Echoes of Betrayal (18 page)

As he hesitated, Vossik lurched closer, his eyes desperate. “Go!” Then, as if realizing Beclan would not or could not, his expression changed to determination.

“Kill me,” he said.

“No!” This could not be real—not so suddenly. Beclan looked around wildly—there must be someone, somewhere, to help.

“Do … it … save … you …” Vossik said. He dropped his own sword and staggered close enough to grab Beclan’s blade with his gloved hands and pull it toward himself. “Better die, lad,” he said. “I know you’re brave enough. Like this.”

Hand by hand, he forced the blade into his belly while Beclan, horrified, stood and watched, unable to do anything, even let go the grip.

“Gird …” Vossik said at last, and fell; the blade dragged free, and Vossik’s blood reddened the snow.

“We still have four,” one of the men said. “Enough for all …”

That horror broke Beclan’s immobility; he could at least save the other men from that fate. With a cry he whirled and cut down the others of his patrol. They did not resist much; the magery slowed them, made them clumsy, and it was like killing calves or pigs. He wanted to throw up, scream, cry … but he could no longer deny the reality: he was trapped with three killers who wanted not just his life but his body, his self.

He sent frantic prayers to Gird.
Help me! Save me! Don’t let them!

But already a honey-sweet voice in his head crooned to him, stroking his panicked mind to near stillness.

He had heard of magery and its evils all his life, but he had not seen the former Duke’s magery at work; even his brother had not seen it, for Rothlin had not been in the room. He had not seen Dorrin Verrakai’s use of magery in the courtyard; he had been deemed too young to ride in the procession and had spent that part of the day with his mother and younger siblings. He expected pain, struggle, terror … not this … this
gentleness
.

“You are the king’s cousin … but why is
he
king and not your
father? Why should not the crown come to you in time? It would be easy, young lord, if you have the courage and the wit …”

A voice as sweet in his mind as honey in his mouth, telling him everything he had ever thought about Mikeli and Camwyn, soothing him with every dream he had imagined for himself.

“Kings should have power—power in themselves. Your cousins have none, were chosen to have none, to be weak rulers in a realm that needs strength. You are strong and could be stronger yet … if you have the courage. You could return power to the Mahierans, power they should never have given up.”

Beclan could scarcely see, now, for the crowding visions … himself on a great charger, sword held high, himself in the Hall at Vérella, striding down the center, ranks of nobles on either side bowing low, trumpets blaring.

“Mikeli the weak cannot even open the box in which that other crown lies, but
you
could. You could have both crowns; you could restore the ancient lineage to its heritage of power; you could be the king … and in your heart of hearts you know that.”

He struggled to speak and croaked, “How?”

Silky and sweet that voice, gentle and coaxing. “How? You need but let us help you. Help you discover your powers, help you understand yourself better, help you achieve what you dream … what you deserve …”

But magery was evil. He’d grown up knowing it was evil; he’d been told to watch for any sign that Dorrin was misusing it … he had seen blind Stammel, Vossik’s struggles …

“
Your
life.
Your
power.
Your
crown …”

All those times, as a boy, he’d thought his older brother weak for deferring to Mikeli just because Mikeli was the prince, and even his father—a duke of the realm, a grown man—deferred to Mikeli …

“You are the strong one, Beclan Mahieran. You are the one chosen …”

Chosen by whom? he wanted to ask, but he could not speak now. In his mind’s images, he was even taller, stronger, more handsome, more powerful. Again the crowds bowed; light flashed from his fingers, and in front of him the crowns glittered … ruby and gold and pearl … sapphire and silver and diamond … He moved his hand, and the crowns rose, hovering in the air before him.

He opened his eyes, and there before his feet lay Vossik. Vossik dead, Vossik’s blood staining the snow. When had he moved back here? He could not remember.

“Taste that blood and see …” the voice said. “Your first kill—taste it!”

Before he realized it, he was kneeling in the bloody snow, staring at Vossik’s dead face. Without his will, his hand reached out to the wound, the blood … and there, bloody but gleaming a little in the dimming light, was a medallion. He knew it, and his hand rose to his own Gird’s symbol. As he touched it, his mind cleared a little. The stench of Vossik’s death rasped along his nose; Vossik’s courage and honor … Beclan blinked back tears.

“Taste the blood,” the voice said. “Take the crown you deserve …” Its seductive murmur continued as he tried to resist.

Help me! Don’t let me give in!
But his hand was already moving back to the bloody wound. He concentrated, forcing it to reach for Vossik’s medallion. Light sparkled briefly; the medallion came off its thong as if he’d cut it, and he quickly scrubbed it in the snow, then rubbed it on his cloak. It gleamed brighter. His hand wanted to open, drop it, he longed to taste the bloodstains on his fingers, but he fought that impulse.
Kill me if you must
, he prayed.
Don’t let me—

All at once, as if someone had closed a window, the voices in his head were silent. He rose to his feet, unhindered by compulsion. He put Vossik’s medallion safe in his cloak pocket. Two of the men now stood, swords in hand, almost in reach, watching him. The third lay still, and Beclan was sure he was dead.

“Little virgin,” one of the men said, grinning. “Did you even know you had the power?”

“I … am not a magelord,” Beclan said. “It is Gird’s power—Gird saved me!”

The man laughed. “There’s nothing like the innocence of that first time,” he said to the other, who nodded. Then to Beclan, “It would have been easier on you the other way, but we can still overpower you, boy. And we will.”

At a nod, both of them came at him, one on either side. Beclan fought with all his skill—with skill he did not realize he had, with frantic prayers for help and the wish that he could slow them the way they had slowed the others—for a time that seemed impossibly
long. He could not get breath enough into his burning lungs; his arms felt heavy as logs. Surely they would tire, too—and finally one missed a parry and his own blade slid home. He yanked it out as the man cried out, dropped his sword, and fell. Beclan turned, off balance, saw the other’s blade sweeping at him, tried desperately to get his blade across for the parry, knowing he was too slow, and instinctively
pushed
with the hope it would miss him. The blade hung in the air, twisted aside; he could see the man’s surprise, rage, horror as the sword slid from his grip. Before he could pick it up again, Beclan hit him—once, twice, and again, wild blows. When the man finally fell, Beclan could scarcely believe he himself was still alive and darkness had not fallen.

Shaking with exhaustion and terror, Beclan cut the Verrakaien throats with his dagger, all three of them, dead as they were. Then he fell to his knees, emptied his belly on the stained and trampled snow, and cried until it was truly dark. He roused from tears to horror worse than before.

He was alone in the night, still trapped in the clearing with all these dead men, men he had killed. Who knew what their spirits might demand? Across the clearing, he could hear the horses stamping, snorting, their tack jingling and creaking. Wind moaned and hissed like angry ghosts through the evergreens that closed the trap; in the distance, a branch broke and fell with a resonant thump.

His hand strayed to his Girdish medallion, and he tried to think. If the Verrakaien had not invaded him while alive, surely Gird could protect him against the dead. The horses … the horses’ saddlebags held food for them and for him; he could build a fire. He pushed himself up and walked toward the sound of their hooves.

At first they bolted around the clearing, squealing and bucking, saddlebags coming loose from several, but finally they quieted, let him get close. He soothed them, dug out handfuls of oats from one saddlebag, and gave each a small portion. They snuffled at his hands for more. Then he strung a hitch line by feel, tied the horses to it, and lit a fire, using the sticks the Verrakaien had used for a shelter. By its light, he dragged the bodies of his patrol, naming them as he did so, into a neat row. The enemy he left where they lay. He gathered the fallen saddlebags, removed the rest from the saddled horses, pulled
out the nose bags and oats, and fed the horses. The sound of their munching comforted him.

By then he was hungry and rummaged in the saddlebags for food for himself. He crouched by the fire, chewing trail bread he barely tasted, staring at the row of men who had died because of him. He was afraid to sleep. He sat the night through, holding the two Girdish medallions, one in either hand.

Surely it was Gird’s power, not his own, that had saved him—had twisted that sword from a man’s hand, moved it aside from the killing strike aimed at him. He could not be a magelord; no Mahieran had the power. He did not feel different than before, the way he thought magelords must feel. He felt infinitely older and more ashamed. He could see every wrong decision he had made as if painted in bright colors on a page. He longed to be back home, once more a child in his father’s house, a child who would grow up better and not make those mistakes. He longed to be with his father now, kneeling before him, telling him, asking his forgiveness … not here alone with the bodies of men who had died because of him.

When dawn came, he tried again to leave the clearing, but he could not. He gave the horses another nose bag each of grain, melted snow for them to drink from the leather bucket among the gear, and led them around the clearing before tying them again. Though he was sure the forest was empty, he called out and then blew a blast on Sergeant Vossik’s horn. No response to either.

He had food for some days yet; he could use the other supplies to make himself a little shelter, but the thought of being trapped there quickly escalated into “forever,” and he imagined himself starving. He looked at the horses and shuddered. He did not want to kill again. Surely the Kuakgan who had made this trap would return. Surely someday he would see his home again, his family. The life he had found so confining and boring, before he became Duke Verrakai’s squire, he now remembered with longing. He promised himself, and Gird, and his father that he would never, ever, be so stupid, so selfish, again.

S
ir Flanits arrived at Verrakai Steading with his troop to find Beclan had not yet returned. Duke Verrakai’s steward made the Royal Guard troop welcome and said no visitors had come since the Duke left for Harway. The next morning Flanits led his troop on, following the route Verrakai’s steward had given him.

Several frustrating days later—snow obscuring the track he was supposed to follow and no sign of the young Mahieran—his scout reported fresher marks of both foot and horse heading north away from the trail they were on. Was that the squire and his escort? If so, why had they turned instead of coming straight back as they’d been told? Flanits mentally cursed Duke Verrakai for sending him on this hunt for a boy who was probably perfectly safe when there was a war where he might actually be useful. However wicked renegade Verrakai lords might be, surely they could not overpower so many. At least with some of the men on foot, they would not travel as fast as he with his mounted troop.

The track led to another village, where more men had joined the muster, and another. Most were on foot now, no doubt slowing down the march, and he should be catching up with them. Then the track split. A larger number, mostly on foot, had headed east, back toward Verrakai Steading. A smaller number—all mounted, by the hoofprints—continued north. Sir Flanits had no idea what lay between where he was and where the Verrakai Steading was—or what
was farther north. The sketch the steward had given him covered only the route Beclan was supposed to take. Had Beclan gone back east? That would have made sense, but who had continued north? The stupid boy and his equally stupid escort had not bothered to leave any clues. Flanits chewed his mustache in frustration.

Though he had seen nothing threatening so far, he could not push worry aside completely. The very silence and emptiness of the hills, the distance between the little clusters of poor huts, made it clear how easily a group of renegades could pass unseen. Beclan, the king’s cousin, fourth from the throne, was
somewhere
out here. Anything might happen.

Flanits looked again at the tracks. A king’s cousin wouldn’t walk—he’d ride. He’d be with riders. Perhaps he’d gotten bored with the slow pace of the others and was trying a shortcut to Harway. “We’re going north,” he said. He hoped he was right. A mounted party on the trail of a mounted party lacked the advantage of speed.