Breton could hear his friend spitting curses. Unable to help himself, he chuckled before getting what rest he could until he was subjected to Moritta’s teachings once more.
~~*~~
Breton woke to a weight against his chest. With a startled cry, he reached out, only to have his arm swatted with something hard.
“Stop that,” the Rift King demanded.
Cracking open a sleep-blurred eye, he saw his foal bent over him. The weight proved to be a slate, which Kalen was using to write on. Breton yawned and mumbled, “Don’t you have your own tent?”
“Silvereye took over mine,” his foal replied.
“Why are you awake? What time is it?”
“Not long until dusk. You should thank me. I told Moritta you were occupied. She took Maiten instead, deciding your being used as a table by me was punishment enough. Maiten declared I was showing favoritism, and that he hopes that I rot in the deeps for my tyranny.”
“You’ve slept through almost two hours of him using you as his primary work space,” Captain Silvereye said with laughter in his voice. “You Rifters take your rest seriously, don’t you? Work hard when awake, and sleep like the dead when you get the chance.”
“I thought you took over his tent,” Breton said, rubbing at his eyes in his effort to wake up without ruining what his foal was working on.
“I had, until I was evicted. Lyeth decided Kalen’s tent was too small. I was told to find somewhere else to be. It turns out the command tent was being used by some of our scheming officers, who were busy concocting some sort of plan using the information Anrille provided to us. I wasn’t invited. Thus, I came to be here, helping send missives to the Rift.”
“Better be careful,” his foal warned. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll end up becoming a Rifter.”
“May the Lady of Light have mercy on us all,” the Mithrian muttered.
“Don’t you ever sleep, Captain Silvereye?” Breton groused, stretching his legs as best as he could without disturbing Kalen’s work. His foal lifted his slate, turned, and set it on his lap.
“I caught a few minutes after Maiten left. Once I have a tent again, I’ll be lying flat for at least six hours.”
Breton sat up, groaning a bit as his sore muscles ached. “Maybe I should send Moritta to make certain you do get to sleep.”
“There seems to be truth in the belief that Rifters are a most vicious lot.”
“What have I missed?”
“Nothing of importance,” his foal replied without looking up from his work. “Given another hour and I think I’ll be caught up with the first wave of missives. The second wave is your problem, old man.”
“My problem? Why? What’s going on?”
“They’re replies from the other kingdoms regarding His Majesty’s kidnapping. It’s quite entertaining. The responses so far range from offers of military assistance to general well wishes hoping he’s recovered quickly. For obvious reason, His Majesty can’t reply to them.” Captain Silvereye reached over from where he sat on Maiten’s cot, picked up a sheet of parchment, and waved it around. “This one is my favorite. It’s from Silverna.”
His foal laughed. “They know I am one of the few who can actually write in their language. They accosted a poor Wanderer to write a message for them in trader. They’re offering to send a delegation to the Rift, Breton. First, to learn other languages, and second, to help in any fashion they can.”
“Silverna offered to send a delegation,” Breton echoed, twisting around to reach for the missive. The Silvernans were so reclusive he’d be amazed if they made it to the Rift without getting lost. He read it over, and like his foal, couldn’t help but chuckle. “And the Wanderers?”
It was Captain Silvereye who chuckled and replied, “Three offers of aid so far. They intend to cut off the responsible parties from trade. They’ve offered to help the Silvernan delegation reach the Rift.”
Breton felt his brows rise as he considered the implications of the Wanderers cutting off trade to Danar and Kelsh. “That’ll have some hefty consequences.”
“And it’s all your problem, old man,” his foal said gleefully. “All thirty-seven missives. I’ve already decided that you’ll accept Silverna’s offer.”
“Thirty-seven missives? There aren’t even that many kingdoms!” When the Rift King pointed at the pile on the edge of Maiten’s cot, Breton leaned over and grabbed them, flipping through to look over the wax seals.
Six were from Kelsh while four were from Danar.
“It was an honor and pleasure to listen to Kalen’s extensive use of his vocabulary while reading them over,” the Mithrian said. “When he ran out of Kelshite curses, he pursued Rifter for at least ten minutes. He made a very good showing of Mithrian insults, which lasted another ten or so minutes before he started in on languages I didn’t understand. You slept through the entire tirade.”
“Really? Do I even want to know what these say?” The seals were already broken, and judging by the wrinkled state of one of the Kelshite missives, it had been the source of his foal’s ire. Breton ran a hand through his hair, wondering just how tired he had been to sleep through something like that.
“Really,” the Mithrian confirmed.
“You’ll like that one,” Kalen grumbled, pointing at the wrinkled one. “You’ll like it a lot.”
Breton was certain he’d dislike everything about the missive and writing the reply to it, but he opened the crumpled parchment. It took him less than three lines to understand why his foal had lost his temper.
King Aelthor’s offer of his daughter to the next Rift King after extending his condolences was enough to make want to spit curses as well. “Another offer for Princess Tala? Unbelievable.”
“It gets better,” his foal said, setting aside the parchment he’d been working on.
Breton wasn’t certain how it could possibly become any worse until he reached the end of the missive. If the offer of the princess—once again—wasn’t enough to ignite his temper, Kelsh’s offer of aid in locating the lost Rift King was.
“Something needs to be done about him,” Breton said, careful to keep his tone neutral.
His foal nodded. “Derac can testify with a truthseer witness that Kelsh and Danar were working together. Danar’s replies, at least, are cautious. Kelsh’s? The exact opposite. He’s already decided I’m dead. I wonder why he might think that.”
Breton studied Kalen’s expression and didn’t like the way his foal grimaced while speaking, adding to his growing collection of worries. With Maiten’s concerns fresh in his memories, he glanced over at Captain Silvereye. The Mithrian met his gaze for a moment, leaving Breton to wonder what the Shadow Captain had—and hadn’t—noticed.
“I’ll handle this and discuss with Derac what he’ll need to do, once we’re at that point,” Breton said, setting aside the missive. “Are there any other matters I should be aware of?”
“Surprisingly, no. It was all things the Princesses couldn’t translate on their own or more idiocy from Kelsh and Danar, which we’re going to ignore, circumstances considering, of course. I’m just writing out instructions for the Princesses so they know how to deal with it. You’ll have to inform the kingdoms why others were using my handwriting, of course. You can make some excuse, I’m sure.”
“I will tell them the truth; you vanished when checking on other parts of the Rift, and we have a set protocol for handling those situations internally. I’m sure by now they’ve guessed as much.”
“We were pretty certain that was the case,” Captain Silvereye confirmed. “His Majesty’s letters are distinctive, even when someone else is using his handwriting. His predecessor was much harder to distinguish.”
“I told you they’d notice,” Kalen muttered, flipping a rude gesture.
Chuckling at his foal, Breton nodded. “Trust a tiny Outsider to change a perfectly good tradition.”
“You’re as bad as Maiten now,” his foal complained.
“You can amuse yourself by cursing at us old men for the rest of the evening. You should thank me,” Breton replied, arching a brow at his foal, who scowled.
Then Kalen laughed, flicked his hand, and turned back to his work. With relief, Breton noticed his foal relax as he settled in to read.
“If there’s a spare quill and parchment, I better address these before they sit too long,” he said. Captain Silvereye pointed at a wooden box on the floor. It’d take him far longer than an hour to finish writing out the replies, but at least he could do something useful instead of just waiting.
Kalen wasn’t certain if his fledgling plan was a good one, but it was the only plan he had. If he had been in the Rift, he would’ve considered dancing down a chute in Blind Mare Run to cool his head in the Foristasa. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t sure if there was a river nearby. If there was, it was farther than his mercenary company would allow him to wander on his own.
Acknowledging he had a mercenary company to worry about didn’t help matters any. Silvereye’s declaration of his status as a Shadow Captain was as much a cage as being the Rift King. People would live and die by his choices. Reading the missives detailing the consequences of his actions was bad enough. With the mercenaries, he’d have to face each and every one of them every day.
Swallowing a sigh, he made a few more notes for those handling his paperwork back in the Rift before giving up and letting the ink dry. Once he sent the missive, most of the work would end up being Breton’s responsibility.
That meant he’d need to make at least two more sets of plates; one for him to reach Breton and another set for Breton to be able to contact the Rift directly.
Soon enough he would have to part ways with his senior-most Guardian and closest friend. In order to deal with the brewing war between Kelsh, Danar, and the rest of the Six Kingdoms, he needed to go to Elenrune. King Alethor needed to be dealt with, one way or another, and Kalen was the only one who could handle the problem without making the situation even worse. Between Anrille’s information and his experiences, he had no choice.
Kalen needed Breton to return to the Rift with the Crimson Eye. Mithrian horses wouldn’t do, not if the Rift was going to Ride. He couldn’t think of a better way to prepare the Rift for war than enlisting the aid of two entire Shadow Companies.
All he had to do was deal with Anrille and learn everything he could about the Wolf Blades and the Blood Priests who had hired them. Most importantly, he needed to find out if there was a way he could get an advantage over Danar. While Anrille’s information was likely good, he’d never reveal the truly important things to someone like her, not without good reason. His trust in Dela spanned more than a decade. Despite his misgivings about his sire’s status as one of his
Akakashani
, he trusted the man to keep his word.
“You’re thinking about something,” Breton said, pausing in his writing. “What’s bothering you?”
There was a lot bothering Kalen, but he wasn’t ready to talk about all of them, not yet. However, he wasn’t willing to sacrifice the peace between them, so he replied, “I’m considering how to best use Anrille.”
“Now that’s a troublesome thing to be thinking about,” his Guardian replied with a grimace. “Why did you let her hit you?”
“I didn’t let her. She surprised me. By the time I realized she was there, I couldn’t get out of her way fast enough,” Kalen admitted with a grimace of his own. “When she scratched me and nothing happened, I decided against killing her. She’s not a Rifter. She’s not bound by our Code.” After thinking about it a moment, Kalen glanced over at Silvereye and added, “I wasn’t sure how you’d react if I murdered one of your mercenaries.”
“What would have happened if she had hit someone else?” his co-captain asked.
“With it that stale? I doubt her victim would die, if that’s what you’re worried about. What do you think, Breton?”
His Guardian hesitated before answering, “Increased heartbeat and breathing, dilated eyes, the inability to sleep or sit still, as well as general anxiety, agitation, and restlessness. Some people, like Kalen here, often experience changes in mood; in his case, for the better. When it wears off, the victim fall unconscious. In lethal doses, the symptoms are accompanied by hallucinations and convulsions.”
“What sort of hallucinations?”
Breton scowled and remained silent, leaving Kalen to reply. “It varies. With me, it’s often hearing things that aren’t there. Whispered voices no one else hears, that sort of thing. Sometimes music or song, but usually whispers. I’ve only had visual hallucinations once, and I was twelve at the time. I don’t actually remember it. The convulsions and trembling can happen even in a mild, non-lethal dose. Some are more resistant to that than I am.”
“What do you mean?”
Kalen shrugged, folded up the dried missive, and handed it over to the Mithrian, who in turn set it on the plate along with a shard of colored stone. It vanished.
“Fine, if you won’t tell him, foal, I will. Vellest and its counterparts are highly addictive. As the poison wears off, vellest is notable in causing tremors. In Kalen’s case, the tremors often start within minutes of him having any dose of it at all. I’m surprised he wasn’t shaking when I dosed him to question Anrille.”
“It was stale,” Kalen said.
“And it being stale prevented this symptom?”
“We neutralize staling vellest and dispose of it in the Rift, Captain Silvereye,” his Guardian said.
“Why?”
After exchanging looks with Breton, Kalen said, “It’s even more dangerous when stale. It’s harder to prepare an antidote for. With fresh vellest, an equal measure of one of the other Three Sisters will counteract the poisoning. If you don’t know how much to dose with, it becomes dangerous—you might end up killing the person you’re trying to save.”
“Wonderful. So if she decides to poison someone else, it’ll be harder to save them?”
“I don’t think she’s going to poison someone else—not without me telling her to do so,” Kalen said, stretching his legs and arm out to loosen his cramping muscles. “Let me deal with her. I have an idea I want to pursue.”
“An idea,” Silvereye echoed. The man narrowed his eyes and glowered.
“An idea. Don’t worry, either one of you. I think it’ll be a good use of her.”
“You’re not going to do anything that will put yourself in any form of danger whatsoever, are you?” Breton asked suspiciously.
“I give you my sworn word that I will not intentionally put myself in any danger,” Kalen said, tapping his fingers to his brow before touching his chest. “Relax, Breton. I fully intend to put Anrille in a great deal of danger. If it works, it’ll pay off. If it doesn’t, we’re short one Mithrian mercenary black hand—one black hand, I might add, who is living on borrowed time as it is.”
His Guardian didn’t look convinced, but nodded.
“I’d appreciate it if you told me what you have planned,” Silvereye said.
“What I don’t say can’t be spread or overheard. The only person who will know my orders will be Anrille.”
“No one can ruin a plan they don’t know,” his fellow Shadow Captain muttered.
“Exactly. I’ve enough experience with meddlesome Guardians,” he said, grinning slyly at Breton.
His Guardian’s eyes widened before a faint smile answered him. “And whose fault is that? Perhaps if you weren’t such a troublesome foal, we wouldn’t have to meddle in your affairs.”
“Me? Troublesome? Who do you think I learned it from?”
Captain Silvereye laughed. “I think I now understand a little more about why the other Rifters insist you’re father and son. If it weren’t for your looks, Kalen, I’d never believe you were Lord Delrose’s child. It seems you’re far more like Breton here.”
While Kalen huffed and faked offense, the Mithrian’s comment pleased him. “Someone has to keep him in line; that’s the reason for it.”
“I was about to say the same of you.” Breton’s expression was neutral, but Kalen heard the laughter in his Guardian’s voice.
“I don’t suppose you can at least give me a hint of your plans for Anrille?” Captain Silvereye asked.
“No, sorry,” he replied. “You’re welcome to watch while I subject her to Her Royal Highness, though. I’m hoping she’s even half as good as she says—and you think.”
Both men stared at him.
“Why?” Breton asked.
“The woman’s completely useless as is. Maybe Anrille can motivate her as we lowly men can’t. Let’s get this over with. It’s close enough to dark.”
Breton rose. “I’ll go fetch the Delrose herd and ask someone to send for Anrille.”
While Kalen had no doubts that his Guardian meant to prevent him from being left alone with the woman, it wouldn’t work.
Judging from the dark rings under Breton’s eyes, his Guardian would sleep well during the night. All Kalen had to do was wait so he could approach the Mithrian alone. Then, together, they’d find out just how deep the Danarite’s plans went—and if he could use her to disrupt him.
He’d find out soon enough.
~~*~~
In order for Kalen’s plan to work, he needed a bow. While Captain Silvereye went to the impromptu archery range set up on the fringe of the camp and Breton hunted down the Delrose herd, Kalen prowled through the camp in search of the quartermaster.
He found the woman in the command tent, huddled over the table with what had to be the rest of the company’s officers. The conversation ceased as he crossed to the table.
“I need a bow,” he announced.
Eyebrows lifted at his request. The quartermaster, who only had an inch on him, grinned. “Do you? How strong of a pull and what type?”
“Short and light. I’ll also need arrows with the fletchings trimmed from the notch.”
“Easily done, sir. Come with me, and I’ll get you what you need. Continue without me, so long as you fill me in once I’m back,” she said, triggering a chuckle from most of the officers.
While Kalen wasn’t sure which one of the men was Lyeth, he decided to test his authority by saying, “I need Lyeth where the targets are set up as well.”
One of the men, short by Mithrian standards, saluted. “Aye, sir. Do I need my bow?”
“If you can throw it, bring it. We’ll be doing a little demonstration.”
The officers watched him with curious expressions. Kalen wanted to grin, but he managed to control the impulse. “I suppose if the rest of you want to come see what’s going on for yourself, there’s no reason you can’t. Bring a bow. If you don’t have one, get one.”
“Come with me, Captain,” the woman said, heading out of the tent. Kalen followed her, humming to himself as he considered the ramifications on turning the archery lesson into a spectacle involving all of the high ranking members of the company.
He didn’t hold a great deal of hope that Princess Tala would be impacted by the audience, but it didn’t cost him anything to make the attempt. It also let him test Anrille at the same time. The officers were aware of what she had done.
With more people watching her every move, the woman wouldn’t be in a position to try anything Kalen would regret later.
It took him longer than he liked to find a bow he could pull with his teeth. The quartermaster, to his surprise, already had arrows with extended notches. Armed for the occasion, he headed to the targets.
He was the last to arrive. His sire was whispering in Princess Tala’s ear. The woman’s eyes narrowed as he approached. Breton smirked, holding out his bow from the Rift. With wide eyes, Kalen thrust the new one to his Guardian, taking his weapon in exchange. “How did you get this here?”
“It seems your plate is capable of handling something a little larger after all,” Breton replied, smiling. “I thought you’d like your own bow, so I asked for someone to try sending it over.”
Kalen smiled back at his Guardian before turning his attention to the practice range. In the dusk gloom, he was able to make out the targets set up at the forest’s edge. “Maiten.”
“Sir?” his Guardian asked.
“Witchlights,” he demanded.
Moments later, balls of white light hovered over four circular targets made of marked canvas. Kalen secured his grip on his bow and grabbed one of the arrows from the quiver hanging from his hip. It took him a moment to get a good grip on the arrow near the head. Once situated, he lifted the weapon, grabbed hold of the notch with his teeth, and settled it on the string.
Despite it having been so long since he’d worked with his bow, his body remembered. He took his stance, targeted along the shaft, and with every eye focused on him, he pulled back on the arrow while extending his arm. The night air was still. Kalen drew a deep breath to steady himself. In the Rift, he had fired hundreds upon hundreds of arrows until he had learned to adjust for the wind, find his aim, and hit what he meant to.
He couldn’t remember when he had last picked up his bow, but there was something pleasing about the strain on his arm and the pressure against his teeth as he fired.
With a satisfying thump, the arrow struck the target. While his shot wasn’t dead center, he let out his breath in a relieved sigh. “If you don’t know how to use a bow, you’ll learn. By the time we’re done with you, you’ll be making that shot each and every time.”
“That was luck,” Princess Tala muttered.
The First’s disgruntled, wordless snarl in Kalen’s head drove him to snatching an arrow from his quiver and notching it. He drew back, held the pose until his arm and teeth ached. When he fired, his second arrow thumped beside the first, closer to the target’s center. “Luck is no substitution for skill. I can keep firing arrows if you’d like.”
In the Rift, luck helped him survive, but skill kept the serpents away. Turning to Anrille, he gestured for her to come forward. The mercenary did so. “Sir?”