Traitor to the Blood

CHAPTER FOUR

As Magiere pulled Port and Imp to a stop outside of Venjetz, she wished Leesil had warned them of the markers lining its outer wall.

Heads in varied states of decay were spitted on regularly spaced iron spikes high on the stone. One iron crow's cage hung from the rampart upon a chain, the body within rotted and pecked down to exposed bone. The dangling cage was more unsettling than the other warnings. A dead man's head on a spike was still a dead man. Anyone locked in a crow's cage would still be alive. For a while.

Leesil sat silently beside Magiere on the wagon's bench, as if the heads were common things not worth noting. She looked away from the crow's cage but found herself staring at one skull, denuded of flesh, with hollow black holes for eyes and jaw dangling low.

This is the world my Leesil was born into.

Wynn choked as she averted her face. Magiere wasn't one to coddle the sage, but she reached back to pull Wynn's hood over her eyes.

"Don't look up," she said. "We'll be inside soon."

"Traitors," Leesil said, watching the crow's cage spin slightly in the low wind. "Or those he accused as such. Cold weather keeps the stench down. In summer you can smell it before the walls are in sight."

Magiere knew the "he" Leesil spoke of was Darmouth. She kept up her calm front, though she still worried over Leesil's strange withdrawal since entering this land.

"Pull your hood forward, around your face!" she told him. "Maybe no peasants have mentioned your eyes, but there may still be a guardsman or two left alive who'd remember a half-elf."

Chap whined and shoved his head across the wagon's bench between Magiere and Leesil.

"Get down," she told the dog. "You attract almost as much attention as he does."

Chap dropped back into the wagon's bed, turned a circle, and curled in the corner below the bench. He lifted his head with perked ears, looking to Wynn, but the young sage had her own head down. When he whined again, she looked over at him. She was strangely hesitant, but then crawled across to cuddle next to him, burying her hands in the fur of his back.

Magiere braced herself to enter the warlord's capital. When she clucked to Port and Imp, and they rounded the curve of the city wall, there was a line of six carts and wagons waiting to enter. As they drew up at the back of the line, she caught sight of vehicles waiting inside to exit. The two-wheeled cart in front of her was filled with grain sacks.

"Venjetz is the center of trade within this province," Leesil said, his face hidden inside his hood. "They buy or sell almost anything here, but you need to show reason for entering. Written permission from the military is required to set up residence. Artisans, blacksmiths, carpenters- anyone with tools and a skill-are accepted. Peasants aren't allowed in except to trade their harvest. They're given two days to finish and get out."

"Why is this?" Wynn whispered.

"The city would be overrun with refugees, more so now, I'd guess. There aren't enough necessities to support thousands with no skills. If you can contribute, you're accepted. Otherwise you're leaving… one way or another."

He fell silent as Magiere drove their wagon up to the gatehouse. A young guard in a leather hauberk with no crest or surcoat approached them. He eyed Port and Imp briefly, running his hand through Port's lush coat.

"Fine horses," he said. "What's your business?"

His tone was short but not rude, and Magiere held up an empty canvas sack. "Passing through. We need to resupply in your market."

Leesil had told her what to do. She opened their money pouch to show the guard its contents. Leesil had removed most of the coins before they arrived, especially any gold that was left. Commerce bringing currency to the city was welcome, but too large a coin purse would be suspect.

The guard glanced into the purse, nodded, and waved her through. And so they entered the city where Leesil grew up.

Magiere wanted to take his hand but let him be for now. In the last few nights he'd barely touched her as they fell asleep. His thoughts were lost somewhere here in his past. She could follow him to this place, but she couldn't find where he hid inside of himself-hid from her.

They passed a large stable on the left. Straight ahead was a row of eateries, inns, and two taverns, all positioned to be found easily by travelers. Most folk either walked about or traveled in wagons. Motley-garbed soldiers patrolled on foot in twos and threes, while only a few with better armor rode horses.

Venjetz had grown over many decades upon a plateau among the hills. To the city's northeast side, Darmouth's square-block keep rose into sight above the rooftops. The most heavily populated cities, like Bela, were settled upon rocky rises of land with the castle and grounds dead center at the top, towering above all else. Here, Darmouth's keep rested offshore in a large lake, with its front portal connected to the shore by a fortified stone bridge. It would be a hard place to siege.

Magiere glanced over her shoulder as Wynn lifted her head to look about. The sage was still pale but crawled over to sit behind the wagon's bench.

"How did they build a keep inside of a lake?"

"It wasn't built in the water," Leesil replied. "More than a century back, a self-titled king named Timeron had it constructed on dry ground. Several streams and a small river up in the mountains were then diverted. Water flooded in to surround it."

"Oh," Wynn replied, and looked about the dingy city. "Where do we begin?"

Leesil fell quiet for a moment. "My old house by the lakeshore."

Magiere glanced at him with doubt. "It's been eight years. Someone else will be living there, if the house still remains."

"It'll be there, and I need only a moment inside."

She pursed her lips and hoped he wasn't planning to steal into someone else's home. Chap whined and began pawing at Wynn's pack.

"Wait, please stop," Wynn said. "He wants to tell us something."

Magiere snorted in disgust and didn't pull in the horses. "Probably about food, no doubt."

Wynn retrieved the "talking hide" and rolled it out in an open space in the wagon's back. It was a large squarely trimmed hide on which were painted rows and columns of elvish symbols. To "speak" with his companions, Chap would point to the correct symbol and Wynn would translate.

"Not necessarily," Wynn replied. "He may have advice concerning Leesil's plans."

Magiere peered over her shoulder as Chap pawed the symbols, and Wynn followed with her eyes.

"Oh, Chap!" Wynn blurted out, and snatched up the hide. "He smelled sausages back there and wants to stop."

"What did I tell you?" Magiere said.

"Why do you always think of food at the worst possible times?" Wynn griped at the dog.

Chap returned her a whiny growl and a lick of his nose.

Wynn grew serious again and leaned closer to Leesil. "Will there be any more… anything like outside?"

"Only at the keep walls," Leesil replied, "if someone of importance was recently tried and executed."

"A trial?" Magiere asked.

"A figure of speech," Leesil answered. "Bodies left within the city would be a health hazard. Darmouth enjoys warning all who enter, but he wouldn't risk spreading disease here. But be careful, as the military has a free hand in Venjetz. No one questions their decisions, even if a death is involved."

Wynn huddled back down. In midafternoon, the air was still cold enough that they could see one another's breath, and hers was quick and shallow.

"Head for the keep and the lakeshore," Leesil said, motioning Magiere forward. "Then down Favor's Row. It's where Darmouth's favored are housed, meaning those kept close under his watch."

Magiere clucked the horses into a side street, carefully avoiding citizens walking along the way. It hadn't occurred to her that Leesil might have grown up in the shadow of a keep, as she had in Chemestuk. For some reason she'd pictured him living on the forest's edge, though she'd never asked him about it. It made more sense that he'd remained well within reach of his lord and master.

They passed dwellings and shops, and wove through a small open market filled with croaking hawkers selling wares and the warm smells of meat pies and sausage. Chap groaned in misery, but everyone ignored him as the wagon moved on.

Wynn sucked in a deep breath as they emerged onto a wide cobbled road running around the lake. Magiere frowned at what she saw.

Ahead was a two-story gatehouse to a masoned bridge running out into the lake. Two more high archways marked its span outward to the four-towered block keep sprouting from the water to four or five levels in height. It wasn't the castle of Bela or even the Droevinkan grand prince's stronghold, but it made a weighty impression. The bridge was wide enough for a wagon with room to spare. Where it met the keep's portcullis there appeared to be a lowered drawbridge connecting the fortification to the bridge.

Soldiers paced the bridge, and more were atop the gatehouse and the two arches along its reach to the keep. A few were out along the cobbled road, but none paid undue attention to their wagon.

"Turn left," Leesil instructed, gesturing with one finger. "The fifth one down, but don't stop until I tell you."

Magiere pulled the left rein with a soft snap, and the horses turned down the cobbled road.

There were no buildings within a stone's throw of the gatehouse, but beyond that they were packed along the lake. Dwellings of varied height and make, stone and timber, walled the shoreline. Though not the lavish dwellings of Bela's elite, they were far more than the hovel Magiere had shared as a child with Aunt Bieja. The fifth one was no exception.

A clean gray-stone foundation rose to the sills of the ground-floor windows. The timber plank walls were smooth, not quick-cut, like those used to rebuild the Sea Lion tavern. Whitewashed shutters framed windows with glass panes. At the end of the cobbled walkway up to the house, dormant rosebushes framed a large oak door.

Magiere stared.

Leesil's voice was soft and hollow. "Not what you expected?"

She didn't answer; nor did she pull the wagon to a halt, but drove past. No, it was not at all what she'd expected for Leesil's home in a place called the Warlands.

"What now?" she asked.

"Turn onto the next side street." Leesil leaned around toward Wynn. "Take some pears and go to the front door. Knock to see if anyone is home."

"But…" Wynn glanced nervously at the house. "What if someone answers?"

"That's what the pears are for," he said. "Tell them a silver penny for the lot, and take it if they agree. More than likely they'll slam the door in your face."

The sage nodded apprehensively. Magiere reached the side street and turned the horses. There was barely enough room to fit between the buildings, and she pulled to a stop once the wagon's rear was beyond the corner.

"I am not certain of this," Wynn said. "Is this where Darmouth houses people like… you and your parents?"

"As we passed, I got a look through the front window. There's a shield on the wall over the hearth. Likely one of Darmouth's officers lives there now. All I need from you is to see if anyone is at home. Take Chap, if you like."

Wynn nodded hesitantly and gathered pears into a small burlap bag. As she slipped out of the wagon, Chap hopped down to follow, and both turned the corner out of sight.

Leesil quietly climbed over the bench to the wagon's tail, and Magiere followed. They could just see the house from their vantage point. Wynn scurried up to the front door, knocked, and waited, both hands clutching the sack to her chest. Chap paced behind her with raised ears as he looked along the street.

Wynn raised a hand to knock again, but didn't. Instead she stepped slowly around one barren rosebush and up to the front window to peer inside. Chap became agitated, lunging out to the street's edge, turning both ways. He trotted back to snatch the hem of Wynn's coat in his teeth.

"What is she doing?" Magiere whispered.

Leesil tried to step off the wagon, but she grabbed his shoulder, holding him back.

Wynn turned and jerked her coat from Chap's teeth. When he trotted a few paces away, then stopped to look back, she followed him. They both returned to climb up in the wagon.

"No one appears to be home," she breathed, her face pink from the cold air. "I do not think anyone has been there in some time. There is a helmet on the floor, and dust has gathered on it."

Leesil glanced once at the house and then spun on his haunches to unlash the travel chest tied down in the wagon's bed. He rummaged through it and withdrew a long, narrow box.

"Oh, no." Magiere shook her head. "You're not breaking into a house less than a hundred paces from Darmouth's keep."

He ignored her and opened the box. Instead of pulling thin wire hooks from its lid panel, he used a fingernail to pry up the lid's lining and slipped out a small object from beneath it.

"I don't need to break in," he said. "I have the key." With his box hidden beneath his cloak, he dropped out of the wagon, landing lightly on the ground.

Magiere climbed out, wondering why Leesil had kept the key all these years. "Wynn, you wait here with Chap."

There was no one in sight along the side street, but Magiere eyed the cobbled road before following Leesil across to the house. He crept down the narrow space between it and the next building, and she kept close as they stepped out at the back.

As Leesil slipped the key into the back door, Magiere saw the lake's edge ten paces off-and the keep looming out of the water. No shed, nor trees, or anything at all blocked her view. They were in plain sight of Darmouth's stronghold.

Magiere crouched low. Before she snatched Leesil to drag him back down the side path, the lock clicked and he ducked inside the house. Magiere followed, shutting the door behind them, but not without a scowl for Leesil's recklessness.

The kitchen hearth was bare of any fire's remains, but it was still warmer inside away from the winter breeze. Magiere's curiosity overrode her irritation, and she looked about the home of Leesil's childhood.

A crafted iron stove stood to one side, likely added after the place had been built with its original cooking hearth. There was a floor hatch in the rear corner to the left of the door. This was all she had time to note, as Leesil headed through the house.

The next room held a table and high-backed chairs of stout walnut. Beneath the thin layer of dust, Magiere judged they were smooth and well finished. A matching cabinet reaching to the ceiling stood against the far wall. The wide archway to the front room was trimmed in the same wood and carved with squared spiral patterns from one side to the other. No other fixtures were present in the meal room.

Sparse but rich furnishings, all tainted with dust. Magiere wondered what had happened to the inhabitants.

"Is this what it looked like when you lived here?" she whispered.

Leesil pulled back his hood and headed through the archway. "The house is the same, nothing else."

His voice was too calm. Magiere imagined he'd spent most of his days in this city hidden away beneath a hood or some covering. He looked odd now with his long white-blond hair completely tucked under the scarf, but his narrow face and amber eyes were so impassive.

A braided rug lay in the middle of the front room's wood floor. Below the front window stood a divan. Its dark leather covering was meticulously mounted by an even row of polished brass nails binding it to the walnut frame. Nearby was the steel helmet Wynn had mentioned. A round target shield hung above the small empty hearth. Beyond these remains the room was empty, yet whoever had vacated this place sometime ago hadn't taken the last of their belongings.

Leesil headed for a smaller archway, and Magiere spotted the heavy front door beyond it. He turned around the archway's side, away from the door, and disappeared. She hurried after to find stairs to the next floor, and Leesil already up to the first landing above. She tried to step quietly as she followed. The stairs continued up another level, but he stood in the hallway, staring through a door left ajar.

The long room within was furnished with a large four-poster bed covered in a thick comforter. The other furnishings here, from the dresser and polished silver mirror to the wide chest at the foot of the bed, seemed undisturbed and in place. The last residents had left in a hurry.

Magiere noticed that Leesil wasn't looking at the room's contents. He stared toward the rear wall, and she followed his gaze.

There was a window seat, soft cushions of burgundy in place and heavy cream curtains left open. Through the glass, Magiere saw only the distant forest across the lake. She couldn't tell what kept Leesil there, as if waiting. Then he dropped his gaze with a deep silent breath and turned back to the stairs.

Instead of rounding the banister to head upward, he climbed the rail from the outside, hooked his leg over it, and leaned out to the ceiling above the hallway.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

Suspended in the hall's center was an oil lamp that could be lowered by a cord tied off at the side wall. Leesil reached for the ceiling mount where the cord passed through an iron ring. He twisted the mount. When it came away in his hand, he lowered the mount and lantern to Magiere, then reached into the ceiling hole.

His expression shifted suddenly to relief and then disappointment. Magiere set the lantern down, stepping under him to peer up, but she couldn't see into the hole even after he pulled his hand out.

"No note or message," he said, "but the hidden coin pouch is gone. There's no sign of a hasty search or tampering with the lamp's fixture."

"What?" Magiere asked. "I don't understand."

Leesil unhooked his leg from the stairway rail and dropped down. "My father kept money hidden here in case of a sudden need… such as flight from Darmouth. My mother and I knew of it as well."

"Then this is good. Your parents took it and fled."

"We were also to leave a message for anyone left behind. I thought perhaps I'd find…"

"A letter from the past?" she finished for him. "Leesil, they knew you'd left. If they fled together, there was no reason to leave any word for you."

This wasn't a comfort to him. He hung his head with his eyes closed. As much as he'd kept his distance in recent days, Magiere stepped close, running her hand across his shoulder, down his arm, and to his own hand.

"Remember the dead ends we hit while searching my past? At least you know they took the coin and tried to escape… together."

He looked at her, and after a long moment finally squeezed her hand.

"We need to leave," she said. "As long-abandoned as this place looks, we don't want patrolling soldiers to suspect anyone's here.'

Her words spurred him, but not to leave. This time he did round the stairwell rail and climbed toward the next floor. Magiere's own warning became real as she heard muffled voices out in the street before the house.

"We need to go-now!" she whispered sharply.

When he took another step upward, she snatched the back of his cloak.

Leesil turned on her and grabbed her wrist in a tight grip. The look he gave her was no longer passive but cold and poised. It hurt her like a threat. She almost let go.

Magiere's next instinct was anger, but she bit it down. It was difficult for him to leave with so little, but she'd been doubtful that he would find much after eight years.

"Please. We have to go," she whispered as calmly as she could. "Now!"

Leesil eased his grip on her wrist, and Magiere backed down the stairs, watching him until she was certain he followed. She kept along the wall with her eyes on the window as they passed through the front room, then hurried through the meal room, kitchen, and out the back door.

At the end of the narrow path between the houses, she checked both ways. Two soldiers ambled down the street toward the bridge gatehouse. When they were far enough along, she hurried across with Leesil close behind her, and they both climbed through the wagon's back to the bench.

"Did you find anything?" Wynn asked.

"Just that they may have tried to escape," Magiere answered. "There's no way to tell when or to where."

Leesil settled on the bench beside her. He pulled his cloak about himself and did not look back toward his old home.

"What about speaking with their friends?" Wynn asked.

"Friends?" Leesil repeated. A frown wrinkled his brow as if such a notion were naive.

"Yes, someone here must have known your parents. Perhaps they would have heard something."

"Assassins don't have friends," Leesil snapped. He paused, lost in thought, then whispered one word. "Byrd."

"What about a bird?" Magiere asked.

"A man, not an animal," Leesil muttered. "His name is Byrd, and he owns an inn out back of the merchant district. My father spoke of him something like a friend. I knew him as well."

A brief flash of relief flooded Magiere, gratitude for any clue that might give Leesil answers. It was quickly followed by nervous caution.

"Can he be trusted?" she asked.

"In a way," he answered.

Magiere's anger got the best of her this time. "What does that mean?"

Leesil breathed in and blew the air out slowly. "He's one of Darmouth's spies."

Lit braziers of heavy iron lined the keep's council hall where Lady Hedi Progae sat across the table from Baron Emel Milea. Between them at the table's end was their host, Lord Darmouth. Hedi silently counted the moments until this tense evening would end.

Stuffed pheasants, dried peaches, winter nutcake, and loaves of freshly baked bread were carried in on polished wood trays. All the guests ate from finely glazed plates with silver forks and knives. Hedi had no patience for pretenses of finery, though she did note that the number of Darmouth's trusted ministers had diminished over the years. The only minister present this night was her Emel. She made polite play with her food in small bites as she watched her host.

Lord Darmouth's brown hair was cropped short, but the front and temples were graying. His blockish face was lined, and there were faint hints of old scars below his left eye. Even at a formal dinner, he wore a steel-reinforced leather breastplate and long daggers sheathed upon his wide belt. Bearded in past years, he now shaved daily, perhaps believing it made him look younger. Pointless, as he was nothing more than an aging savage.

Hedi glanced across the table at Emel. In his early forties with thinning red hair, he was the one person here this night who understood her false smile of submission. He had taught her self-preservation, to keep everything inside. Emel still lived, while so many of Darmouth's entitled nobles and officers ended their days on an iron spike upon the keep's walls. They dangled there until their bodies rotted enough to tumble into the lake and vanish from sight, if not memory.

Each time Darmouth shifted in his high-backed walnut chair, Hedi smelled musk and stale sweat. Reaching for the wine bottle, he brushed his forearm across the back of her hand, and she flinched. His sinewy limb was like knotted cord around a log, and covered in salt-and-pepper-shaded hair. She went rigid to keep from driving her dinner knife through his wrist.

Hedi smiled, demure as always.

Darmouth did not smile back. Instead his gaze moved down her burgundy satin gown and back up to her shoulder-length black curls. Emel stopped chewing when he noticed Darmouth's wandering eyes.

Emel had suggested the gown, and Hedi regretted her agreement. Though her attire pleased him, and that was acceptable, it was too low-cut in the presence of a murdering lecher like Darmouth. Pleasing such a man was as dangerous as defying him.

Seven officers were seated at the table, among them Lieutenant Omasta, head of Darmouth's personal guard. Between bites, Omasta tugged uncomfortably at his blond beard and gripped his fork awkwardly like a shovel. Normally these men ate off the same large platter or out of the pots while discussing military matters in the meal hall across the way. This entire dinner display of trays and wine sipped from plundered silver goblets appeared to be for Hedi's benefit alone.

Lord Darmouth gestured to the roasted pheasant ringed in mushrooms.

"Please, my lady," he said, voice deep and gravelly. "Have a bit more."

Perhaps she should be flattered. She could count the times he had used the word "please" on one hand. Apprehension overcame her revulsion.

"In a moment," she answered. "I would like some wine first."

He fumbled for idle conversation. "Where are you and Emel staying?"

"At the Bronze Bell."

"Yes… a fine inn."

A worthless exchange. They stayed at the Bronze Bell whenever Emel was called to Venjetz. No visiting noble was lodged in the keep-nor wished to be. Darmouth poured wine into her goblet. Hedi hoped she could swallow smoothly, as he bit into a pheasant leg, speaking while chewing.

"Emel, I want Tarovli put down before the winter celebration. I want his head, and I want any officers with him for crow's fodder."

The words were so casual that for one breath they didn't register upon Hedi. She stiffened and quickly relaxed before giving herself away.

"Of course, my lord," Emel said too slowly. "I've deployed troops and recalled Captain Altani from the north. The matter will be settled before the new moon."

Darmouth grunted acknowledgment. "I've enough trouble with that witch, Lukina, on my western border."

"Yes, my lord," Emel replied more quickly. "I've placed most of my own men under your officers there to assist with patrols."

More patrols, indeed. Hedi knew the growing number of raids across Darmouth's borders was more than the usual feints and jabs the provinces made at one another. The other tyrants of the Warlands watched Darmouth's grip tighten with each year. His hold weakened his own province, with the population decreasing and fewer men to conscript.

Lukina Vallo was not the only one becoming a threat. There were rumors of Dusan Abosi's forces thickening beyond Darmouth's northern border. And Tarovli's meager success at treachery from within was another sign of decay. One by one, Darmouth's nobles became starving dogs, turning on one another in desperation to survive. His territory was plagued from within, and the wolves of the Warlands were circling outside.

Hedi had learned of Mikhail Tarovli, like all other shadowy dealings in the province, from Emel. The young Count Tarovli had lured away enough conscripts to ambush a contingent of Darmouth's sparse cavalry. No one knew it was his doing at the time. Some upstart officer was always scheming, but Tarovli was exceptional or lucky. He managed to build his forces and arms for nearly three moons before his treachery was uncovered. Most never launched their first assault.

Tarovli was unfortunate, no matter how cunning, for he would not die quietly and quickly in the night. Hedi felt no pity for him.

Sometimes nobles and officers eliminated one another, seizing a rival's plan for their own. Hedi's knowledge of such intrigue was sparse, but lately she had grown more skilled at gleaning information. Her awareness and hatred grew like an ice-capped mountain constructed one pebble at a time.

Years ago, when Hedi was only fifteen, she, her mother, and her sisters were invited to a "ladies' evening" by her uncle's half sister. It was a long and strangely tense event of halting empty talk and cards, but they were kept so late that it was necessary to spend the night. When they returned home in the morning, the house servants said her father was still asleep in his chamber. Everyone assumed he had taken an evening out for himself and been up late as well. No one disturbed him, even as soldiers hammered at the manor doors before anyone finished stripping off their cloaks.

Andrey Progae, Hedi's father, had died alone in his bed, a thin blade precisely thrust into his skull just above the back of" his neck.

The order had come directly from Darmouth.

Hedi's uncle and his half sister never came under suspicion, not losing their place in this province. They raised not one finger for their kin. They were never outcast as the family of a traitor, like Hedi's mother and younger sisters, who starved to death in the streets.

Hedi had been more fortunate, or so it was said. She was given as mistress to Emel for his constant loyalty to Darmouth.

Emel was kind, treating her with pity and, later, open affection. She came to care for him and perhaps even pity him in return. He was married to a cold-blooded noblewoman ten years his senior, and there had never been love between Emel and his wife, Valdyislava. Hedi was called "fourth consort," if referred to at all, though she was truly the only one. Her predecessors had died in questionable ways, and it took little intelligence to turn a suspicious eye toward Valdyislava. So Emel kept Hedi far from his manor in the west of the province. Through him, Hedi learned and assembled all the pieces of what she now knew.

Emel promised to marry her, once he was free to do so. A nobleman could retain as many mistresses as he could afford, but he could have only one wife.

Hedi could not fathom why Darmouth insisted Emel bring her on this evening. Emel had been recalled to Venjetz six days ago. She had been to the keep with him several times, but never at night. No other women were present, so why was she alone here at a time when Darmouth should be looking to his borders?

Darmouth turned his cold eyes toward her again. He seemed fascinated by her hair. Upon her mother's and sister's reported deaths, Hedi slashed it off at chin length in mourning. When it grew back to her shoulders, it was a mass of black waves that pleased Emel, so she kept it this length. Some ladies found it unfashionable, but Hedi did not care. Emel was her only friend.

Her skin was the color of buttermilk, and Darmouth's gaze dropped down to her hands. She kept her eyes on her plate, pretending to be unaware of his inspection. It was not possible that he had serious designs upon her. Darmouth had taken no consort in nearly seven years. It was common knowledge that he saw spies and traitors everywhere, so he trusted no woman within his bedchamber. Even so, she had heard of his brothel visits.

As Darmouth cleared his throat, two slender figures entered the hall with silent steps. Hedi's presence made them pause. She had seen both before but not met either personally, as Emel had warned her away.

Faris and Ventina were from a northern Mondyalitko clan. Slight and tall, Faris had dusky skin, wild black hair, and eyes to match. He wore his hair long, but this did not completely hide the scars on the left side of his head where his ear had been sliced off-Hedi did not know how this had happened. He spoke with deep, quiet tones and wore silver rings in the lobe of his remaining ear. Ventina looked enough like him to be a sister, or perhaps a cousin, rather than his wife. Her eyes shifted back and forth as she drifted in behind her husband. When her gaze passed over Darmouth, her hatred was too thinly masked. She and her mate skulked in their lord's shadow and did his bidding without question.

Darmouth frowned at their presence.

"My lord," Faris breathed. "I beg a word."

"We are at dinner," Darmouth rumbled. "And you enter without announcement."

Hedi expected Faris to back away, but he stepped closer.

"My lord, there was a skirmish at the Stravinan border over some de-serters and their families in Flight. A man crossed the border and engaged your troops."

"Stravinans… breach a treaty?" Darmouth straightened with a glower. "What is this horse piss? Who told you this?"

Faris hesitated, then drew close to whisper in his lord's ear. All the while Darmouth appeared on the edge of striking his servant down. The more he listened, the more attentive he became.

Hedi did not catch much beyond the mention of white hair and strange eyes. She watched a flicker of alarm pass across Darmouth's features before they clouded with the same viciousness he showed when catching an underling in some minor deceit. He stood up.

"Omasta!" he snapped. "Double the keep's watch and the contingent at the city walls. Double the length of shifts, if you have to. Any man with white hair, tan skin, and yellow-brown eyes is to be taken alive if possible, and if not, kill him on sight. Either way, bring him to me."

Hedi's heart slowed as she looked to Emel. He shook his head once in warning. Then his gaze drifted away.

"Forgive me, Hedi, but I must leave you," Darmouth said, but he paused in the open arch of the council hall. "Emel, you and I will speak alone. See your lady back to the inn, and then join me in the Hall of Traitors."

Hedi's fork clicked too sharply against her plate, and Emel turned pale.

Leesil spotted the sign above the two-story inn that read only, BYRD's. The place hadn't changed much. The walls were a bit more weatherworn, and the shutters over the glassless windows were faded. The shake roof's eaves were jagged and crusted with snow, but the place was strangely a welcome sight compared to all else since they'd entered Venjetz.

If only he'd remembered the cats.

Leesil put a hand on Chap's back. "Don't you move!"

Chap growled, then whined, and Leesil felt a shudder run through the dog's taut muscles under rising fur.

"You're a Fay," Leesil said in a low, threatening tone. "Or that's what you've made us believe, so no doggish nonsense. You hear me?"

Chap's panting quickened, and Leesil gripped him by the scruff of the neck.

There were cats everywhere, sitting on window ledges, ducking around corners, or scurrying in and out of the front door left ajar. Large and small ones. Solid, striped, and spotted, they milled about the inn's front as if they were its common patrons.

Magiere stood at his side. "Leesil?"

"I told you Byrd is… a bit odd," he replied.

Leesil kept his hood up and forward, shadowing his face. They'd agreed Magiere and Wynn would do the talking, until he decided whether or not to reveal himself. While Byrd was part of Darmouth's web of spies and informants, he was the only person besides Leesil's mother to whom Gavril had shown any trust. Sometimes the two had sat up talking through a whole night or just played cards.

"Look at all of them,' Wynn said in wonder, and stepped up to the doorway to scratch a slender gray calico behind the ears. "Where did they all come from?"

"Everywhere, miss," a baritone voice called from inside. "And they pass the word along that there's a home to be found here."

Wynn stiffened upright with a quick backstep and bumped into Leesil coming up behind her. Looking through the cracked door, Leesil saw a few felines within, but his attention settled on the man standing near a belly-high bar with no stools before it.

His bright red shirt contrasted oddly with his ruddy complexion. It was impossible to tell the color of his hair beneath the faded yellow scarf tied around his head. He was in his midforties, of medium height and stocky build. He looked the same as Leesil remembered. Well, perhaps a bit paunchier.

"Welcome," he said, smiling openly at Wynn. "Do you need rooms? We've plenty, as business is slow of late."

Leesil ushered Wynn in ahead of himself. Indeed, the cats were the only patrons for the evening. The dimly lit little common room was stuffed with nothing more than empty chairs and tables. Magiere followed, now the one gripping Chap's scruff. The dog shook visibly with restraint, and his silvery coat bristled all over.

Byrd frowned at the sight of Chap. "Sure you want to bring him in here?"

"He'll behave," Magiere answered.

"Ha, it's not him I'm worried about," Byrd added. "He's well outnumbered. "

Leesil glanced down to see two small kittens toddle out through the legs of a rickety chair. The leader was a slender orange tabby, while the follower was a roly-poly brown with a rather dim expression on his round, bushy face. Without a hint of fear, the pair sniffed Chap all over, or as high as their little noses could reach. They proceeded to dance through his legs while rubbing against him.

Chap made a sound like he'd choked on his own yowl, and Wynn leaned down into the dog's face.

"Do not touch them!" she ordered. "They are babies, and they do not know any better."

Byrd smiled widely as he scooped up the tiny tabby and handed it to Wynn. "This is Tomato, the smart and sassy one. Her brother there is Potato, affectionate but none too bright."

Wynn held Tomato close, and Potato began thumping his head on Chap's leg, demanding attention. Magiere slowly released her grip. Chap huffed but did nothing more than shuffle about trying to evade Potato's head butts.

A hissing and spitting came from around the bar's far end, and Chap stiffened with his ears drawn back.

The largest cat Leesil had ever seen sauntered out of the kitchen and into the common room. Dirty cream-colored with green stains on his back, the cat had a wide stomach that nearly touched the floor. His left ear was tattered and several teeth were missing, but his claws grated the floorboards as he padded up behind Byrd.

Chap growled, looking anxious over an opponent willing to fight.

"Stop that. These are guests," Byrd said to the new arrival, and offered Wynn an apologetic shrug. "This is Clover Roll, my partner. He'll not plague you as long as your dog behaves."

"Clover Roll?" Wynn repeated.

"Look at his back," Byrd said. "He never tires of rolling in the grass."

"By the size of his gut," Magiere said, sounding openly tired of discussing Byrd's pets, "I'm surprised he can roll at all. How much for two rooms, and where can we stable our horses?"

Leesil watched Byrd's expression, remembering the few nights his fa-ther had brought him along on an evening of tea and stew and cards. Gavril once told him that Byrd could be trusted to do the right thing. It'd meant little to Leesil at the time, for he'd learned to trust no one but his parents. Now his stomach knotted over memories resurfacing after the years he'd kept them buried. From inside his hood, he looked into Byrd's eyes, and the older man tensed, taking a step closer.

"Do I know you?" Byrd asked.

This man hadn't changed, always direct and open, or so it appeared. A good front, if nothing else. His father's only friend was all Leesil had left for a lead, though he still didn't know why Gavril had ever trusted another servant of Darmouth.

Leesil pulled back his hood.

Magiere tensed, dark eyes locking on Byrd. Leesil caught the shift of her cloak that told him her hand was on her falchion. He stood quietly waiting.

For a moment Byrd's face went blank in disbelief. Much time had passed, and Leesil's hair was still under his kerchief.

"'Lad?" Byrd said. "It can't be…"

"Yes, it's me."

Byrd didn't lunge to embrace him nor call out a welcome. Instead he braced a hand against the bar. Magiere jerked her falchion from its sheath.

"Call for soldiers or try to leave, and you won't reach the door."

Clover Roll burst into a hissing fit. Chap answered him with an even louder snarl.

"Magiere, put it away," Leesil said. He hadn't expected Byrd to be glad to see him. "Byrd, I know it has been a long time, but hear me out."

There was no anger or blame in Byrd's face. He looked as if someone had punched him in the stomach. "Oh, no, lad. You don't need to… Are you hungry? Have you eaten?"

Leesil backed away and sank down in a chair. When Magiere refused to move, he reached out to brush her aside. She stepped around him, finally sheathing her blade, and settled a protective hand on his shoulder.

"We came to ask after his parents," Magiere said, and there was still a hint of warning in her voice. "Do you know what happened to them… after Leesil left?"

Byrd looked Magiere over from head to toe, staring briefly at her black hair and again at her well-made leather boots. He ignored her threatening glower and turned back to Leesil.

"This is your woman? Trust you to pick a fierce one." He cocked his head at Wynn. "That one looks easier to live with, but your father liked the fierce ones, too."

Magiere's fingers tightened slightly on Leesil's shoulder. Wynn looked up at Byrd as if she wasn't sure whether to be nattered or insulted.

Words stuck in Leesil's throat. Indeed, his father would have been fond of Magiere, though Leesil wondered what his mother would think if… when they found her. He breathed in slowly.

"What happened to Gavril? And my mother?"

For the first time, a hint of anger registered in Byrd's voice. "It's a bit late to be asking."

Leesil abruptly stood and turned for the door, pulling up his hood in shame. He shouldn't have come here. Friend or not, Byrd didn't deserve old wounds opened by Leesil's own sins.

"No, wait, damn you!" Byrd called, then grumbled something under his breath. "You had no choice. You weren't meant for your father's life, and no one understood that better than him. Now sit down."

Leesil stopped. "Where are they? Are they dead?"

"Sit-your woman, too," Byrd said, and he waved Wynn over as well. "Come, girl."

When his guests were settled, he left for the kitchen and quickly returned with a pot of hot water, biscuits, and four mugs. He dropped tea leaves in the pot and sat down at the table to gaze at Leesil.

"You look so much like her, but you act like him." His eyes dropped to the table. "I don't know what happened to them. When I heard you bolted, I sent word to Gavril. I'd have gone myself, but I feared being spotted. I thought he and Nein'a would make their way out of the city somehow." Byrd paused to lace fingers together as he leaned on the table. "The gods only know why, but they ran for the keep. Pure madness! They were seen inside heading down into the lower levels. I tried to find out more but… For a year I kept searching for answers, believe me."

Leesil's mind and stomach both churned. While he'd been drink-ing himself to sleep every night, this man had been searching for his parents.

"Why would they run into the keep?" Wynn asked, still holding the purring Tomato in her lap. "I here must be some reason. Leesil?"

Leesil tried to focus on the moment. "I can't think of anything. I rarely went there myself unless ordered to. My father went to give reports, and my mother was sometimes called to attend an evening gathering that Darmouth hosted."

"Your mother was the loveliest creature I ever saw," Byrd said. "But you've done all right for yourself, too." He stood up, ignoring Magiere's scowl. "I'll dish us some supper while we talk, but you need to keep hidden. Eyes are everywhere, and these days it takes even less coin or threat to loosen a tongue."

As little as Byrd knew, Leesil wondered how and where the man had acquired the strange detail of his parents' flight into the keep. He watched his father's only confidant round the bar and disappear through the kitchen's curtained doorway. Indeed, Darmouth's spies could be found in the most inviting places.

Darmouth stood in the center of his forefathers' crypt in the keep's belly. To either side of him, stone coffins rose from the floor to waist height. This was the Hall of Traitors, a name coined by the fearful after his father's death, though it had nothing to do with the occupants of the two tombs.

Four braziers mounted in iron brackets glowed from pillars to either side of the center space. Once three separate storage rooms, the walls had been opened into repeating archways to convert all three into one room. In the far back wall were series of arched cubbies carved into the stone from ceiling to floor. The braziers' light didn't reach far enough to illuminate them, and they remained black pockets of darkness.

Darmouth laid his hand on the tomb to his left. His fingers grazed over the carved image of a face not unlike his own, but with a long beard and thick mustache. Here rested his father, placed within the stone coffin after his death. His grandfather's remains had been exhumed and placed in the other tomb. He only wished he could locate the body of his great-grandfather, who'd taken this province from Timeron a hundred or more years ago.

Kings believed in lineage and the honored crypt of an unbroken family line. Bloodline was immortality, leaving a piece of oneself in a son, who in turn passed it on to his heir. When he was young, Darmouth never dwelled on this. As the years passed, he obsessed more and more over the gray in his hair and growing weight of his sword.

He hadn't kept these lands only to lose them to a traitorous upstart or some rival province leader. Not one of them was strong enough to take what he held. If by pure luck one ever did, this province and those around it would descend into chaos. No, Darmouth's people needed him, the only one strong enough to maintain order in the face of the petty warlords of the other provinces.

Footsteps echoed through the crypt's open door from the outside hallway. Darmouth looked up to find Emel standing in the opening between two of Omasta's armed men. The bodyguards looked to Darmouth for approval. He nodded, and they stepped aside.

Emel, who lacked true strength of will, couldn't even rid himself of an unwanted wife. The arranged marriage was intended to give him sons of older blood, but the match failed to produce an heir. Still, Emel was dependable, one of Darmouth's few old friends and the last of his ministers. He deserved fair treatment, had earned it, but all who served Darmouth needed to be reminded where their loyalties lay. This was why he held such meetings in the tomb of his forefathers, where he passed judgment on both the true and traitorous.

White-faced and silent, Emel remained in the doorway, slender in his simple brown breeches and a black tunic over a white shirt. Although unarmed, as required here, he was the best fencer Darmouth had ever witnessed. His skill with a straight saber was unequaled.

"Enter," Darmouth commanded.

To his credit, Emel didn't hesitate. It was whispered that Darmouth sometimes executed traitors himself in this place. True enough, as Emel had witnessed twice.

"My lord," Emel said. His voice was calm, but fear flickered in his green eyes.

"I'm giving you Tarovlis holdings. You know his region of the province well enough, and the income will increase your coffers."

"My lord?"

"You've earned it," Darmouth went on. "And I know how little you stay at your own estate these days. A second home would be useful, and something few can boast of."

He could see Emel's thoughts racing, waiting for the catch.

"You're also the first to know I've decided to marry," Darmouth said, looking down upon his grandfathers tomb. "Someday I'll rest here myself I need a strong son to hold this land and continue my plan to unify the Warlands under one rule. I choose you to stand as my second and sword-bearer in the marriage rite."

He paused. Emel must be flattered to hear his lord's private thoughts, and honored to be the one to stand with him on the wedding day.

"I need a legitimate heir," Darmouth continued. "It's late in life for such things, but I've been occupied with holding the province together. Now my duty is to sire a son with the same strength."

Emel took one step closer, now smiling with thin lips. "Good news, my lord. Who is the lady you have chosen?"

"Hedi Progae, most certainly."

Blank confusion passed across Emel's features.

"She's unwed and from noble blood that I titled," Darmouth went on. "Though small, she's strong and healthy, and young enough to bear me sons."

Emel faltered. "No offense intended, my lord, but she is the daughter of a traitor."

"The years since Progae's death have made her respectful and accepting of her place," Darmouth replied.

He liked her black wavy hair and hoped his son-or sons-would inherit it. All the better to sire more than one to see which emerged the strongest. This too was best for his people, his province… the nation he would forge in this region that outlanders named the Warlands.

"But… my lord," Emel stammered. "She has been with me for years and produced no child. If you seek an heir, perhaps another might be a better choice."

Darmouth's voice hardened. "It's you, my friend, who've produced no heir. Not with your wife, nor any of your mistresses."

Emel went silent, his expression unreadable, but Darmouth knew him well.

"Of course, my lord," Emel finally agreed.

"You can give her this good news," Darmouth said. "The marriage rite takes place before the winter feast, once Tarovli is put down. We'll celebrate the traitor's end and the future of my lineage for the sake of the country I'll make here. You're dismissed."

Emel's green eyes dropped from Darmouth's face to the twin tombs. He bowed and backed out of the crypt.

Darmouth turned away into the depths of the room. Though his own bloodline, past and future, was still in his thoughts, another unwelcome threat surfaced to plague him. Faris's news at dinner was disturbing, more so for coming now, of all times. He wondered if this were another ploy of Lukina to the east or Dusan to the north. Perhaps even one of the more distant provinces had sent this long-absent traitor back to Venjetz?

Darmouth lifted a brazier from its pillar mount and placed it on the floor before the rear wall. Its light rose up to illuminate the tops of numerous cubbyholes.

Within each was a skull, boiled or burned clean of its forgotten flesh. They rested here like enslaved guardians of Darmouth's forefathers. At the wall's center were the most noteworthy of traitors. Here was the reason for the name of this place-the Hall of Traitors-and why some of the bodies hung headless from the keep walls.

Darmouth reached out to take one skull in his large hand. The bone was smooth and glistening, the lower jaw bound shut with steel pins.

"How does it feel, old friend, to know you still serve me through your daughter?"

He ran his thumb over the cheekbone and, with a smile, pressed it into the hollow eye socket of Andrey Progae's skull. When he placed it back in the wall, his gaze caught on a double-wide cubby to the right.

There were two skulls set as a pair. The only ones placed together, and Darmouth's smile faded.

One was round and large, that of a human male, but the second was an oddity, and differed from all the others present. It was slightly smaller, marking it as female, its eye sockets large and the facial structure narrowing to the chin. In life, her face was triangular in shape, the eyes large and slanted below arching eyebrows. She would be… was unnatural but deeply alluring compared to any human woman.

This pair-human male and elf female-had been in Darmouth's mind as Faris had whispered in his ear.

A man with white hair, dark skin, and yellow-brown… no, amber eyes.

Darmouth snatched the skull directly below the pair and tossed it aside, reserving a place for the new occupant soon to come.