain from speaking. He had never heard such a load of rot in his life. The Valisars were deranged if they’d put an angry childhood oath, fueled by fear and an overload of emotion, ahead of a precious life—a life that had been given in the ser vice of that same family.
Jewd recognized his building fury because Faris felt a reassuring and very firm hand squeeze at his shoulder. His friend bent down. “It’s not worth it. He’s a dead man,” Jewd whispered.
Faris knew Jewd was right. And not even Lily was nearby to offer any relief with her clever medicines. “Get the king away from here,” he replied, disgusted by the very sight of Leo but keeping his voice even.
“I’m already gone,” Leo said, turning to pick up Faeroe. “But I’ll not clean your blood from my sword, Master Freath. I recognize it has been, in the strangest of manners, loyal to the Valisars. I hope before you take your last breath that you will pay me the same due.”
Leo didn’t wait for an answer. He followed a scowling Jewd down to where the mules had been tethered, away from the bloodied scene.
Freath didn’t need a physic to tell him that his time was short. He could feel the life bleeding out of him with each hard breath he took. The pain was irrelevant. It hurt but he knew it wouldn’t last long and until then there were important things to say. He knew now he could trust Faris. Was it his imagination, or had the night begun to lift? Perhaps he might be granted one final dawn before his pathetic life was taken.
As if he could hear him, Faris spoke. “Dawn’s almost upon us,” he said, his voice thick with regret.
“Come where I can see you,” Freath demanded, rallying for what ever little time was left.
Faris eased from beneath Freath’s head and crouched at his side. “Freath, I was slow to react; if only I’d—”
Freath gave a soft sound of dismissal. “Don’t waste the words or the time,” he said, his deep voice slower than usual as he worked hard to keep it steady. “There are things to be said.”
“But I want to say on behalf of Leo that his betrayal of you is—”
“Forgiven,” Freath cut him off. “Let me talk, Faris. Pay attention because I won’t have the strength to repeat it.”
Faris nodded as Freath took his hand. Freath felt a firm squeeze and he found a smile for the outlaw. Who’d have imagined this? he thought. “As much as the king wants Loethar’s head, it is not the emperor who is his true enemy. Surrounding Loethar are creatures far worse in their intentions. Assure Leo that as long as Loethar is in control, the various compasses are safe. Should anything happen to the emperor, a person like Stracker would take charge and there’s no accounting for the savagery that would follow. Stracker has no scruples—no soul, I fear. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” Faris dutifully answered. “I will warn him.”
“Use Loethar to keep that balance of power for the time being. In the meantime, it is Vulpan you should now fear. Leo must be kept from him. I trust Loethar when he says that Vulpan’s talent is uncanny. What ever he is, Loethar is not a liar, nor a sensationalist. He is amazed and impressed by Vulpan.”
“I’ll take every care, I promise you.”
“Find Piven. He is alive. Blood or not, the people will rally to his name.”
“How do I find him?”
“A man called Clovis. Kirin will know.”
Faris nodded.
Freath continued, despite the struggle to talk. “Corbel de Vis will not be dead. I have no idea where he is but I suspect he was sent away to protect that family. I can’t think why else. But he must be found, as must Gavriel. Those two were privy to information I can’t know or guess at. Their father was raised alongside the secretive ways of the Valisars and no one was closer to that family than De Vis.” He coughed and blood gushed through his fingers where he pressed the belly wound. He could feel its warmth against his chilled fingers and realized he could no longer feel his toes. Death was reaching for him. “Lo! That hurts. Forgive me.” He breathed hard a few times to steady himself. “The twins will re-ignite the flames you need to fire the Set’s collective memory of what it once was. Their names, together with Valisar, are synonymous with what the Denovian Set was built upon. They know things, those boys. Mark my words, Faris.”
“I give you my word I will try to find them.”
“So many oaths flying around. Look at the trouble it got me into,” Freath said and chuckled. “Is dawn here?”
Faris looked up, although he didn’t need to. “The sun will be risen shortly.”
“I hope I can hang on for a little longer, then. I would feel the warmth of a new dawn upon my face before I go to Lo.”
“I’m sorry, Freath,” Faris said, genuine sorrow in his tone.
“I know. It is not your fault and it is not his. He has suffered much and he is a true Valisar in his duty. I’d never have thought it of the lad I knew but I see the family blood runs strongly in his veins.”
“If only he had the magic. That would be helpful.”
“I don’t believe it exists,” Freath admitted breathlessly. “But Loethar does. He got it into his mind somehow that you have to eat people of magic to absorb their power.”
Faris stared at him, dumbstruck.
Freath chuckled. “Not many people know—and I don’t make a habit of sharing this—but I fear Loethar tried to consume a small bit of each of the Vested he killed.”
“You jest.”
“No, my friend. But he has realized the magic was not transferred. And he was probably wise enough to also work out that many of whom he killed had falsely claimed to possess enchantments in a vain attempt to remain alive.”
“So he’s stopped eating people?”
“Yes. I suspect he is confused with the legend of the aegis.” Freath’s breathing had become shallow.
“Aegis?” Faris asked tightly.
“Kirin will explain. Essentially, you must consume some of your victim to trammel him, or bind him to you.”
Faris nodded. “I seem to remember talk of this at the Academy.”
“You went to Cremond?”
“As odd as that sounds, I did, yes. Is there anything I can do for you? Someone I can contact?”
Freath shook his head with difficulty. “I have no family. The problem will now be explaining away my death to Loethar. You will have to be clever for I fear my time has now run out and I can no longer use my cunning to…” Freath winced and another gush of fresh, bright blood overlapped the darker, older blood that had turned sticky.
“Freath!”
Freath felt his hand gripped hard. “You’re a good man,” he soothed. “Brennus chose you well for his son. Counsel him against hurried decisions rather than admonish him over his actions. As much as I hate dying, Faris,” he said, somehow injecting irony into his voice, “our young king made a decision which he felt was based on honor. We must admire it.”
“I can’t admire stupidity, Freath. He is too brash.”
“And you never were?” Freath had a spasm of coughing during which he gave up all hope of holding his wound closed, exposing the glistening mess of his severed insides.
“Never,” Faris answered archly and both men’s eyes met with a soft smile as the sun’s fledgling rays sparkled down through the trees.
“Ah, there she is, my precious dawn. Death’s come to collect me, Faris. I hope Lo continues to bless you with your uncanny good luck and I’ll wish you farewell.”
“Freath?”
“Make sure the king knows I forgive him and that I was loyal.”
“He will know it.”
“Faris, there’s a woman. You must find her. It’s about the royal lineage. I know not…”
He never finished what he was going to tell the outlaw, his body convulsing, before he lay still, his eyes staring toward dawn’s light, the sharply golden beauty seeming wrong as it shone upon this ugly scene.