The High King's Golden Tongue (Love Is Always Write) (3 page)

He kept walking, until he reached one of two doors on the east wall. One led to the private chambers of the consort—empty now for the past six years. The other led to the nursery.

The nurse looked up as he entered, and then bowed her head. He smiled absently, and went to the beds to look at his sons. Nyle was four, Bellen three, birthed by women who had been happy to do their duty and go on their way wealthy women.

Bellen had his face half-buried in a large cloth dragon filled with feathers. He never went anywhere without the silly thing, and Sarrica already dreaded the day that he would have to take it away to begin Bellen's training.

He was not his brash brother, already so much trouble at four. Sarrica worried what that temper would do when Nyle grew into it. Hopefully soldierly discipline would temper it.

Stifling a sigh, he smoothed Bellen's hair and untangled Nyle's blankets, and smiled at the nurse before departing. In his chambers, his manservant was already thoroughly engaged in packing his bags. "Make certain sufficient court clothes are packed, but suitable for the climate."

"Of course your Majesty."

The affronted tone made Sarrica smile fleetingly. He went to the enormous windows his guards hated and stared at the dark, snowy mountains in the distance. He would raze every last peak if that was what it took to find Allen and bring Cartha to heel once and for all.

His door opened, and Sarrica turned, hand going to his sword—and relaxed when he saw it was only Lesto. "Have they finalized plans already? That would be unusually swift."

"Circumstances necessitate it," Lesto replied. "Prince Allen's life depends on swift, sure action ... as does Rene's," he added quietly.

"We'll get him back," Sarrica said. "Whatever it takes. You've been my family, both of you, since we met all those years ago."

Lesto smiled faintly. "You scarce noticed us. You were entirely too busy admiring Nyle."

"I noticed eventually," Sarrica replied, thoughts of Nyle stirring an old ache. But thoughts of his dead lover only led him right back to the consort he had so cruelly rejected. "How did I not know Prince Allen was a silver tongue?"

After a moment of hesitation, Lesto said, "Honestly, Sarrica, I would be astonished if you recall the color of his hair. You have made it very clear the past year that you have no interest in taking a consort. We have rattled off candidate after candidate, only for you to reject them unseen. We managed to get Prince Allen here only by going behind your back. Five minutes into the meeting, you made a mockery of him and threw him out."

Sarrica winced. "I do not deny I was a bastard, and deserve whatever I get. I... " he hadn't wanted to finally surrender Nyle. Bad enough held sired children, but to give up entirely and take a consort...

"My brother would be the first to tell you to stop sulking and move on. Prince Allen is a fine candidate."

"He looked as though holding a sword would overbalance him," Sarrica said. "I don't want my children raised by a simpering bird of court."

Lesto made a frustrated noise. "If you looked at him and saw simpering, then you are a fool, Sarrica. When next you cross paths with your fiancé, I suggest you really look at him and give him a fair chance. But for the record, his hair is brown, his eyes are blue, and according to the paperwork he speaks twelve languages. We are leaving within the hour unless you've objections."

"No objections," Sarrica replied, and began to strip out of his ornate court clothes as his manservant brought travel clothes and his lightweight armor. "Did the healers get a chance to compose a list of possible poisons?"

Nodding, Lesto pulled out a small sheet of paper and rattled off several names. "Common enough poisons for such uses, though I worry Cartha has its own strains. Various antidotes are being packed, and dispersed amongst the men. We're taking only a small group, thirty men all told, all mine. The regular armies will remain here to counter the attack. I could kiss your fiancé myself, for providing such priceless information."

Sarrica grunted in amusement. "You could, but you won't."

"I don't think you're yet allowed to dictate who gets his favors."

"I am at least smart enough to know I should work to change that," Sarrica replied. He stood still as his manservant strapped and buckled his leather armor into place. Taking the sword belt he held out, Sarrica buckled it into place himself, then settled his sword, dagger, and pouches into place. Accepting the cloak held out to him, he swung it over his shoulders and secured it with a cast iron pin shaped like a gryphon with ruby eyes.

Ready, he led the way from his rooms and through the palace to the courtyard where everyone else was already gathered. "Supplies will follow behind us," Lesto said.

Sarrica nodded and swung up into the saddle of his favorite warhorse-. Fortunately, it was also the best one for the mountains, until the way grew too difficult for horses. When all seemed ready, he gave the signal and rode off, headed with all possible speed for the Cartha Mountains.

Allen grit his teeth against a cry of pain as he was unchained from the whipping post. He passed out as they dragged him away, but roused again while their poor excuse of a healer looked over his shredded back. "You would cease to suffer if you would just tell us what you were doing in the mountains."

"I don't know, as I have told you countless times," Allen replied, not bothering to open his eyes. Just the thought of looking into the bastard's oily face churned his stomach. He shuddered as fingers slid over his scalp, stupidly missing the hair he had cut to better blend in with the mercenaries. "I am new to the Dragons. They hired me the very day they set out. The Captain did not yet trust me enough to divulge the mission to me. I knew only that we were to barter for passage through the Shadow Pass. Beating me will not grant me new knowledge."

"We shall see. Treat him and return him to his cell. When will he be fit for more questioning?"

The healer replied, "I would let him rest at least three days, your grace. Anything sooner and the injuries may be too much. He's no soldier, to handle such abuse."

"And yet, his body bears the scars of many lashings. Two days." Not waiting for a reply, he left, leaving Allen and the healer alone.

Sighing softly, the healer began to treat the wounds. Allen grit his teeth again through the ordeal, fading in and out of consciousness. He wasn't sure how much more he could take, but if they gave up on him they would turn to the others. The only thing sparring them was the fact they could not speak Tricemore, and Cartha had no translators of their own up to the task.

He hoped fervently that his message had gotten through, that the exhausting efforts he and Rene had made had not been in vain. It was only by the grace of the Pantheon that Benta had chosen to send one of the Dragons as a messenger, rather than one of their own people.

The messenger had left two days ago, and if nothing impeded him he should have arrived at the palace already. Allen wondered what Sarrica would choose to do; wiser to leave them to rot, or attempt to send soldiers on the sly. He was not looking forward to the conversation he would be having with Sarrica if he survived and made it back to the palace, but he'd rather have the conversation than be dead.

Unfortunately, he could not really see the man who had so meanly thrown him out of court risking himself and his precious soldiers for mercs and a consort he did not want.  His death would anger his parents, but kings had smoothed over greater problems.

At least he'd die knowing he'd done his best to pass on vital information.

He passed out again, overcome by the pain caused by the healer's none-too-gentle touch. When he stirred again, it was to the sound of someone saying his name. The voice wasn't familiar, but he definitely knew the accent:  the speaker was from the palace.

Disbelief and hope made it suddenly hard to breathe, and Allen dragged his eyes open dreading he was just hallucinating. But the soldiers, dressed in the dark blue uniform of the High King's personal guard, were very real. They spoke tersely with the healer, who rambled back, and it was clear they were only barely understanding each other.

Allen tried to speak up, translate, but even trying to sit up was too much for him. He slumped back down and closed his eyes, longing for a day when he need no longer fear a lash. He had thought, when he was summoned to the court of the High King, that the day had finally come.

Of course, he reminded himself, he would be just fine if he had not broken every rule he'd ever been taught simply to prove a point. He had acted selfishly, and against the well-being of the kingdom. He should not have risked so much just to soothe his hurt feelings.

Seeing he was awake, one of the soldiers looked at him and asked, "You are Allen, the silver tongue assigned to the Three-headed Dragons, yes?"

"Yes, I am," Allen replied.

"Then we are taking him," the other soldier said to the healer, saying the words in stiff Tricemore. "The High King demands to see all the captives, to assure himself the Duke of Amorlay has not lied to him. Do not argue, old man."

Brushing the healer aside, they bent to look over Allen's injuries themselves. He could see by their expressions that they knew exactly who he was—and how displeased Sarrica would be when he saw what had been done to him.

On the other hand, the torture of a prince of the realm was all the excuse Sarrica needed to do whatever he wanted to Cartha and Benta. "Can you stand, or..."

"I'll need help," Allen said, wondering if Sarrica would hold his injuries against him, would see him as weak. No doubt soldiers took such beatings better. He bit back a cry of pain as the soldiers helped him to his feet. Gentle though they were, it still hurt. Allen went in and out of consciousness as they slowly made their way through the cold fortress to the great hall.

When they arrived, he was acutely aware that he was barely dressed and covered in lash marks, dripping blood and sweat. He swayed on his feet, grateful for the way the soldiers kept firm grip on his arms.

Every pair of eyes in the hall was on him, but Allen had eyes only for Sarrica. Looking at him, handsome and fierce, was unexpectedly soothing. Whatever anger and bitterness he still felt was, at least temporarily, overcome by relief that the beatings were over and he stood a chance of going home. Whether back to the High King's palace or his parents', he didn't know. But he would be away from the gods-forsaken mountains.

Sarrica looked furious as he strode across the hall, spurs jangling fiercely. He circled around Allen, examining his injuries, and finally stopped in front of him as he faced down the Cartha Chief and the Duke of Amorlay. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "I answered your summons; you had no right to torture him."

"Your men had no business in the mountains, and certainly they had no business trying to sneak through Shadow Pass. We had every right to extract information from the soldiers."

"I might have let you live, if you had tortured a soldier," Sarrica replied. "I would have beaten you and imprisoned you, but I might have let you live. However, this man is no soldier—he is Prince Allen Gaulden, of the kingdom of Gaulden, and my future consort. For torturing a prince of the realm, the penalty is death."

His men moved at his words, and the fact that they lacked weapons—likely taken from them upon arrival—seemed to be no impediment. They moved faster than Allen could follow in his pain-hazed state, and within minutes the Carthans were all dead with the Duke of Amorlay and his fellow Benta's captured.

Sarrica gestured to the men restraining the Duke and his fellows. "Take them and the head of the Duke to the border. Inform Benta that I consider this a declaration of war."

"Yes, Majesty," the soldiers replied, and dragged away a pale-faced Duke to carry out orders.

Turning back to Allen, Sarrica addressed the soldiers still with him. "Take him to the Duke's quarters—my quarters." He held up a hand for them to stay where they were for a moment, and turned to the man approaching them, the marks of a Captain on his tunic. "Lesto, when is the rest of the army arriving?"

"They should be here by nightfall, Majesty."

"Send a third of them to secure Shadow Pass. Send out a messenger to order troops from the regular army. I also want the Fathoms Deep mercenaries; they're experienced in fighting in this type of terrain."

"Yes, Majesty."

Sarrica nodded, dismissing him, and turned back to Allen. "We will speak later, after I am done sorting out this mess. Is there anything you need?"

Though he knew it would probably only lessen Sarrica's opinion of him, Allen could not endure the pain a moment longer. "Pain medication, if there is any to be had. My wounds are treated, but the Duke refused to allow anyone to dull the pain. Do not trust their foodstuffs; these people are absurdly fond of their poisons. I think they've been drugging Rene and the others to keep them compliant."

"Thank you," Sarrica said, and then startled Allen by reaching out to lightly touch his fingertips to Allen's cheek. "Go and rest. I apologize for all that you have suffered."

He walked off before Allen could reply. Not that he knew what to say—the man before him was not the bastard who had thrown him out of court. Allen went along gladly as the soldier led him away, up a flight of stairs to the large, private room that had only recently belonged to the Duke.

They helped him into the enormous bed, and it was the softest, warmest thing Allen had felt in months. He distantly heard the guards bid him sleep well, but was asleep before he could muster a reply.

It was dark when he woke, only a candle by the bed and the flickering fire casting light upon the room. Allen groaned, tried to wake up, but his head felt distinctly fuzzy.

"Careful," a deep voice said, and a calloused hand rested carefully at the small of his back where the damage was minimal. The Duke had definitely preferred to strike higher up, where the whip would curl around to hit his chest, his shoulders, occasionally his throat. "You might feel a tad cloud-headed, from the medicine. But hopefully you are in little to no pain."