The Bloodbound (31 page)

Erik's brows gathered. “What exactly are you saying?”

“I'm saying that I would be an idiot to let anything come between my brother and me, and that includes Alix. I can't know for sure what kind of future I might have had with her. Lots of love stories end badly, right? What I do know is that you're my only family, the only person since my mother who's ever really wanted me around. I won't risk that. I can't. If you can leave Alix aside, so can I.”

Erik studied his brother in silence. Liam's sincerity could not be doubted; he genuinely believed he could let Alix go. But the strain in his voice, the tightness in his shoulders, the quiet hurt in his eyes, gave the lie to his words. He could no more let her go than he could cut off his own arm. A week from now, a month, a year, he would realise his mistake, and he would hate Erik forever.
He doesn't understand. He actually thinks you're doing something selfless, and he feels guilty.
Erik smiled sadly. “Once again, brother, I'm forced to support your conclusion that you're an idiot.”

Liam blinked. He opened his mouth. Closed it. He scowled. “You're pretty hard to please, you know that?”

Erik laughed. “Not as hard as you might think. I appreciate the gesture, Liam, more than you know. But it's not the same for you as it is for me, and I wouldn't be much of a brother if I let you go through with it.”

“How is it not the same?”

Because if I choose her, I'll lose you forever, and I've lost far too much already. Because I need a brother more than I need a lover.
Aloud, he said, “Because it's you she wants.” It was the truth, if only part of it, and it hurt less to say it than he would have guessed. “This isn't me being noble, Liam. If I thought for a moment that she felt for me what she feels for you, I would never have the strength to stand aside. However, I'm not afflicted with any such conviction. I'd also like to point out that you've found a new excuse for not trying, and thus not risking rejection.”

“That's not what this is about.”

“Really?”

Liam glared at him. “You know what? I take it back. If this is what it's going to be like, I'll take my chances with Alix.”

“You do that. Take your chances, Liam, and take them soon. Either you'll win her heart, or you won't, but I promise you this: If you don't even try, I
will
have you thrown in the Red Tower. Now if you'll excuse me, I have three inches of correspondence to get through by supper.”

Liam rose, but he did not leave straightaway. Instead, he just stood there, hovering over the desk in silence. When Erik looked up, he was surprised to find Liam smirking at him. “You've got a head start on me with all this brother stuff. Seems like there's a lot of lecturing and name-calling involved. Anything else I should know about?”

“The occasional wrestling match, but I don't much fancy my chances, so I'm sticking with name-calling for the time being.” They shared a laugh, and Erik felt as if someone had lifted heavy plate mail from his shoulders.

A moment after Liam quit the study, Alix reappeared. Erik watched her cross the room, returning her smile as she took up her place behind him. What he had told Liam was true; he doubted very much that Alix felt for him what she seemed to feel for Liam. That doubt was his salvation. If he was right, he would never have won her anyway. And if he was wrong, he didn't want to know about it.

He turned back to the hated pile of correspondence. To his relief, the words were sharp and clear, and his quill began to move of its own accord. Sometimes, he reflected, if one is patient, things simply fall into place.

*   *   *

Tom died at
dawn, by the freshly forged edge of Erik's bloodblade. No announcement was made, no crowd gathered to see. Only a few guards bore witness, along with what remained of Tom's family. Liam was there to watch his new brother die, and Sirin Grey as well. She did not weep. She did not even speak. She just stood there, as silent and white as a statue, even as the blade fell. But when she turned to leave, her legs buckled beneath her; she would have fallen had Liam not been there to catch her. He helped her away, leaving Erik alone with what he had done.

The king knelt in a spreading pool of his brother's blood. It felt as if it were his own, seeping from him slowly, darkly, until all that was left was an empty husk. He curled his hands tightly around the hilt of his sword, so his guards would not see him shaking. Then he bowed his head and prayed. To whom, he could not have said.

A
thin stream of blood followed the sinuous path of the runes, tracing arcane patterns across the surface of the bowl as it trickled down to the bottom, where it gathered in a dark pool. Erik watched, fascinated, as Nevyn swirled the shallow silver dish in his hands, making sure the blood touched every corner of every symbol. The bloodbinder whispered to himself as he worked, though whether it was an incantation, or just distracted muttering, Erik could not tell. He had seen this process dozens of times before, but he had never had the stomach to ask how exactly it worked. He was not sure Nevyn would enlighten him anyway. Bloodbinders were notoriously jealous of their secrets.

Nevyn leaned over the mould, pouring the dish out into molten steel. The droplets of blood hissed as they met the glowing metal; an unpleasant smell filled the smithy.

“Well, that's foul,” Liam said, wrinkling his nose. He looked a little pale, and the knuckles that held the bandage to his forearm were white.

“Don't distract him,” Erik warned.

“It's fine, Your Majesty. The difficult part is over.” Nevyn motioned for his assistant, and the young man poured out another layer of molten steel, filling the top half of the mould. The heat seared Erik's face, forcing him to close his eyes. When he opened them, Nevyn was gesturing at the door. “We're through here, Your Highness. Let us withdraw somewhere more comfortable while the blacksmith works.”

“Wait, aren't you the blacksmith?”

“I am the bloodbinder, Your Highness. I prepare the raw materials, but I don't fashion the finished product. This way, please.”

He led them to his study, a dark little room at the far end of an uncomfortably warm corridor. Erik had offered him chambers farther away from the forge, but Nevyn insisted that he did not mind.
It's not as though I live here
, he had said,
and anyway, I've spent most of my life at the forge
. Erik supposed that was true. Nevyn had been serving the Whites since before Erik was born. He was the youngest of them; in all that time, not a single new bloodbinder had emerged, and now Nevyn was the last. Alden was a small kingdom, and there had never been more than half a dozen known bloodbinders at any time. But to be down to one—during a time of war, no less—was nothing short of a national crisis. Erik would happily have offered Nevyn an estate if he thought it would help the man do his job. Fortunately for the royal treasury, Nevyn had simpler tastes. All he wanted was rest and a little privacy. Erik could grant him the latter, at least.

“Would you like to look at some designs for the hilt?” Nevyn drew a thick leather book down from a shelf. “I'm afraid we won't have time to etch the blade, if you need it as soon as you say . . .”

“I'm a little more worried about how I'm going to use the thing,” Liam said. “I mean, is this really the right time for me to get a new sword? I won't be used to the enchantment.”

“You can practice with it in the yard,” Erik said. “See how you feel. If you prefer to fight with your old sword, no one will criticise you for it.”

“Are you sure? Highmount seems to be able to criticise anything.”

Erik smiled. “Speaking of which, I'd better go. I have appointments all day. But before I do . . . Nevyn, is there really nothing more you can tell me?”

The bloodbinder shook his head. “I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I've looked through every book in my library, but there is no reference to anything like this power the Priest wields. If it's ever been done before, no one in Alden has written about it.”

“So it is magic, then?” Liam asked. “The Priest, the bloodbond—all of it?”

Nevyn shrugged. “Everything is magic to those who can't master it.”

“I guess so. But it didn't look to me like you did much of anything. No offence.”

“None taken. In fact, I agree. It is simply a question of preparing the blood correctly. Once that is done, it can be added to any substance with which it can be properly blended or soaked in. Molten metal for a sword, wood or hemp for a bow . . . anything. The technique does not seem so very mysterious to me, but even I can't explain why one man can do it and another cannot. Is it innate, or just very difficult to learn? No one knows, Your Highness.”

Erik had heard this explanation before, and it still sounded evasive to him. But he had bigger concerns at the moment. “You still believe that if we kill the Priest, the bond will be broken?”

“I do.”

Liam regarded him curiously. “So if I were to kill you right now, all the bloodweapons you've made would stop working?”

“For gods' sake, Liam . . .” Erik shot the bloodbinder an apologetic look.

“It's all right, Your Majesty.” Nevyn smiled. “No, Your Highness, slaying me would not undo the bloodbond. I am the one who forges the link, it's true, but once that is done, my role is ended. But if my theory is correct, the Priest has found a way to become part of the bond itself, and to reverse its power.”

Erik frowned. “What do you mean, reverse it?”

“In conventional bloodbinding, the blood of the man is mixed with the weapon, thus giving the man command over the weapon. In this case, the power appears to work in reverse. The Priest is the weapon, and he controls the man.”

“How would he achieve that?”

“I'm not sure. Perhaps he imbibes the blood himself.”

Liam made a face. “Tasty.”

“That is why I believe slaying the Priest will break the bond. At the very least, it should prevent him from giving instructions to his thralls. If I'm right, that is.”

“And if you're wrong?” Liam asked.

“Then you needn't worry about learning to use a new sword,” Erik said, “because magic or no, it won't make a damned bit of difference.”

*   *   *

Alix shucked her
armour off slowly, wincing at the stiffness in her muscles. It had been a long day spent on her feet while Erik received a steady stream of visitors. Alix wasn't sure which breed of courtier she found more distasteful—the sycophants and supposed well-wishers, or the swaggering, self-entitled oligarchs who scarcely made it through the obligatory niceties before launching into a list of complaints and demands.
As though half these cretins weren't licking Tom's boots a fortnight ago
, she'd thought at least a dozen times over the course of the day. If Erik felt the same, he gave no sign, treating each and every lord and lady like a proven stalwart.

Alix had scarcely dropped the last of her armour into a heap in the corner when a sound at the window made her spin. Even as she reached for her dagger, she recognised the form lounging on her windowsill, and she relaxed. “How long have you been here?”

“Longer than you have,” came the rasping reply. “I thought it best to make my presence known before you disrobed any further. I wouldn't want you to mistake my intentions.” Saxon was perched with his back against the window frame, one leg tucked up to his chest, the other dangling casually into the night. He twirled a rose between his fingers, presumably pilfered from the king's garden. “For you, Lady Black,” he said, handing it over.

“How did you get in here, anyway?”

Saxon shrugged. “We all come from somewhere. Before I was a spy, I was a humble thief. I have a gift for sneaking.”

Alix couldn't help smiling.
You and me both.
“I didn't get a chance to thank you for what you did the other day. For me, and for the king. It was . . .” She wanted to say
unexpected
, but that might sound insulting. So instead, she said, “exceptional.”

“I could do no less. My oversight with the guards very nearly cost my client everything, and I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Purely business, then?”

“Always.”

Alix wasn't sure she believed that, but she didn't press the point. “What can I do for you?”

“It's a sad excuse for a spy who comes to his own client for information, but these are strange times.”

“What information?”

“Is it true that the enemy is at our gates?”

She sighed. “Near enough. They're a few days away at most.”

“Will it be a siege?”

“If we're lucky. More likely . . .” She didn't finish the thought.

Saxon's dark eyes studied her. “I've heard it said that the Madman has been butchering Aldenian children and using their blood for witchcraft. They say he cast a dark spell over his army to make them invincible.”

Alix forced a brittle laugh. “And people believe that? I'm not aware of any children being butchered, and his army isn't invincible. Tales like that only serve our enemies.”

The spy wasn't fooled. “Even the tallest tales often have roots in the truth.”

Erik had forbidden them to speak of the Priest and his thralls, for it would only incite panic. But that didn't mean Alix had to lie. Saxon had served her loyally and well; he deserved as much of the truth as she could give him. “If you have the means to leave this city,” she said, “I suggest you do so.”

He nodded slowly. “I thank you.”

“Where will you go?”

His only reply was to take her hand and kiss it. “Farewell, Lady Black. I hope we meet again.” Without another word, he slipped out into the night and vanished.

*   *   *

The spy had
barely been gone a quarter hour when there was a knock at Alix's door. Suppressing a groan, she opened it. Her surprise at finding Liam was no less than it had been a few days ago, especially given the hour.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” he said, before Alix could even greet him, “but if I don't get this off my chest now, I might explode.”

Alix had no idea what to say to that, so she simply stood aside, sparing an anxious glance into the corridor lest anyone should see the prince enter her sleeping chamber at such an inappropriate hour. As difficult as it was for her to think of Liam as a White, her upbringing would never permit her to forget appearances.

He hovered awkwardly in the centre of the room, his gaze flitting around without really settling on anything.

“Is everything all right?”

“Fine, thank you.” Belatedly registering the worry in her voice, he added, “Oh, right. No, everything's fine—don't worry. It's just . . . Well, I'm not very good at this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing, exactly?”

He pushed his dark hair back in the familiar nervous gesture. “Well, I could make you a list, but I doubt you have that kind of time.” He gave her a thin smile, but before the joke had time to fall flat, he continued, “Anyway, the short answer is, I came to apologise.”

Alix stared at him, bemused. “You seem to be doing a lot of that lately,” she said, a little ungraciously.

“Don't I know it. You'd think with all the practice, I'd be better at it by now.”

Silence collected in the space between them. “I'm sorry, but . . .” Alix shifted in mounting impatience. “You'll have to refresh my memory. What exactly is it that you're apologising for?”

“For everything, Allie.” He said it with such quiet intensity that something flipped over in Alix's belly.

“I'm not sure I follow,” she said.

“I'm sorry for pushing you away,” he said in the same quiet, searing voice. “I acted like you were something Erik was entitled to, just one more thing that was meant for him and not for me. As if you didn't even have a say in the matter. I think maybe I wanted to believe you didn't have a choice, because I was sure you wouldn't choose me anyway. I guess part of me thought that I didn't deserve you. But it wasn't just my feelings I was putting aside—it was yours too. I didn't have the right, and I'm sorry.”

Alix broke off from his gaze, afraid of the sting building behind her eyes. “You might have been able to put your own feelings aside, Liam, but you can't speak for mine.”

His eyes widened a fraction. “No, wait. I didn't mean—” He made a frustrated sound and shook his head, momentarily at a loss. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew something brightly coloured. “Do you know what this is?”

It looked like parchment in the shape of a five-pointed star. “It's a squashed flower.”

He scowled. “It's not
squashed
, Alix, it's
pressed
. Haven't you ever kept dried flowers between the pages of a book? Or is it only sentimental idiots like me who do that? Anyway, it's a fire lily, or at least that's what Gwylim says. I picked it in the Blacklands. Not so far from Blackhold, actually, where the foothills start to rise. The others thought I was mad, I'm sure, since we were half surrounded by Oridians at the time. I was lying there on my belly, trying not to be seen . . .”

Now he was just babbling. Alix wondered if she should stop him.

“. . . saw it there, and it was just the most amazing colour. Something between red and orange, like sunset over the Scions, or—”

“Liam . . .”

“—or the red clay of the foothills, or—”

“Liam!”

“—or the colour of your hair.”

Silence.

“Which, as it turns out, is my favourite colour,” he finished quietly. “I guess what I'm trying to say is that I never stopped thinking about you.”

Alix stared at him mutely.

Her silence only agitated him more. “I'm making a complete hash of this, aren't I? Look, can we just skip all of it and pretend that I've just delivered the most romantic apology in history, and that I ended it all by saying what a beautiful and amazing creature you are?” He thrust the flower at her, like he couldn't wait to be rid of it.

Alix took it with numb fingers.

Liam's grey eyes were pleading. “Allie, for the love of Farika, say something or just kill me now.”