Chel watched the flicker of the fire through glazed eyes, arms wrapped around his knees, his back against the wagon. It had taken them the best part of the day to retrace their steps, diminished as they were, and the evening was deep and cold by the time they reached their camp clearing. Chel had done little more than sit and watch the fire since they arrived. The screaming of his joints and wounds was distant, as if another man’s. Images flashed and floated before his eyes, and at one point he choked off a sob.
Rennic levered himself down beside him. He’d got some ale from somewhere; not all of the barrels had been decoys, after all. He offered Chel a mug. Chel took it but did not drink.
‘You coping, little man?’
Chel said nothing. On the far side of the clearing, the two princes were sitting side by side, tucking into whatever Founin had prepared in their absence. Tarfel, his adrenaline spent, was shaking and grinning uncontrollably. Mendel simply looked vacant, but seemed compliant enough, especially beneath Spider’s watchful eye.
‘Don’t fret overmuch for our former colleagues. They knew what they were into. Maybe not reavers, sure, but the principle at least. And they got silver for the risk, which is more than some of us.’ This with a meaningful look toward Torht, who was loitering behind the wagon, awaiting Palo’s arrival.
‘Does this mean nothing to you? This death? This suffering? This …’ Chel tailed off.
Rennic took in a long breath through his nose, then sipped his ale. His expression suggested it wasn’t great stuff.
‘No, it’s not meaningless. But I’ll tell you a secret. Those who died today, they weren’t friends of mine. I didn’t know them. There. That’s it. If I look like I’m smiling, it’s because I’m alive, and so – bluntly – are the people who matter.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘Because it’s the truth. Want my best advice? Don’t make friends. Don’t get close. Make sure you can cope with the loss of a fellow traveller. Because fuck knows none of us live forever.’
Chel gritted his teeth. ‘And how’s that approach working out for you?’
Rennic sat back. ‘Not that well.’
They sat in silence for a while.
‘You need to teach me to fight,’ Chel said at length.
‘I need to teach you to tie a fucking knot.’
‘I’m serious. You said it yourself.’ He turned to face the other man, grey eyes gleaming in the firelight. ‘What kind of sworn can I be if I can’t defend my liege?’
‘You’ve defended him just fine so far,’ Rennic said with a nod to the young prince, who sat on a barrel, beaming at his brother. ‘He’s healthy, like you said, and he’s none to thank more than you.’
Chel’s glance slid to the reaver, who now lay curled and chained to the wagon’s front axle. She moaned occasionally, sometimes retching, sometimes snarling, never able to break her bonds. Beneath the skull-paint, she looked very pale and very ill.
‘She nearly killed me today,’ Chel said, eyes fixed on the bound and shivering form. ‘Twice. Tarfel saved me the first time, and you did the second.’
‘And you’ve saved princeling’s hide a dozen times already, and – perhaps – mine, once or twice. That’s how it goes. That’s why we keep each other around, fuck’s sake. It’s certainly not for the stimulating conversation.’
‘And what about the next time? What if no one’s around to drag a reaver off my throat?’
Rennic pursed his lips in irritation. ‘I thought you weren’t a born killer?’
‘Don’t need to be a killer to fight. Just need to … not … get killed.’
The reaver shivered and retched again, her broken spasm ending in a low whimper. Chel shivered along with her, his loathing for her undercut by her visible suffering. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Comedown. These Horvaun berserkers, they chew something, or, I dunno, swallow it or something. Makes them, well, like you saw. Gives them the blood-rage.’ He spat into the fire. ‘Supposed to make them impossible to kill, give them superhuman strength. All in service to the blood-gods, of course. I say, fuck it, it addles their minds and makes them a doddle to read. Idiots.’
‘So … So did she know what she was doing out there?’
Rennic sat back and looked at Chel, his eyes narrow.
‘Aye. She knew. She knew enough.’
Chel nodded. He was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘So will you teach me?’
Rennic rubbed his eyes. ‘Hells, boy, we’re too far gone for this now. We’re maybe a week from Roniaman, less if we ramp it – and I suspect we will. How much do you think you can learn in that time?’
‘More than I know now.’
***
Torht beckoned for Palo the moment she reappeared, his attendant Founin guiding him to the edge of the firelight at the wagon’s rear. She was the last to arrive, leading the last of the mules down into the clearing.
‘Ayla, Dalim claims to have slaughtered an entire war-band.’
Palo was stone-faced as ever. ‘Maybe three dozen Horvaun attacked.’ She set about tying the mule’s halter to the back of the wagon. ‘Despite our prince’s claims, Balise da Loran came with him, and she brought a dozen guardsmen with her. The reavers set about them before they reached us at the fort.’ Palo turned to the Watcher, the faintest signs of strain pulling at her features. ‘How did a war-band from the southern seacoast get this far without warning, Raeden? Could the south-west be so riven by plague that they could sneak through undetected?’
Torht’s hollow sockets were narrow. ‘There were whispers, hints, but nothing solid enough to believe …’
Rennic stood with a cough. ‘Uh, the boy and I, we kept one. Alive. She had this on her.’ He held out a rolled scrap of jagged hide. Chel looked up, blinking. This was news.
The Watcher’s expression was sharp. ‘What is that, Master Rennic? Ayla, describe it.’
Palo unrolled the hide and stared at it for a long time. ‘I believe it’s a map. These markings are Talis Castle, these the woods. And here is a rendering of the day’s moon-phase. They were targeting the hunt. The same hunt as us.’
Torht growled. ‘Then there are two possibilities: the reavers were dispatched by someone with knowledge of the court’s social calendar, or someone with knowledge of our intentions. I do not care for either.’ He turned his sightless eyes to Palo. ‘We are so close. We cannot fail, for the sake of the kingdom. Either someone is intercepting our messages, Ayla, or we have a traitor among us. We must find out.’
Palo looked back at the map, then over to where the stricken reaver lay. ‘I will vouch for those present. That woman knows more. We should try asking her.’ Her eyes were steady, her voice level, but Chel shivered at her words. Palo took a step toward the reaver.
Rennic coughed again. ‘Already tried. We need an interpreter. We need Lemon.’
Palo’s frown swung in his direction. ‘She’s Horvaun?’
‘No, but she grew up next door. Speaks it like a native.’ He turned to the Watcher. ‘Where are my team? They’re meant to join us.’
Torht nodded. ‘And they will. Until they do, we bring the reaver with us.’ He gestured to his attendant. ‘Founin, ready the black doves. We must depart tonight. But first, there is the matter of our new arrival.’
***
‘Your royal highnesses.’
Mendel appeared to register Torht for the first time, a new, eyeless face among his captors. His golden visage shifted to surprise, then indignation, and he jumped to his feet. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘What do you want from us?’
Torht smiled. ‘My name is Raeden Torht, your highness, but you may know me as the Watcher in the Wind. You find yourself a guest of the Rau Rel.’
Mendel’s brows lowered. ‘So you really are partisans. You people are a real … a real …’ He tailed off, his gaze drifting.
‘Voice for the downtrodden? Shield of the oppressed?’ Torht offered, one hairless eyebrow raised.
Mendel nodded, scratching at his scar. ‘Mmm, yes, perhaps that was it. What do you want from me? Why are you holding me and my brother?’
‘All will be explained shortly, your highness. All this has been a long time coming. We shall depart very soon.’
Mendel blinked, his mane of golden hair glowing in the firelight. ‘Well, we can’t go anywhere without Balise. Where is Balise?’
Chel and Rennic looked at Palo.
‘She is dead.’
For the first time, Mendel’s composure cracked. His mouth opened and closed, his eyes unfocused. ‘But … Her wounds … They weren’t mortal, I thought …’
Tarfel jumped up beside his brother, concern etched on his young face. Chel glanced back at Palo, wondering whether she’d let the prince believe his first sworn had died of her injuries.
‘I executed her.’
‘WHAT? Who do you think you are? You can’t go executing my sworn! I’m … I’m the fucking crown prince!’ His pale skin was boiling red in the light. Tarfel took a step back in shock.
Palo was unmoved. ‘She was convicted of treason against the people of these lands by the people’s court. She was in the pocket of the Church and steeped in its rank corruption. She was guilty of the murders of countless innocents. For this, and more, I executed her.’
‘How fucking dare you! Are you going to execute me next?’
‘It is true that you have also been tried by the court.’
‘What?’
‘Your sentence remains suspended. Your cooperation in the coming endeavour will go a long way toward its commutation.’
Mendel stood, open-mouthed, clenching and releasing his fists. Tarfel edged forward and placed one cautious hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best, brother.’
Abruptly, the ire left the crown prince. ‘No, no, indeed. You may be right, little brother. Forgive my outburst. Long day.’ He scratched at the scar again. ‘Sometimes I just … I just …’
Palo walked to the mule and returned with a heavy sack, which she held out to Mendel. It dripped.
‘What’s this?’
‘The head of your first sworn, for proper disposal or interment.’
Mendel’s face curdled, but to his credit he swallowed back his reaction. ‘I’d be much obliged if you’d put it with my horse.’
Palo walked away. Mendel put his arm around his brother and sagged. Chel was surprised to see Tarfel bending to support his brother. The younger prince was taller than he’d realized.
‘Perhaps,’ the Watcher said, ‘you might feel better after a drink of this, your highness.’ He produced a drinking gourd from within his robes. ‘It’s quite safe, I assure you – at worst it may trigger a little gas.’ Torht unstoppered the gourd and took a drink himself, belched and proffered it to Mendel.
‘What is it?’ The crown prince looked shaken, as if the reality of his capture had hit him all at once. He did not take the gourd.
‘A mere precaution, I assure you. There is a rare herb extract, perhaps a compound, I regret that I lack the alchemy to name it, that in sufficient and regular dose elicits in its subject a compliance, a pliancy. In combination with patterns of suggestion, especially delivered by those in a position of trust, the subject can be persuaded, nay, compelled to act in a manner of another’s choosing.’
Mendel’s golden brows lowered. ‘You mean to … to … dose me?’
‘Quite the reverse, your highness. While my agents have occasionally had cause to employ this substance on individuals of strategic importance – in service to the cause of the salvation of every subject of this great kingdom – each keeps one principle paramount: the dosage must be short-term, and carefully managed. Failure to adhere to this risks the permanent health of the subject, leading to degradation of both body and mind, and no doubt in cases of reckless disregard, death.’
Mendel had one hand halfway to his scar.
‘Exactly what are you talking about? Are you saying my brother has been drugged?’ asked Tarfel, his shocked face a mirror of his brother’s.
‘Not just your brother, your highness. A report of one particular case reached me some time ago: a nobleman in a position of great power, once celebrated for his vigour and good health now left stricken in the prime of life, unable to rise from his bedchamber. His sworn must come before him for judgement and guidance, and his voice is so weak that his will can be expressed only through the twitches of his hands. Those in his presence complain of a curious, alchemical smell—’
‘You can’t mean … How dare you?’ Mendel was crimson. Tarfel was staring at the ground, shaking his head. ‘Our father is ill, not poisoned! Not … Not …’
‘Coerced,’ Tarfel muttered.
‘Coerced!’ Mendel finished.
Torht’s hairless brows lifted.
‘Are you so certain, your highness? Have his recent rulings not favoured the Church, most exclusively?’
‘This … This is absurd. The Orders love our father.’
‘They love his compliance, highness! The judgements, the orders you receive in your father’s name are the will of the Primarch. Vassad has been dosing and controlling your father, and the kingdom with him, for almost as long as these wars have been raging. Do you know who Vassad was when your father first ascended the throne, before the Hallowed Union’s wars of “Liberation”?’
Mendel shook his head. ‘Who?’
‘An itinerant preacher. A wandering prophet, a soothsayer. A nothing, the kind of man who goes from village to village hoping to tell fortunes for fish-heads.’
‘Can’t imagine fish-heads have much fortune,’ Tarfel said.
Chel heard Rennic snort, but Torht clapped his hands together in anger. In the silence that followed, his voice was low and dangerous.
‘By cosmic accident, highness, you and your brother were born into positions of great favour, and greater peril. Have you not felt your thoughts slipping, your mind writhing with ideas that were not your own? And your brother has been dodging Vassad’s assassins since Denirnas.’
‘God’s breath,’ Mendel murmured, flopping back down to the grass. ‘Can it be true? Our father poisoned, the throne … the throne …’ He frowned in concentration, scratching at the scar.
‘Usurped?’ Tarfel suggested.
‘Usurped, exactly,’ Mendel said. He sat forward, head in his hands.
‘It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?’ Tarfel said, putting one hand on his brother’s shoulder.
‘Am I poisoned, Tarf?’ Mendel croaked. ‘Am I in their thrall? I have such trouble … remembering …’
Prince Mendel started to cry.
‘Be not afraid, your highness. The draught contains sufficient remedy to begin to flush any poison from your mind and body. By the time we reach Roniaman, you will be as hale and hearty as ever.’
Mendel looked up with tearful eyes, took the gourd, and drank deeply.
A moment later, a great flapping mass issued from the wagon, and a phalanx of black-feathered doves fluttered up into the evening sky. They circled and stretched, then separated, dissipating in all directions and out of sight over the forest.
Torht felt his way to the wagon’s door.
‘Let us go. The wind rises and our revolution has begun!’