The Battle Sylph (21 page)

As she stared at her plate, Mace leaned over the table and smacked the other sylph across the head. Ril spun, eyes wide with rage, as the bigger battler jerked a thumb at Solie.

“Stop draining her. Heyou took enough today.”

Ril glanced at Solie, and suddenly her weariness eased a bit. Heyou leaned against her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” she admitted. Her appetite was back and she took another bite.

“Go feed from that master of yours if you’re tired,” Mace told Ril. “Only one of us should take from Solie.”

“I don’t see you going to
your
master,” Ril growled.

“I’ll find someone else,” Mace promised calmly. “There are a lot of options here. Maybe you should take one.”

As Ril made a face, Heyou smiled at Solie. “Sorry I took so much.”

“I don’t blame you,” she told him. “That thing was huge! And it wasn’t that long ago you had that big fight. I can handle it.”

“You shouldn’t have to handle three,” Mace assured her.

At one of the other tables, a family finished dining and started to take their plates up to the front of the tent. Instead of avoiding the battlers, though, they approached the table. The wife addressed the trio.

“Thank you so much,” she told them, her eyes shining. “It’s the first time we haven’t gone hungry in so long.” Her children stared worshipfully at the battlers, and even the husband managed to lift his head enough to look at them directly.

“Um, yeah, thanks.”

The battlers didn’t say anything in return, as none of them was normally inclined to talk to humans. Solie could feel their auras, though. Heyou was pleased by the praise, finding the transition to acceptance of human men relatively easy. Mace was calm—uninterested, but not threatened either. Ril was wound so tight he was ready to lash out. Hesitantly Solie put a hand on his shoulder, and he stiffened before finally forcing himself to relax. His emotions turned apologetic.

The first family started a floodgate, many other people coming up to thank the threesome for feeding them. Solie had known food was short, but it seemed she hadn’t realized just how bad things were. Her sylphs had probably saved the Community, and she beamed at them, hoping this was a trend they would be willing and able to continue.

Jasar killed one of his horses getting back to the castle, and the survivor was blowing froth and wheezing as it galloped under the main portcullis and into the courtyard. Filthy and frightened, the dandy still managed to look imperiously down at the groom who came to take the animal.

“Alert the king that I’ve returned,” he ordered, dismounting, wincing as all the muscles in his legs and backside protested. That only made him angrier. “I’ll need to speak with him privately once I’ve bathed.”

Turning, he swept into the castle proper, servants and courtiers hurrying out of his way. It was humiliating for them to see him like this, but good to be back. He stalked to his apartments and, inside, took a deep breath. He was home, away from the empty roads and cold winds, away from Leon’s threats and his own battler’s betrayal. The terror he’d felt continuously for the last five days slipped away in the face of renewed comfort, and he snapped his fingers, directing several waiting servants to prepare him a bath and remove his filthy clothes.

Mace’s alcove stood empty in one corner of the front room. Jasar glared at the empty space, then turned his back, not wanting to be reminded. The battle had been truly disastrous, and if he wasn’t very careful, he was going to end up blamed for this. He could feel his confidence returning, though. Now that he was back on familiar ground, he knew he could survive.

He took an hour to bathe and made servants change the water twice. It would take at least that long before the king
would be ready to see him, and Jasar felt positively filthy. Even afterward he didn’t feel completely clean, though he was intelligent enough to know that most of his discomfort was internal.

None of the servants spoke to him during his bath—he would have dismissed them immediately if they dared—but it coiled in his gut, the knowledge that they were surely wondering what had happened to Mace. They’d be whispering about it all over the castle. Jasar burned with embarrassment at the very thought. Growling, he slapped one servant across the face who didn’t move fast enough, and rising from the tub, held his arms out for a robe. With it belted around him, he went to his dressing room.

They garbed him in satin and silk, with lace at his wrists and neck. Soft boots clad his feet, and he sighed contentedly as they styled his hair and perfumed him. It felt good to be cleaned and again dressed appropriately, the fine material and trappings of power once more a shield against those who might mock or revile him. Tossing a short cloak of ermine over his shoulder, he went at last to face the king.

Alcor awaited him in the same audience chamber he’d used when giving his initial instructions for the quest. Thrall stood behind him in the very same spot, looking down at Jasar impassively.

“What happened?” the king growled as Jasar walked up to the foot of the dais and bowed deeply.

Jasar rose and looked his sovereign straight in the eye. Alcor’s directness didn’t bother him. He’d have been more worried if the king had asked after his health, which usually meant Alcor planned to alter it. However, the king’s bluntness demanded a similar response.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “I bring terrible news. Leon Petrule has betrayed you. He’s gone over to the side of pirates, and his battler has killed my own.”

Alcor was silent for a long moment. Jasar could see his
mind working. He was no fool, the king, but he’d always seen enemies everywhere, and Jasar had encouraged that attitude. He had also always been careful never to directly lie to Alcor, either, who knew it. Someday, Jasar had realized, he’d need that history of honesty. That day had definitely come.

“My head of security defecting and your battler killed by another? How is it you survived?” Alcor’s eyes were very narrow as he studied Jasar.

“Mace’s sacrifice,” was the courtier’s smooth reply, and he clasped his hands together before him. “It was the pirate group you sent us to eliminate. I had been led to believe they were all killed, but when we tracked the girl to them, Ril attacked Mace. I apologize that I didn’t foresee this betrayal. Leon is definitely working for them, though. He would have killed me if he could.”

The king frowned, plucking at his lower lip. “And the girl?”

“She was with them, as was her battler. Mace didn’t have a chance against two.” He shook his head, his tone deliberately regretful. “Apparently, Leon’s assertion that the girl is innocent was a lie. Father Belican was right—she was a plant. The pirates are far more organized and malicious than we thought.”

The king sat back, considering. It was a good lie. Even with his panic, Jasar had worked it up over the last few days as he fled, and it was one of his best, shunting all the blame neatly from him to Leon. He could even come out of this with more power and respect than before. He resisted the urge to lick his lips, and waited.

“This is serious,” the king said at last, and Jasar was pleased to hear the note of uncertainty in his voice. Alcor believed him. Of course, the lie nearly demanded that he do so. “Gather the council,” he ordered the servant who
stepped into the room after he sat up and clapped. “We will discuss this.”

The king looked at Jasar then. “You’ve done well to bring us this information,” he admitted, and Jasar bowed again, no sign showing on his face of the smirk he felt inside. “You will be rewarded—once the battle is done and you’ve returned.”

“Returned, Your Majesty?”

The king’s mouth curled, and Jasar suddenly wondered just how much of his lie Alcor actually believed. His sovereign pronounced, “You know where these pirates are. Someone will have to lead the army and the battlers I send to destroy them. You’re familiar with the area. You’ll be invaluable.”

Jasar’s blood ran cold. He had to go back? Back to where Leon wanted him dead and Mace was out of control? No battler had ever disobeyed his master, and he had a sudden, horrible image of the creature coming for him.

“Your Majesty, I couldn’t! I—I’d be a target. Leon promised to kill me if I went back, and he still has a battle sylph.”

The king languidly waved a hand and looked over his shoulder at Thrall. “Then I suppose we’ll have to get you another battler, won’t we?” he drawled.

Jasar froze with sudden ambition. Another battler? Someone who would obey him as Mace hadn’t? Someone Leon wouldn’t be expecting? He smiled and bowed again, deeper than before. “Yes, Your Majesty. Your wish is my command.”

They decided not to let the children and teenagers know. None of the Community’s youths needed to see such a horrible thing as a hanging. None of them would even know the man had been killed, just as most didn’t know he’d even been there.

“May as well let them keep their innocence,” Devon murmured quietly. Airi was pressed against his back while he watched earth sylphs grow a stone pole that rose up at the edge of the cliff and then extended out over the drop. A rope lay coiled at the base, ready to be affixed. That rope would go around the prisoner’s neck. All they’d have to do was push him off the side, and his own weight would finish the job.

I don’t like this,
Airi mourned.
Does he have to die?

Devon shook his head. It wasn’t for him to say. Morgal and the others were determined, though. Leon Petrule had caused the deaths of too many people. Ril apparently was going to be excused for his actions, but not the sylph’s master. Galway had walked away from Stria and the others creating the scaffold, going to tend his horses, his absence his statement on how he felt. Devon still wasn’t sure that he shouldn’t have accepted the trapper’s quiet offer to join him.

“I can’t say as I blame them,” he told Airi.

The queen will be unhappy.

“I don’t think Solie gets a vote on this.”

Devon looked over the crowd gathering at the stairwell leading into the hive. Solie and Heyou were down there now, helping out, as was Mace. More and more of the Community was moving down there to escape the cold and snow, for the place was warm and cozy, if dark in those areas without fire sylphs. The kitchens had moved down there as well, which was where the Widow Blackwell had every youngster working on something to keep them distracted. It was easier to keep them isolated that way, and Devon doubted any of them even knew that their parents were aboveground, gathered on an icy stretch of rock and awaiting an execution. The temperature seemed colder than anything Devon had ever felt, but still no one left.

He peeked behind him. Ril stood a few hundred feet
away, staring out over the plains. It always seemed to be him on guard duty now. Someone had found him a better-fitting tunic and pants, and the sylph didn’t really look any different from anyone else—except for the fact that he didn’t wear a cloak in the frigid wind and everyone gave him a wide berth.

Odd, how the three battlers had adapted. Heyou was largely accepted by the Community, being cheerful and friendly. Mace seemed to be getting a reputation among the women that had some of the men grinding their teeth and the Widow Blackwell watching him like a hawk whenever he was near her charges. But Ril was the worst. Silent and angry, he made everyone nervous, and Devon hoped he didn’t care his old master was about to be hanged. If he knew, he wasn’t reacting at all. He wasn’t even watching as the scaffold went up.

The crowd gathered, nearly every adult huddled together for warmth and murmuring softly. Their sylphs flickered around them, the air sylphs mostly invisible, those of earth obvious and heavy, water and fire varying between the extremes. They all chattered like children, some of them asking their masters what was happening, and from the look of it not liking the answer.

“You don’t have to stay,” he told Airi. “I know you don’t like death.”

I’ll stay with you,
she answered loyally, which made him smile and hum under his breath for her. She pressed against him, semicorporeal and snuggled against his back.

Nearby the crowd murmured, drawing back, and Devon saw Leon for the first time since his capture. The king’s head of security hung limp between two men who dragged him through the snow, a bruise across his forehead obvious against his white skin. His hands and feet were bound, and he was barefoot, not even a cloak wrapped around him.

Devon swallowed, wishing absurdly that this didn’t have
to happen. The Community’s members were spitting at Leon, though, tossing insults and laughing. Some were weeping. They would all be glad to see him die, and Devon couldn’t blame them. Leon Petrule was an extremely dangerous man.

Yet he hoped Leon died quickly. From the look of the setup, he would. King Alcor liked to make his prisoners suffer. Leon would likely die immediately of a broken neck. Devon shuddered, his own neck twitching at the thought. He forced himself to watch, though. He’d had to stay as much as Galway needed to leave—out of respect for both the Community and Leon himself.

He didn’t turn away as they bore the doomed man forward. No one did, so no one saw what was happening behind them.

As Ril took his third turn in a row on guard duty, something beneath the skin of his human form itched. He didn’t know how to scratch it, or even what it was. The feeling grated at him, though, making Heyou regard him cautiously and Mace keep assigning him guard duty.

He hadn’t been in the queen’s presence for days. Mace was keeping him away from her, Ril knew, just in case he snapped. He was starting to think it could happen, too. He felt the madness inside him, just as he had when his first human queen died and until Lizzy was born. Thus he was being forced to stay on the outskirts of this new hive, just as he had in the original hive into which he’d been hatched.

Yes, he was falling apart a second time, and he didn’t know how to stop it. He kept seeing Leon—saw him killing the brown-haired girl, saw Leon holding out an arm as a place to perch, saw him coming to help after Mace knocked Ril out of the sky. Saw Leon giving him the freedom to do whatever he wanted, including kill him.

He should have killed him. Ril wanted to kill him, but
he could also feel his master’s remorse. But that didn’t matter. He hated Leon, would always hate him. He was now a battle sylph with a queen who acknowledged his name!

Though…he still wanted Lizzy.

Would she hate him if he killed her father? He couldn’t. Solie had ordered her battlers to cause no harm, not even if Leon begged. He’d wanted to! Only, Leon had wanted him to as well. How could he give Leon what he wanted when he hated Leon so? Yet how could he let him live? What was happening to him?

Ril shuddered, wanting to run, wanting to fight, wanting to bury his face in Solie’s bosom and scream until it all went away. Wanting to go to Lizzy and give himself to her. Wanting to kill Leon. Wanting to throw his master off the cliff and let him fall. Wanting to obey. He hated Leon, and something still held him back, something beyond his queen. Insanity beckoned, the only promise of peace.

The nearby humans were gathered around some strange device. Ril had felt them moving but ignored them. Their emotions were increasing, though, peaking toward rage, and that finally cut through his indifference, far later than it would have for either Mace or Heyou. He turned toward them and blinked as he both spotted and felt his bound master being dragged toward what he suddenly realized was a hangman’s scaffold. Leon’s emotions were dim, sickly and sad, remorseful and relieved. He saw his own death before him and was glad of it.

Ril saw, too. He froze, his eyes widening and his shape dissipating silently in shock. They were going to kill his master? He couldn’t let that happen! Only, Leon had freed him. He
could
let it happen. They would kill Leon for him, free him, leave him to approach Lizzy without interference or guilt. He’d dreamed of this for years.

No, he hadn’t. He’d hated Leon—or so he’d told himself—but they’d worked well together, better than any other
battler and master. Leon had understood him as well as anyone could through that litany of rules, and the man had given Ril all the freedoms he could. He’d also loved the battler despite his hatred. Ril could feel that love clearly even now. Leon went willingly to his death, hoping to atone for what he’d never meant to do.