The Bloodbound (16 page)

She grabbed his hand. It was hard and rough beneath her fingers. “You didn't fail. Everyone escaped with their lives, thanks to you.”

“Everyone at Blackhold, maybe. But after that, I didn't do a thing to stop those bastards from burning their way through our lands. How many people did they slaughter? And how many more will die of deprivation?”

“You couldn't have stopped them.”

“Maybe not, but it's no comfort.”

She squeezed his hand, her chest aching.

“So much for restoring the Black name.”

“Don't say that,” Alix said fiercely. “We will. We are.” She needed to believe that, now more than ever. Maybe the war should have driven that desire from her, rendered it small and insignificant, but it hadn't. Instead, she felt it more keenly than ever, as if some part of her feared that it was the only mark she could hope to leave on the world, and she was running out of time. “Erik said it himself. You're a hero.”

He didn't even hear her. “I keep telling myself that I'll have my revenge. First on the Oridians, and then on Tomald
fucking
White.”

Alix winced at the coarse language. In spite of their reputation among the other Banner Houses, the Blacks had never been given to tavern talk. Then again, perhaps she shouldn't be surprised. She'd already noticed subtle changes in her brother. His eyes glinted with steel, and his deep voice was edged with something dark. At supper, she'd noticed the calluses on his hands, and the way his forearms moved with muscle as he broke bread. And when Erik had spoken of Tom, of his spies and assassins, the expression that came over Rig . . . He'd looked half feral.

“Part of me can't believe it,” he went on, “and part of me feels like we all saw it coming. Tom was always erratic. And deep down, he thought he'd be the better king. You could see it in his eyes. Hells, you could hear it in his voice.
Frivolous
, he always used to say. Anything Erik did or said—
frivolous
. The snivelling little bootlick.”

“Bootlick? Prince Tomald?” The Raven had always struck her as haughty.

“Bootlick,” Rig repeated with a scowl, “at least where his father was concerned. After Erik and King Osrik fell out, Tom saw his chance to be the favourite son at last. He did everything he could to earn his father's favour. I swear, sometimes he went out of his way to make Erik look bad. Not that it ever worked. All Erik had to do was flash that smile of his, and he was forgiven anything. The Raven would always end up looking the fool, and Erik none the wiser.”

A hate that strong can't be invisible.
Maybe Erik had been right after all. Maybe he really had been the only one not to see it. “I don't understand how anyone could hate Erik,” she said.

“Oh, I don't think Tom hates him. I think he idolises him. Most of the time, anyway.”

“That doesn't make sense. Why would he want to destroy someone he idolises?”

Rig smiled ruefully. “Ah, Allie, love, sometimes I forget how young you are.”

“You're six years older than me, Rig.”

“It's an important six years.”

“If you say so.” She hugged her knees. “All I know is that it's never stopped us from understanding each other. Erik and Tom aren't even two years apart, but it might as well be twenty.”

“Some siblings are closer than others, I guess.”

“I guess,” she agreed dryly. Her brother had always had a talent for understatement.

Rig paused, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Seeing how we're so close, dear sister, why don't you tell me what's going on between you and the king?”

That caught her off balance. She shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “I'm his bodyguard.”

He snorted. “That's not what I'm talking about and you know it. Come on, Allie. I have years of experience watching Erik flirt, but the way he looks at you—that's something else entirely.”

Alix chewed her lip. She could tell him about the kiss, but that wouldn't explain much. The only way he could truly understand was if she told him everything. And so she did. It felt good to confide in someone.

“You shameless little vixen!” Rig's laughter ricocheted off the trees. “In the
woods
, in the middle of an army camp! Ardin's flame, Allie, that's bold, even for you.”

“Keep your bloody voice down, will you?”

Rig swiped at his eyes, still laughing. “So you dallied a little with this Liam chap. What does that have to do with Erik?”

She groaned. “Everything. He's . . .” She hesitated. “Rig, you have to promise never to repeat this.”

He raised his eyebrows. “This should be good.”

“Promise me.”

“All right, I promise.”

Alix said the words aloud for the first time, if only in a whisper. “Liam is Erik's brother.”

Rig looked at her blankly. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said.”

“That can't be.”

“No? Think, Rig.”

He paused. “A bastard? Are you sure?”

“I didn't figure it out until later, but I'm positive.” She spoke so quietly that she could barely hear her own voice. No doubt many powerful people had gone to great trouble to preserve that secret, and the gods only knew what would happen to Liam if it got out.

Rig's eyes widened as he processed the full implications of this revelation. “And you and he . . . and then Erik . . . Oh,
Allie
.”

She sighed. “Indeed.”

“So what now?”

She picked up a stone and tossed it into the brooding water. She had no answer to that. Erik hadn't tried to kiss her again, and she hadn't encouraged him. What happened with Liam still haunted her, and until she was able to put it behind her, she didn't dare embark on something new with Erik, however tempting the prospect. And it
was
tempting—achingly so. Her insides fluttered every time he looked at her
that way
, the way Rig had noticed at dinner. But she didn't want to rush into anything, not this time. She had promised herself not to make the same mistake with Erik that she had made with Liam.

“Do you love him?” Rig asked.

“Which one?”

He winced. “
Shit
, Allie. Either of them, I suppose.”

“I don't know what I feel. I care for both of them, deeply. Erik is everything I could ask for, and then some. When I'm with him, it feels so natural, like we belong together. The idea of taking that further . . . I can't tell you how tempting it is. But Liam . . . He's rooted so deep, it's like he's a part of me now. I can feel him inside, somewhere down here.” She gestured at herself.

Rig eyed the position of her hand, hovering over her lap. “Please tell me we're talking about your guts.”

“Rig.”

“Sorry.”

“I feel like I'm being pulled in two directions at once, and it's tearing me apart. It's like this damn war. I know my duty is here, by the king's side, and yet I can't help feeling like I should be at the front, fighting with my comrades. I want both. I
need
both.” She threw another rock, listened as it clattered coldly off the shore. “That sounds childish, I suppose.”

Rig was quiet for a long moment before answering. “You've never really taken much time to think about what you want, Allie. You've always just gone where the wind takes you, and that's been okay, up until now. You're young, and I've always trusted that you'll find your path eventually, even if you take a few wrong turns along the way. But this is different. You need to be careful. Erik is the
king
. And Liam . . .”

“Liam is no less complicated. He's Erik's brother.”

“No, he isn't.” Rig paused to let that sink in. “Look, I haven't pressed marriage on you, even though I probably should have, because I want you to be happy, and besides—I'm hardly setting an example myself. But I'm a banner lord, and I have responsibilities. So do you, and it's past time we faced up to them. Even if Liam is a son of Osrik, he's still a bastard. It can't happen, Allie.”

“I know.” Sighing, she added, “Anyway, I don't think you have to worry about that. I'm fairly certain Liam will never speak to me again.”

Rig flicked his eyes skyward. “You and your drama.”

She scowled, but when he put his arm around her, she let him gather her close, just like he used to do when she was a child. “You just tell me if you need any brotherly assistance,” Rig said. “I don't know about this Liam, but I outweigh Erik by at least two stone.”

“Erik says hitting the king counts as treason.”

“It's that or marry a Middlemarch. I think I'll take the treason, frankly.”

Alix laughed, letting her head fall back against Rig's shoulder so that she gazed up at the glittering sky. The stars burned brightly tonight, without a single wisp of cloud to soften their splendour. Their inscrutable patterns revealed the future, it was said, though it was written in a language long forgotten. Alix didn't need to read the stars to know that there would be dark days ahead, darker even than those that had gone before. But for the first time since she left Blackhold, she felt she had everything she needed to get her through.

She had family.

“G
ive me a week, Your Majesty, and I'll see it done. The enemy will ride straight into your arms.” Rig started to bow, but Erik was having none of it; they clasped arms instead.

“Let Olan be your sign, Lord Black.”

Rig grinned. “Courage has never lacked in my family. Wisdom . . . there's another matter.”

“In that case,” Erik said, “let Eldora be your sign.”

“I'll try, but she doesn't seem to fancy me.” So saying, Rig slung himself into his saddle. Alix reached up and took his hand, and he gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. Then he wheeled his horse around and joined his knights.

He'll be fine
, she told herself.
He's been doing this for months.
Still, she couldn't help picturing the dead eyes of the Oridian soldier who had tried to choke her two days before. How many more had the Priest bewitched? And what if he could turn his sorcery on his enemies? It didn't bear thinking about.

Erik headed back to his pavilion while the Blackswords formed up. About two days northeast of here, they would come across the enemy encampment. Rig's job was to herd the Oridians, slowly and subtly, toward the Kingswords. They had chosen their battlefield carefully, and once again, the Kingswords would rely on the element of surprise to keep them alive. To preserve that advantage, Rig and Erik had each assigned a small army of scouts to track and kill their enemy counterparts. It was exactly the sort of mission Alix would have excelled at—except that she had other, more pressing duties now.

She watched until Rig and his men were little more than a dark smudge on the horizon before following Erik's path to his pavilion. Stepping through the flap, she paused to let her eyes adjust to the relative gloom, and gradually, she took in a scene of regal disarray. Erik's cot was a jumble, the furs cast carelessly into a pile in a corner. A half-empty bottle of wine stood open on his writing table, the surface of which had been disfigured by globs of beeswax from the dozens of tapers that had burned the night through. An untouched plate of fruit was beginning to attract tiny flies. At the centre of it all, a riot of maps lay scattered across the dining table, completely obscuring its surface. Erik had banished his servants from the tent the previous afternoon, adamant that nothing should disrupt the military planning. Their absence showed. Though the king himself was always immaculate—clothing crisp and fresh, red-gold hair pulled back in a short, tidy tail—his fastidiousness was confined to his person. Left to his own devices, Erik was as orderly as a tornado.

Oblivious to the chaos, the king leaned over his pile of maps, frowning. “I wish we had more cavalry.”

“We don't need them.” Alix joined him at the table. “If we do this right, we can pin them between the Kingfisher and the hills, just here. The riverbend is the perfect choke point. Having too many horses would compromise the archers.”

“Perhaps, but I'd still rather have a reserve, especially if the vanguard folds more quickly than we anticipated.”

He had a point. A second wave of horses would help hold the enemy down. Alix chewed her lip in thought. “We have a week. Maybe we should try commandeering horses from some of these farms?” She spread her fingers over the map, gesturing at a clutch of farmsteads just to the south of their position. “The enemy may have gotten to them already, but it's worth trying.”

“That's very beautiful,” Erik said, randomly. Puzzled, Alix followed his gaze.

He was looking at the ring on her little finger, the one Liam had given her—how long ago?
A lifetime.

“It's nothing,” she said, straightening.

“Wait.” Erik reached out and took her hand in both of his. Was it fear that spiked her pulse, or his touch? Maybe both. “It looks familiar.” He turned her hand gently, letting the light glide over the finely wrought ivy leaves. His eyes narrowed.

Now it was definitely fear that seized her. Was it possible he'd seen it before? Surely fate couldn't be so cruel?

“It reminds me of a ring my mother used to have. It's not exactly the same, but I'd be willing to bet it came from the same craftsman. Where did you get it?”

“It belongs to a friend,” she said as casually as she could manage. “I'm . . . sort of borrowing it.”

“She has excellent taste.” Erik let her fingers slip through his before turning back to his map.

Silently, Alix let out the breath she'd been holding. Satisfied that Erik's attention was elsewhere, she brought her hand up close, studying the ring. She'd grown so used to wearing it that she almost never looked at it anymore. Instead, she played with it compulsively, especially when she thought of Liam. She wondered if Erik was right, if it was indeed of the same make as some of Queen Hestia's jewellery. If so, it could hardly be coincidence. Alix didn't know much about Liam's mother, but judging from his accent, she had been of common stock. It was highly unlikely that she would possess anything of such fine craftsmanship as befitted a queen—unless it had been a gift from a king.

“Erik?” Alix heard herself speaking before she'd made a conscious decision to do so. He looked up at her expectantly; she had no choice but to forge ahead. “May I ask you a personal question?”

Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Of course you may, Alix.”
We've shared more than that
, his eyes reminded her.

“Why didn't you tell me Liam was your brother?” Her cheeks stung even as she spoke. It was impertinent. Outrageous, even. She had no right to ask, no right to know. And if he should wonder why she'd suddenly brought it up . . .

Erik stared. Had she known him less well, she might not have noticed his shock, for he reined it in so masterfully that it was gone almost before it appeared. “Did Liam tell you that?”

“No. I figured it out on my own. Eventually.” Even now, her throat ached at the memory.

Erik regarded her for a long moment, a hint of anger in his eyes. Then he surprised her by saying, “Perhaps I should have. The two of you are friends, and I suppose it was inevitable that you would find out. But I've grown accustomed to secrecy where Liam is concerned, for his safety and mine.”

“He wouldn't say it, even after I challenged him.” Erik needed to know that. If the secret was out, it was none of Liam's doing.

Erik nodded. “He has always been discreet. One day I'll tell him how much I appreciate that.” The anger faded from his eyes, replaced by a contemplative look. “You know, seeing you and Rig together, I can't help but wonder if Liam and I might have had something like that, given the chance.” He sighed. “I may never know, and I have only myself to blame.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let's just say I didn't react especially well to the news that I had an illegitimate brother.” He flashed a tight smile. “I was young. Hotheaded.”

“How young?” Alix knew she should drop it before she gave herself away, but she couldn't resist.

“Seventeen. Liam would have been . . . what, eleven? I overheard Father talking to his first counsel about a boy whose mother had just died. Father wanted Highmount's advice as to whether he should take the boy in.”

“What did Highmount say?”

“He was against it. He brought up that old yarn about Ysur the Bastard almost taking the crown. ‘A hundred years is not so long in the public memory, Your Majesty.'” Erik's impersonation of Highmount was stiff and pompous, leaving little doubt as to what he thought of the first counsel's advice.

But Alix couldn't help feeling that Highmount had a point. It might seem like ancient history, but the White War was still a scar on the nation's body politic. Ysur's rebellion had been brief, bloody, and very nearly successful. Men like Albern Highmount could hardly be blamed for concluding that royal bastards were not a matter to be taken lightly. Doubtless several had been sired since the White War, but they were kept secret—or not kept at all.

“That's how I figured it out,” Erik continued. “There was only one reason Highmount would bring up Ysur the Bastard. This
boy
was my father's son. I was outraged. I barged into the room and demanded answers. The conversation did not go well.” Even now, Erik's voice grew taut with anger.

So that was it!
Alix fought to keep her surprise from showing. The infamous rift between the king and the crown prince, a rupture so public, so toxic, that the entire realm knew of it. Court gossip had never settled on an explanation, but all agreed that the relationship had never recovered. To think it was over
Liam
 . . .

“I was furious that he would betray my mother, sickly as she was. To leave his ailing wife and children back at home while he sought his pleasure in the arms of another woman—it was unforgivable.” Erik paused, sighing. “At least I thought so at the time.”

“You obviously won the argument. He didn't take Liam in.”

Erik closed his eyes briefly, as though the memory pained him. “He never spoke of Liam again. He abandoned one son to appease another, but by then it was too late. I never forgave him.”

Alix wondered if Erik knew what had become of his brother after that. And then he ran a hand over his face and shook his head, and she had her answer. “It wasn't your fault,” she blurted.

Erik tensed, his eyes guarded. “What do you mean?”

“What happened with Liam's stepfather. You couldn't have known.”

“Liam discussed his stepfather with you?”

“You get to know your comrades pretty well out there on the road. People will tell you just about anything to pass the time.” It was only half a lie.

Erik nodded absently. “I didn't realise what I had done until a couple of years later, when my father started going into decline, and I began handling his affairs.” His gaze dropped to the table, anger mingled with shame. “To this day, I wonder if I was the first to hear of the beatings, or if my father knew and just did nothing.”

“And when you found out?”

“I was wracked with guilt, of course. How not? I'd condemned my own brother to . . .” He trailed off.

“It wasn't your fault,” she said again.

He didn't seem to hear. “I knew I needed to do something, but I didn't dare bring him to the palace. Perhaps if I'd had the courage to confront my father again, tell him I'd changed my mind . . . But by then we were barely speaking. So I called upon the only man I thought I could trust.”

“Arran Green,” she said, the last piece falling into place.

He smiled wryly. “Out of the forge and onto the anvil, perhaps.”

Alix's memory returned to Greenhold, to Erik peppering her with questions about her stern commander. She'd wondered why he was so curious. Now she understood. “Liam was happy with Green. He told me so himself.”

“He would be happier if he were a knight, I'll warrant. Green should have consulted me before he dismissed Liam. I would not have allowed such a blow to his honour, even if it does keep him out of harm's way. I'll see to that too, when I can.”

“He'll be grateful. The Kingswords are his family. You made the right choice.”

“Bit of a bother about the war, though,” Erik said dryly.

“There is that.”

He sighed and stretched expansively. The all-night planning session was catching up with him. Alix must have been tired too, because she found herself fixated by the way his broad shoulders moved as he stretched. Thankfully, he didn't notice. Instead, he seemed to be taking in his surroundings for the first time. “Merciful Nine, it's a disgraceful mess in here!”

She hid a smile. “Shall I send for the servants?”

“I think you'd better.” They rose together, and he took her hand. “I find myself thanking you again, Alix. You should be careful—I could get used to burdening you with my sighs and woes.”

“It's no burden. It's a privilege to have your confidence.”

“You've earned it,” he said, his eyes filling with warmth. He hadn't let go of her hand.

She could have pulled away, made her excuses, and fled, but she didn't. Maybe she was testing herself—the race of her pulse, the shallow draw of her breath, the sudden tilt of her insides.
Does it compare? Do I want him less, or more?
He seemed to sense the question, or at least the opportunity, and he didn't hesitate. He pulled her in, one arm wrapping possessively around her as he bent his head to kiss her. Alix couldn't help it—she met him halfway, her lips parting for him, her tongue searching for his and finding it just where she wanted it. And then the wanting was all she could think of, all she could feel. She pressed into him. His hand slid down to the small of her back, pulling her hips against his. Some unseen cliff loomed closer, only a few steps away, the distance between a table and a cot . . .

She broke away before she fell over the edge.

“I'm sorry,” he said immediately, but he didn't look sorry. He looked like a starved wolf with raw meat in his sights.

“It's not . . . don't be sorry.” Alix swallowed hard, fumbling for something reasonable to say, trying to pretend that look in his eye didn't pluck something taut in her nethers. “It's my fault. But it's still not . . . It's not a good idea right now.”
Right now.
She could almost see the words reflected in his eyes. So much for not encouraging him. “You should rest,” she said, stupidly.

His mouth twitched, as if he were biting down on some wicked reply. “As should you.”

“I'll try,” she said with a fleeting smile, and she left him.