Prisoner (17 page)

If inviting the enemy in was what it took to put everything back the way it should be, then he would do so.

"We can't tell Esta, can we?" Mathias asked.

The question was rhetorical, but Kalan answered anyway. He looked bored as they walked, picking imaginary lint from his jacket. Any who saw them would assume the prince and his closest friend were discussing the tedious things which royalty must discuss. "No. Do you want to see what would happen to her should something go awry? Her burdens are enough. Better to think Iah quite likely dead than to tell her he is alive only to have to break the bad news a second time."

"I hope he's all right."

Kalan shrugged, but his dark grey eyes revealed his worry. "It's Iah. That bastard always had uncanny luck. Do you remember the time we ran off to the lake?"

"Yes." Matthias laughed. "Father sent the guard to find us, and we all got dragged home half-naked and soaking wet—and Iah was there in his bedroom, perfectly dry and looking as though he and his damnable book hadn't moved all night. He never did tell us how he did it."

Kalan grinned. "Exactly. So there's no reason to worry. Leave it to Iah to wind up crossing paths with Spiegel. Uncanny luck."

"You do have a point." Matthias smiled, but it faded as they reached the Hall of Ministry. Whereas most of the palace was decorated in soft, welcoming colors with brightly colored glass or paintings, the Hall of Ministry was a study in stern. The walls and furnishings were in shades of browns and creams accented with gold. Austere paintings of past kings and ministers were the only decoration. Unfortunately, the current ministers thought they must be as austere and unchanging as the décor.

The twelve ministers of Illussor had long ago decided that the heir and his companion were buffoons destined to ruin the kingdom. Matthias and Kalan, the only two from their circle of friends to have moved toward politics—though he had never understood why Kalan had done so willingly—had decided at about the same time that the Ministers needed to develop a sense of humor.

Stalemate had been called when the king had grown too weak to keep up with all his duties. If not for the restrictions that limited the use of magic inside the palace, Matthias had no doubt something unpleasant would have occurred long ago.

Their retirement couldn't come soon enough. Minus a few, he had their replacements all set, and getting them appointed by popular vote shouldn't be a problem. He'd let the nobles play those games by themselves, however. His favoritism extended only to one, and Kalan had earned that partiality thrice over. "So how will it play out today?"

Kalan drummed his fingers against his cheek. "The usual. We say one thing, and they disagree out of spite. It's no way to run a country."

"They're just pissy because we're winning the debate to cut back participation in the war." Matthias sighed and took his seat at the head of the table. The Ministers had not yet shown, though the meeting should have started several minutes ago. He was long used to the blatant show of disrespect, however.

That was all right. When they woke up one morning no longer capable of using their magic, they would be as quick as everyone else to listen to the only ones who seemed to understand what was going on.

Only a small group of people knew they searched for something. Even fewer knew that it was
someone
, and what a Breaker could do. Anyone with Illussor magic would feel the presence of the Breaker, but they wouldn't understand what it was that they felt.

Soldiers appointed the task of searching for the Breaker knew only that they must find him at all costs. Matthias found it harder and harder to sleep with each man that died looking for someone that may or may not exist.

Now it seemed all the sacrifice had been worth it. He hoped those who had died agreed. He hoped his people would forgive him.

*~*~*

"Tawn." Tawn sketched a bow but said nothing. "What happened to you?"

His yellow eyes smoldered with anger. He lifted fingers to touch his nose, but stopped just short of doing so. It still hurt too much, as did the bruises around his eyes. "A family quarrel," he managed, voice awkward and ridiculous.

The three men gathered around the large, heavy oak table chuckled. "So what news does Brother Sol have for us?"

Tawn bit back a curse and forced himself to speak, hating the sound of his voice. "He bid me tell you that there is little information to be had from the Krians about the fate of the Scarlet. However, you'll be pleased to know that General Dieter von Adolwulf, though alive, has been suspended."

The men looked at each other. "That's interesting," said Tiad, his back to the massive fire place. He did not appear to be bothered by his close proximity to the flames. "A drastic move, to suspend their best general, even if he did err." Even sitting, his towering height was obvious, as was his severe thinness. It almost appeared as if he were starving. His eyes were dark red, his skin pale.

To his left was Ormin, who could not sit still, as if he expected to have to run at any moment. His skin was unusually dark, and it made his orange eyes eerily bright. He laughed. "How fortuitous for us."

"Yes," Tawn agreed. "With von Adolwulf out of the picture—and I've no doubt he will be—the disputed lands will be taken easily."

Jaspar sneered, but the motion dissolved into a coughing fit. He dabbed his lips with a folded cloth; it came away spotted with red, and the simple motion caused his hands to tremble. He was pale and sickly, and his eyes looked black. "Don't be hasty, Ormin. We still have three other generals to contend with. The Cobalt and Verdant are nothing to be sneered at."

"No, but Lord General von Dresden might be bought." Tawn laughed, a sound that made even the men at the table shudder. "She seeks to be favored anew. Come spring, do not be surprised if von Dresden is sent to watch the Western border while the Verdant General is sent south to the Disputed Lands."

Ormin closed his orange eyes, bowing his head in thought. "Yes, I could see them playing it that way. The Cobalt General is too good at watching the Eastern border. We cannot get men through there without paying too high a price."

"DeVry has no trouble."

"The general has his father's skills." Tawn glowered at the mention of Sol.

"So it would seem our patience is at last paying off."

"We shall see," Jaspar said. He started coughing again.

Tawn hid a smirk. "Do my lords have orders?"

"You play the humble servant poorly, Tawn," Tiad looked at him in contempt, "You have not finished your report. Do that while you feel like pretending to be meek."

"Yes, Lord Tiad." Tawn paused. "What would you like me to report?"

"Tawn!" Jaspar managed to say.

"Yes, Lord Jaspar," Tawn said, and bowed again, his yellow-brown eyes flashing. "As I said, Sol has nothing to report on the fate of the Scarlet. He says answers will be best found at the source. The Krians know as much as we about the Deceivers."

Jaspar grimaced. "No one knows anything!"

Tiad shrugged. "What do you expect from a country of people you cannot look in the eye?"

Tawn started to sneer, but thought better of it as pain lanced through his face. "Eye contact is not required to bespell a victim. Only eyes are required, and if you sneak up from behind… well, they never know what hit them and destroyed their eyes, do they?"

Jaspar gave a raspy laugh. "The arcen has you well and strong doesn't it, Brother Tawn? Or did your brother get your ire up, and now you've no one upon whom to vent it?"

"I am as I have always been, Lord Jaspar." Tawn said. "Ever your humble servant."

Tiad grunted. "Enough, Tawn. Speaking of Deceivers, did you ever reacquire our missing captive?"

"No, my lords. Be it his brothers or a traitor in the ranks who took him, I have not yet located him."

The men exchanged murmurs. "It's a pity," Ormin said at last, "that we cannot get anyone into Illussor. Everything we've tried has failed miserably."

"At least they've failed at getting into Salhara just as frequently. They have illusions, but arcen is nothing to sneer at."

Tawn laughed softly to himself, regarding the men before him with a contempt they did not notice. He would be in their position someday, but he would not be them. Arcen was a tool; these men had allowed it to become a master. As he watched, they began to twitch and tire and grow irritable—and they'd only been without a dose for an hour.

Jaspar would not live much longer. The arcen was killing him as surely as it had once made him the strongest man in the country. The mighty were falling.

"I can get into Illussor," he declared, breaking into their nattering.

Ormin laughed at him. "Ridiculous. Even with cleansers, one look at your eyes would give you away. Arcen stains, Tawn. Especially when you go too far, which you have done."

"Am I not a deVry?" Tawn asked, baring his teeth. "I've more skills than magic. Let me try. At worst, I die."

"You're too valuable to lose, Tawn." Tiad laughed. "But you are deVry, that's true. The equal of your brother, easily, though you could stand to learn a thing or two about obedience from him."

"Obedience is for those who cannot think for themselves. I do what my Brothers need; there is no cause for complaint."

Jaspar waved him off. "Be gone. If you want to tackle the Illussor, go ahead, but you are wasting your time and skill. Such foolishness will not get you the positions I know you are angling for, Tawn. I am not dead yet, and age has not made me stupid. Nor do thirty-four years make you wise."

"Perhaps," Tawn said. "My Lords." He gave a brief bow, then turned on his heel and departed.

The hallway was dark. Few torches lit the western wing of the palace; the myriad guests preferred their identities be as hard to discern as possible. Tawn blended easily into the wavering shadows cast by the flickering torchlight. The faintest shreds of whispering voices reached his ears, but he brushed them aside.

His finger hovered just in front of his nose, eyes flashing bright yellow before settling to smoldering amber. He remembered the pain and all the blood. Even now it hurt every time the wind rose up.
Sol.
"Bastard," he hissed.

He should have been on his guard. Well, he'd have the last laugh. Sol was up to something. The bastard was always up to something. Absurdly accurate, the things said about deVrys and scheming. And the man was far too cozy in his Krian skin to be trusted. Next he'd be using a sword.

However, Sol was the least of his concerns at the moment. Illussor was his destination now. They were the only problem still remaining. By next winter the Krians would be finished, ruined from the inside out. Unless von Adolwulf managed to survive.

Tawn smirked, recalling all that he had overheard. Unlikely. The Scarlet General would be dead in a matter of weeks, if not days. Salhara had been trying to kill him for more than a decade with no success. Spell after spell had failed, for reasons both expected and incomprehensible. It little mattered now, however, for his own Kaiser was arranging his death.

Tawn laughed, making a nearby guard jump. He strode from the palace and into the courtyard where his horse waited, everything packed and ready to go. Illussor was the last threat; a reclusive country that seemed to fight the war for no clear reason. They had wanted the nameless. Tawn threw his head back and laughed as recalled that nameless was no longer accurate.

They had wanted Beraht and he was going to find out why—one eye at a time.

Von Adolwulf was hot. Beraht supposed he really shouldn't have been surprised. The man raged while he was awake; it seemed perfectly in keeping for him to be hot while he slept as well.

Throwing off the blankets, Beraht slid out of the bed and enjoyed the chill that filled the rest of the room. Padding over the window, he pulled back the tapestry. Night. Pitch black and not a single star to be seen. He couldn't see anything beyond what little was revealed by the torches scattered about the palace. Soldiers on duty, a man who walked as if he were guilty of something, a dog shuffled through the courtyard, no doubt looking for scraps or something equally interesting.

No stars. No shadowed faces slinking through carefully darkened corridors looking for men who would do whatever was asked if the price was right. No men who were dying, unable or unwilling to give up the very thing that was killing them: Jaspar, who was only fifty, but looked twice that on a good day; Ormin and Tiad who would not be far behind him.

Beraht slid down the wall and stretched his legs out, letting his hands lay in his lap. He lifted one to touch the skin just beneath his eyes. Yellow, he knew—his eyes were bright yellow. Too much further, and he would need arcen simply to function.

He curled his hands into fists. The need clawed at his mind still, a deep ache in his body for a burn of which it had long been deprived. Better than anything alcohol could do and sweeter than the finest dessert. It was said that after a point even sex became bland alongside it.

The need was fighting a losing battle, however, because in the heart of Kria he was as likely to find arcen as he was another Salharan. He felt empty without it. As if some piece of him had been cut away. A voice whispered that it was a dead limb best lost, but Beraht shoved the words ruthlessly aside. Without arcen he was nothing. No longer a soldier; no longer a Brother. And, with his name given by an enemy, no longer truly Salharan.