Veil of Shadows (38 page)

Off in the distance, she caught the faintest hint of a familiar sound. Hooves pounding hard and fast. And another sound, the pulse and roar of caribins, quite a few.

A Sirvani approached the Warlord from behind. His voice was low, but not so low Syn didn’t understand his words. “Lord Reil, the offworlders approach. Have you any orders?”

Syn could just barely see the man’s face if she turned her head just so. Something crossed his face and he inclined his head. But before he could speak, the roar of caribins surrounded them and Syn saw why only a second later. Kalen and Bron had flown theirs straight up the mountainside—as they cleared the edge, they leaped from the caribins, letting the transports crash to the ground.

Both of them were armed and they settled in flanking positions, one at Syn’s side, one at Xanthe’s. “You’re in my territory, Warlord,” Kalen said, baring his teeth at Lord Reil. “You know what I do to Warlords who invade my territory?”

As more of the rebel army arrived, Xanthe allowed himself to breathe. Adrenaline crashed through him, drawing his muscles tight, sharpening his focus. He ached for blood, but one man alone could never fight this many warriors. From the corner of his eye, he saw Syn’s slender back, straight and unyielding. He hadn’t been alone, though. Syn had placed herself at his back—ready to fight with him.

Did it mean anything?

“Lord Reil.”

The Warlord turned his head at the sound of his name. Xanthe watched as the blond healer Morne broke through the rebels and strode forward, standing before the Warlord.

Reil’s eyes narrowed. “Morne Ramire. You live.”

“Yes. I do.” He glanced at Kalen. Kalen’s jaw clenched, but then he gave a short nod. Morne inclined his head and looked back at the Warlord. “Now the question is . . . will you? Your men, you, you can walk away. Or we can fight it out.” Then he drew a blade and said, “But if we fight, know this—you will die. As will many of your men. So choose.”

“Ah, so it’s a traitor before me.”

Morne shook his head. “I am no traitor—my allegiance lay with my brother, and he is gone. I chose who I ally with, and I’ve been allied with these men and women for nearly three decades. I offer you an honorable choice—an honorable bargain. We all walk away. If we fight, yes, we will have the loss of life. But you are not in your world. You have naught but the men at your side. We have hundreds in the camp below. You will be wiped out.”

“And the price to walk away?”

“You’re an honorable lord. I had heard this, even though I have been away from my home world for many years. I ask simply for your word. You walk away—and you make no move to capture any of our men, any of our witches, any of our people, period.”

“A bloodless battle.” After the Warlords had cleared out, Kalen turned and stared at Morne, his expression a mixture of disgust and shock. “I don’t know if I should be shocked or pissed.”

Syn understood completely. Warlords had walked away. They had
let
the Warlords walk away.

“They walked away,” Bron said, echoing her thoughts with a disbelieving shake of his head.

“Lord Reil is not a foolish man.” Laithe emerged from the gathered men to stand at Xanthe’s side.

Xanthe kicked a leg over the baern’s back. “Hello, brother.”

Brother
—

Brothers. The look the two of them had shared just before Dais’s words had sent her world crumpling around her. Brothers.

They clasped each other’s forearms, and Laithe leaned in, murmured something soft, too quiet for even Syn’s sensitive ears to hear. Xanthe backed away and shook his head.

Off to the side, Kalen had a disgruntled look on his face. “Brother. Fuck.” He shot Morne a dark look and said, “Please tell me that is just a bloody way of greeting and that he is not in fact a
second
brother.”

“They are twins.” Morne looked all too amused as he returned Kalen’s stare. “They were once the very terrors of the High City, when they were young.”

Kalen swore, long and hard. Sheathing his pulsar, he turned and started to pace around the narrowing clearing.

If Syn hadn’t been so tangled inside, she might have enjoyed seeing her commander look so out of sorts.

As it was, all she could do was stare at Xanthe. Twins—they looked absolutely nothing alike. One light and fair, the other darker than a shadow. But they moved alike, she realized. And they both shared that faint, almost nonexistent smile.

And Lee.

Both of them were Lee’s brothers.
Xanthe
was Lee’s brother. Whatever in the hell a Battlelord was, he was Lee’s brother, her blood. According to Morne, that meant a whole hell of a lot.

“What’s a Battlelord?” she asked, surprised she managed to sound somewhat calm and collected. Her voice was slightly hoarse, but it hadn’t been that long ago she’d cried herself dry. She felt as though she had been
wrung
dry, drained and so very empty.

Xanthe’s gaze met hers. He stared at her as though he wished to memorize her, commit every feature to his memory . . . like nothing else existed for him . . . save her.

Seconds ticked away and finally he spoke, his voice low. “A Battlelord is a Warlord who has renounced all magics, all ties of loyalty, save for those of his family. I’m a mercenary.”

“A mercenary. Well, that’s certainly a surprise,” she muttered, looking away.

Bron snorted and clapped Kalen on the shoulder. “Well, a mercenary is a damn sight better to have as a brother-in-law than a Warlord.” He shot Xanthe a narrow look and then shifted his gaze to Laithe. “I don’t know how in the hell we’re supposed to deal with
that
one, though.”

Kalen grunted. “We deal by getting back to camp.” He looked at Morne and said, “Will they keep their word? They will not attack?”

“Not under Reil’s authority. In time, there may be some defectors, but nothing we cannot handle. He gave his word, though, and once given, Warlords do not go back on a vow.” He glanced at Syn.

Her heart froze, as Morne murmured, “Warlords, Battlelords, they honor their vows unto death. They do not lie.”

Memory swamped her.

Blood roared in her ears and she found herself staring at Xanthe, even though it hurt to do so.

Staring at him, lost in him. She didn’t even realize the others were leaving until Kalen paused at her side and touched the back of her hand lightly. “I’m leaving men near the perimeter to guard.” Then he slanted a look at Xanthe, a scowl twisting his hard mouth. “But take some time. He . . .”

Then he blew out a breath. A dull, ruddy flush stained his cheeks red and he closed his fingers around her hand, gripping it as he projected into her mind.
“Morne said he thought of nothing but getting to you—protecting you. Whatever, whoever he is, he cares for you
.
”
Then he broke the contact and strode away.

Moments later, they were alone.

Alone, and Syn had absolutely no idea what to say to the man before her. A Battlelord—for crying out loud, she’d never so much as heard the term before. A fucking mercenary, she would just call him a mercenary. Now,
that
she understood.

“Why did you come to the camp?” she asked, forcing the question out, even though she already suspected she knew the answer.

Xanthe’s lashes flickered. “My father sent word to me, only moments before he died. He knew where my sister was—a girl I’d long thought was dead. She was my blood—it was my duty to seek her out, see her safe. Once I learned what she was, there was little doubt in my mind—her only chance at safety lies
here
in this world. In Anqar, she’d be fought over like some coveted prize. Wars might even start over her. My mother would have abhorred the idea—
I
abhorred it.”

“Why? You’re a damn mercenary. What does it matter to you?”

His eye narrowed to a slit. “A Battlelord isn’t a hired thug, Captain. I name my own price, and up until the price is agreed upon, I may walk away from any offer made to me. And I’ve walked away often. Unlike Warlords and Sirvani, I am not bound to a liege lord. I hold allegiance only to myself and my blood.”

“Name your own price, huh? So that’s what that bastard meant when he said you could name your own price if you turned me over to him.”

Xanthe looked away. “Yes.”

Pain tore at her.
Why? Why didn’t you tell me?

But in her heart, she knew she might not have listened. No matter how he came about it, she didn’t know if she would have heard anything beyond,
I am from Anqar.

“So what am I worth?” she asked, curling her lip at him, trying to find anger inside. Rage. Anything . . .
anything
would be better than this hideous, awful ache inside her soul. “A bagful of gold? Lands? Exactly what do your kind use when bartering over slaves?”

“I own no slaves. Battlelords renounce
all
authority, Captain. I have no authority over any soul save those I accept a contract on, and none have authority over me, outside of those contracts. I’ve never owned slaves.”

“Why?”

His gaze went hot. “My mother was a slave. I never understood it until I was older—long after she’d left us, stealing Lenena away to protect her from that sort of life. But she was a slave, and she wanted better than that for her daughter—my sister. Because of how my kind live, I lost my mother
and
my sister.” He brushed the tips of his fingers over the patch that covered his scars and missing eye. “You ask how this happened—I’ll tell you now. The boy-children who show promise of any sort of Gate magic are removed from their mother’s care young—very young—and placed into training. We start out fighting each other, and as we improve, we fight others who are older, faster. By the time I was ten, I was faster and stronger than most others in my faction. I was placed in the training arena to spar with an offworlder. I didn’t know who he was—I was just told to fight him, and that is what I did. I fought him, and I hurt him. Then I was told to kill him. I wouldn’t. The training master hauled him out of the arena and drew his knife—
he
would kill him, he told me. It would toughen me up, prepare me for the duties I had before me. I tried to stop him and his blade caught my eye. He killed the boy anyway and when I demanded to know why, I was told he was naught but a slave, and an offworld male at that. Training and death was all he had to offer.”

Xanthe’s mouth curled in disgust and he muttered, “
All
he had to offer. As I lay in my bed, half sick with fever, and then recovering from the surgery to remove my eye after infection settled in, all I could think about was that boy and what the training master had said.

“He was just a boy,” Xanthe said, his voice achingly sad. “Just a boy, closer to manhood than I had been, young and scared, but strong. He could have beaten me—I knew it then. I knew it as I fought him that he allowed me to win. He did not want to harm someone younger. Even though he was terrified, even though he’d been forced into that arena, he had too much honor to harm someone younger and weaker.”

He shot Syn a narrow glance and said, “That is why the training master wanted him dead, you see. The master
knew
he had been going easy on me. He thought it marked the slave as soft, so he sought to punish him for it. Because he didn’t beat me senseless, he lost his life. I promised myself, then and there, I would never lay
ownership
to another living soul. I renounced all claim to my lineage, renounced all magic.”

“All magic.”

He gave a single, short nod. “Aye. All. Until I came into this world, I’ve never so much as seen it—or if I have, it was so long ago that I’d forgotten.”