Prisoner (34 page)

"How long has Sol been a traitor?" Tiad asked.

Jaspar's long, thin fingers stroked the dark wood of his chair. Even at a cursory glance, it was easy to pick out the way those fingers shook and trembled. "When did our Brother Sol go missing? Do you remember that?"

Ormin nodded slowly. Around the room, the whispers resumed, rising occasionally into full clarity before ebbing back into whispers. "We thought him dead. He claimed a river dragged him off, and he was rescued by Salharan villagers. We checked into everything. There was no cause to doubt his story. He bears the scars of the injuries; they would have taken months to heal, even with arcen."

"That still is several months in which he could have been doing other things. I guess now we will never know."

"Why should we believe you, Brother Tawn?" Jaspar said. "I think everyone here knows of the hostility that exists between you and your brother. Without him here to defend himself, you could be playing any game. You are as sly as every deVry to ever come into the world."

Tiad rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "But that would explain Sol's absence and his lack of reports. He is not normally so remiss—indeed, I know no one more thorough. Yet we have heard not a word, and other reports state that there was quite the upheaval in Kria some time ago."

"Yes," Tawn said. "The Wolf was sentenced to die. Sol and Beraht helped him escape, and now they hide in Illussor. To what purpose, I know not." He hid a smirk.

The three men shared a look. Jaspar pulled a large vial from the depths of his cumbersome robes. His hands shook almost too hard to hold it, but a moment later they stilled, and he was able to drink the thick, dark, near-black red liquid inside it. Stowing it, he finally looked at Tawn again. "What are you scheming?"

"I merely gather the information," Tawn said. "It's your job to put it all together."

"Cease playing games."

Tawn laughed. "No one ever likes to play. You're all so impatient. But I do have one last bit of information for you, from Kria."

"Which is?"

"The Kaiser is planning to attack Illussor. I have no doubt he wants his general back—or dead."

"Yes," Ormin said. "I would imagine so. Without the Scarlet Wolf, I do not think they'll hold the Disputed Lands. The other three generals would not last long, I think."

"The Cobalt may," Tiad said. "He likes to get his hands dirty. We've lost more than a few along the border to the games he is purported to play." His red eyes slid over Tawn. "But again, Tawn, why should we believe you? It's absurd that the Krians would attempt to attack the Illussor. Magic in such quantities would crush the Krians, and it is still winter. Neither country stirs unless absolutely necessary."

Tawn smirked. "As I said, the Kaiser desperately wants his general back. For some reason, he believes he'll have an edge." He said nothing as his Brothers regarded him.

"What edge?"

"I couldn't say. After I reported to my Brothers, I was hoping to gain permission to go deeper into Illussor."

Jaspar laughed. "I admire your ambition, Tawn. That alone, I think, keeps you from being a traitor. Though I don't wonder if you're going for personal reasons as well. It must chafe that he's outwitted you."

Tawn said nothing, but he remembered the pain of every insult. Every punch, every backhand, his broken nose, and all the insults and humiliations he'd suffered while in court or on the battlefield. The melancholy Sol deVry was known for his quiet, complacent manner—except in battle or when he addressed his brother-in-law. "We've never denied we hate each other. Some differences cannot be reconciled. I will address that matter while I am there, yes. It is my right after his last insult. But I am a Seven Star Brother. My loyalty runs red."

"Indeed," Jaspar asked. "Never mind. Go take care of the traitors; find out what the Krians are thinking. If they actually succeed in taking Illussor, that will make things far too easy for us."

Tawn folded over in a lazy bow. "I will need more arcen."

"Is the need beginning to claw at you, Tawn?" Ormin asked with a mocking smile. "So easy to use, isn't it? Like having wishes granted."

"I control the arcen."

"Yes," Tiad said. "That's what we all used to say. Be careful, Brother. Arcen does not consume; it seduces." Tawn remained silent.

"Fetch it," Jaspar said. At his words, one of the shadowy figures in the room ducked away, a hidden door clicking open as he left. Jaspar eyed Tawn. "Use it wisely. This time of year, I need not remind you how precious arcen is, especially the colors you require. Let us hope that come this spring we finally take those damnable Disputed Lands. Our fields are more and more reluctant every year to take to arcen."

Beside him, Tiad swore softly; around the room voices murmured their agreement. Arcen did not like Salharan land, and each year it was more difficult to grow. The territory the Krians called the Regenbogen always flooded with arcen flowers in spring, but the Krians destroyed them almost immediately. Then the warring began all over again.

The man who had vanished before reappeared, and he handed a small, flat box to Jaspar before rejoining the shadows surrounding the dais. Jaspar held it out to Tawn. "You may have this."

It was about half the size of Tawn's hand, made of black leather and silver fastenings. He opened it, nodding approval. Five vials—three of dark orange and two of bright red. It was especially thick, he could tell at a glance. Concentrated arcen—any thicker, and it would have to be chewed.

Arcen flowers changed color with age. The youngest buds were dark violet, and with each stage of growth the color shifted, rising through the colors of the rainbow. Violet arcen was the easiest to make. It took seven full years to get to red arcen, and in so much time, a great deal could go wrong. No one outside the Brotherhood could come by it without a license that was nearly impossible to get—and a great deal of money. Fortunes had been lost to the addiction that came with the stronger colors. Up to green, there was no addiction. While in yellow, it could be fought. Orange was the point of no return.

"Though if you wanted Tawn, you could have this." Jaspar reached into his cloak again and withdrew another vial. He held it up—in the meager light of the chamber, it looked black. Even under a good light it would appear black. Only under direct sunlight did the deep red become apparent. "One sip would equal everything in that case and more."

Black arcen. It was made from the deep red petals of an arcen flower kept alive long after it should have died. It was also illegal. Anyone caught with it was put immediately to death—assuming the black arcen didn't kill them first. It was, though he hated to admit it, a sign of Jaspar's strength that he could drink it with aplomb.

At least for now. At some point his heart would simply give out—or explode. "Thank you, but no."

Jaspar laughed and returned the vial to his robe. "There will come a day, Tawn, unless you stop now."

Tawn said nothing, merely emptied the case and threw it aside. He tucked the vials away into special compartments in his boots. "If my Brothers are done with me, I have business to which I must attend."

"Then by all means go," Tiad said. "Deal with the traitors."

"As you command," Tawn said and left the room laughing.

Beraht woke with a start and spent several confused minutes trying to figure out where he was.

Illussor. His bedroom. He returned there after he'd finally convinced Esta to let them stop. She'd been deadly determined to teach him every last dance she knew and then Sol had actually taught them a few Salharan dances. That had been embarrassing, but when would he have ever learned how to dance? He wasn't like Esta or Sol or even that bastard. Ballroom dancing was something nobles learned, not nameless peasants.

Beraht shoved the stupid thoughts aside. It was… he looked out the window. Black, save for the faintest bits of moonlight. It was far too late at night or early in the morning to be awake, let alone thinking about his idiotic dancing lessons. He was cold. It must have been that which had woken him—sometime in the night he'd thrown his blankets off. Why in the stars had he done an idiotic thing like that? He climbed out of the bed to retrieve the quilts that had wound up on the floor; by the time he had everything back on the bed, he was almost hot from the exertion.

Sleep refused to return even after he'd returned to the warm blankets. He stared out the window across the room, seeing not much more than the black sky. He turned over and stared at the wall.

His mind wandered from one thought to another but refused to land on anything—not even thinking about his current situation or mulling over the bastard's treatment from a few days before, stars take him anyway.

Why couldn't he sleep?

Irritably Beraht threw off the blankets and climbed out of bed. Maybe something to drink. That had always helped when he'd been too wound up to sleep in camp. He really didn't feel like walking the distance to the kitchens, however, and he hated to wake a servant for such a thing. It still didn't sit well with him, ordering servants around. He'd kill anyone who forced him to wake up at such a hideous hour simply to fetch a drink.

Beraht played with the fire, the littlest bit of arcen left in his system enough to stoke it. Lately he had been getting strange looks—Esta had explained the Illussor were beginning to feel his raw magic. Uncorrupt, they called it. Pure, von Adolwulf liked to say in his sneering, grating tone that said quite clearly he thought Beraht the exact opposite. Stars refuse the man anyway.

With a snarl of frustration, Beraht returned to bed, shutting his eyes and willing himself to sleep. It wasn't working. Something had him wound up and too tense to relax.

But what? If it wasn't the cold which had woken him, what was it? He'd noticed nothing amiss when he'd woken except the lack of blankets. Perhaps he was losing his mind. What was he doing here, anyway? He was an unwanted Salharan with a Krian name given by a man who hated him for trying to scrape out an existence. He wasn't the sort who did things like saving people. Then again, destroying the magic upon which an entire country relied was exactly the sort of thing he did, though he'd never done it on quite on that scale.

Beraht sought desperately for something else to think about. Esta. She was pretty—and fun. Nor did she seem to mind that her hero—he snorted—was a Salharan peasant with a Krian name. At least she didn't know why he had it.

Was it so hard for that bloody bastard to understand? Who enjoyed killing men in their sleep? Certainly not he. But it had been the only way. He was useless with open combat; his skills had always been in sneaking around. It was a skill born of a desperate need for food, clothes, or whatever a scrawny kid with no name could get his hands on.

How many times had he seen the looks in the eyes of those few other nameless? A look that begged and screamed for existence. No one had ever given it to them, and a nameless could not give what he didn't have.

Now he was stuck with a Krian name. What existence was there in that? He was still no one; he was the Breaker only until he did it. Assuming he lived afterwards, he would return to being nothing. There was no welcome for someone who ruined lives that way. No wonder they couldn't use an Illussor for the job—never mind the claim that they couldn't find one.

It was much easier to blame it all on a Salharan. Esta had not struck him as being that cruel, but then again, Beraht had greatly admired the Captain who had, upon his death, made his nameless lieutenant a Seven Star Brother. He'd been convinced that meant he was worth something—only to find out he had simply been the most expedient, secure way to return the Seven Star Mark to the Brothers.

Beraht buried his head in his pillow. Stirring up things he'd like to forget was
not
going to improve his chances of going back to sleep. Wrestling with the unhappy thoughts proved exhausting, however, and he did not even notice when he drifted off several minutes later.

*~*~*

Beraht
.

This time, he did not wake up with a start. He murmured softly, turned toward the soft voice. It was both near and far, almost intimate, though he could not determine why.

Beraht. Come.

He moved slowly, sliding out of bed and putting his boots on. He was still asleep, though his eyes were open. Beraht put on his clothes and boots then he left the room.

Behind him another door opened. Beraht didn't notice as he continued to walk slowly and stiffly, following the sound of the near-far voice calling to him through the palace, down the stairs, and out through the garden.

From the pocket of his jacket he pulled a key that had been given to him by Matthias only the day before. He had been given strict instructions not to go into the tunnel unless Matthias or Esta was with him, but they'd also wanted him to have access should anything happen.

He continued to walk, traveling the dark stairs and darker underground tunnel as though he had done so all his life. His movements were slow and heavy, punctuated by the fact that he was still asleep.

Were he awake, he would have noticed the figure behind following him, but asleep, he would not have noticed even a man standing right in front of him. He walked on, slow but unhesitating. The door at the end made him pause as he fumbled in his jacket for the second key Matthias had trusted to him. A minute later he opened it and walked into the Crystal Chamber.