Veil of Shadows (7 page)

Yes. He could.

One hundred percent, completely and fully.

That was why she needed to keep him at a distance.

But even as she insisted on that, she was having a hard time entirely believing it, and her body longed for his warmth.

Hunger gnawed at him.

Dais had left most of his meager belongings stashed while he took down the buck. He’d been forced to abandon his gear in his haste to get away from whoever had been searching for him. All he carried now were his weapons, his empty canteen and a sodden pouch with rations that hadn’t held up well after his trek down the river.

“Will nothing go my way?” he muttered.

The question had no sooner left his mouth than he heard it.

Voices.

Far off, moving closer.

A smile curved his lips. Perhaps fate was finally going to shine on him.

About bloody time.

And then again, perhaps fate was more in the mood to taunt him.

Hours later, Dais stood on weary feet before a Warlord as he repeated his story for the third time. His clothes were stiff with river water and his belly was a tight, cold knot. His throat was parched.

He needed food. He needed water. He needed a damn bath.

But the men before him weren’t in a congenial mood—basic courtesies were either beyond them or they simply didn’t care to extend them.

It was intolerable. Before, when he had served as a spy to Raichar Taise, he had been respected. Honored. Granted, only Char and his Sirvani, a few select others, had known of Dais’s existence, but he had never been left hungry, never been left thirsty.

Nor had he been mocked.

But the Warlord in front of him watched him with a sly smile on his mouth. “That is the most absurd tale I’ve heard in quite some time. Do you expect us to believe you?”

“I have no reason to lie, my lord.”
Tale?
Dais clenched his jaw shut to keep from sputtering as he fought not to flinch under the Warlord’s unyielding stare. He’d spent weeks searching for Anqarians. Now that he had finally found them—or rather had
been found
by them—this bastard mocked him.

It was utterly humiliating.

There had been a time when he could have faced down a bastard like this without blinking an eye. But that had been before . . . back when he wasn’t being hunted by his own people like a fucking animal.

Turning traitor didn’t come without its risks, and Dais was fully aware of those risks. Getting caught had always been a possibility, and he wasn’t fool enough or arrogant enough to believe otherwise. But being aware of the
possibility
and dealing with the
reality
were two very, very different things.

He couldn’t continue to run. Not with winter edging ever closer. Plus, the forest was proving to be more and more dangerous for a man alone. Even if he managed to evade the demons, he couldn’t evade nature. He couldn’t evade basic facts.

He needed food.

He needed shelter.

Winter was coming and Dais had to either secure himself a place here or head south.

But he didn’t want to head south. He wanted to be
here
, because if ever another Gate was raised, it would be here. Though the Roinan Gate had collapsed, there was still power in the air, and when the Warlords acted, it would be here.

Dais would be here when it happened, because come hell, high water or demon hordes, he was going through the damn Gate. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life like this.

If he stayed here, he was a dead man. At least in Anqar, he might have half a chance.

But first he had to get them on his side.

“I assure you, Warlord, there is nothing absurd about this.” Refusing to let any of his desperation show on his face, he met the Warlord’s penetrating gaze. “It’s not a child’s tale; it’s not some campfire story that’s been bandied about—it’s simply fact. She was Warlord Raichar’s child. Her mother was a rather powerful witch.”

“And you say this woman has
Gate
magic? Women do not have
Gate
magic. The Gates do not recognize women.”

“I beg to disagree, sire. They will recognize this woman.” He lifted his hands and fought to look humble—it wasn’t terribly hard just then. He had precious little pride, precious little arrogance left after the past few weeks, a fact that incensed him to no end. What he did have was rage—he had that in spades, but that didn’t serve him right now. If he showed the rage, then he’d be lucky if he only ended up dead.

He’d bide his time.

Sooner or later, he would be able to indulge in the anger. But until then . . .

He forced himself to give a pathetic smile. “Please understand, I cannot claim any deep knowledge of the Gates, and I do know that before meeting this woman, I’d never heard of a woman who could raise a Gate. But she can.”

“To my knowledge, Char’s daughter has been dead for many years.” It came from the depths of the tent. Dais couldn’t tell who had said it.

The small shelter was crowded. There were five Warlords of varying ages and varying strengths, and numerous Sirvani. The Sirvani, with their shaven hands and bare chests, stood on guard, between Dais and the Warlords.

As though Dais was fool enough to try to go for one of them.

So far, the youngest Warlord had done all of the talking. The rest of them looked on, watching Dais as though he was some bug they’d discovered—like they couldn’t decide whether to squash him or just leave him be.

“I’m aware of the rumor,” Dais said, lying without blinking an eye. He knew next to nothing about Raichar. More’s the fucking pity, too. If he had been aware of this little twist, perhaps he could have made better plans.

“Rumor.” The youngest Warlord watched Dais with a smirk on his lips. The bastard hadn’t so much as offered a name. Dais knew enough of Anqarian customs—withholding a name was an insult among their kind.

Shit
.

The Warlord was young, but there was a great deal of power in him. The others looked to him in deference. Dais could understand why—just looking at him was enough to dry the spit in Dais’s mouth.

Like the others, he wore a thick chain around his neck. Light fell across the stone set in the metal—it was Warlord blue. That particular stone was worn only by Warlords and Sirvani—Sirvani, their little Warlords in training. The closer to black the stone got, the more powerful the Warlord.

This man’s stone was the same shade of the night sky. It was dull, though. Before the collapse of the Gates, the stones had always had some inner glow.

“Let’s say Char’s daughter did not die—let’s say this woman is indeed who you claim.”

Dais inclined his head.

“How do you know this?”

“I know a great many things, sire. I deal in . . . information. It’s my specialty.”

“You make it sound so grand, offworlder. So elegant, so noble. But you’re just a spy,” the Warlord said, that small, amused smile curling his lips.

Shame and humiliation curled inside him but he didn’t look away. He didn’t dare—this was a man who could put a knife between his ribs and Dais wouldn’t even know it until he was already on the ground.

“A spy,” the Warlord said again, in a smooth, deep voice. He smiled at Dais, a feral curl of his lips. “Nothing more, and not a particularly good one, I’d wager. After all, you were caught.”

Dais bristled. It hadn’t been that long ago when he’d been one of the most valued assets in Anqar’s army, even though most of them knew nothing of him. He’d also been one of the most respected men in the rebellion—leading a double life and doing a damn fine job of it, too. For close to forty years.

Until Morne—damn the man.

And Lee. Kalen. Damn them all to hell.

He made a conscious effort to relax, waiting until he knew he could speak without the knife-edge of anger apparent in his voice. “What I am, or what I am not, isn’t the important issue here, my lords. The important issue is the information I’ve given you. Precious information.”

“Precious.” The Warlord began to pace around Dais in a slow circle, moving ever closer, until even a slight shift would have their bodies brushing. Dais held himself rigid—the thought of allowing this man to touch him in any way seemed about as foolish as drinking poison.

“Precious information,” the Warlord murmured.

The Warlord was damned creepy. From the corner of his eye, he tried to watch the other man, but it was hard to watch him without turning, and he didn’t dare give the other Warlords his back. He couldn’t afford to let any of the others recognize his unease.

“You must admit, my lords, a female that can bear your power, surely the idea is enticing.”

Circling to stand before Dais, the Warlord stopped. A smile curled his lips as he studied Dais’s face. “Of course, we have only your word that this female, this daughter of Raichar, can actually use Gate magic. That she actually
is
the daughter of Raichar. No proof. Just your word.”

“The word of a spy,” somebody within the tent said in a voice thick with derision.

“The word of a spy,” the Warlord murmured, shaking his head. “How much faith do we place in the word of a spy?”

Mouth gone dry, Dais forced a smile. “If she were delivered into your hands, perhaps then you would believe?”

“How do you plan to do that?”

Dais started, caught off guard as one of the other Warlords spoke. It was the older one, one who had silver starting to show in his reddish blond hair. Lines fanned out from his faded gray eyes, but although the years showed on him, so did strength and power.

“My lord?” Dais asked.

“How do you plan to deliver this so-called female Warlord into our hands?” He watched Dais with no expression. “Do you think we shall let you go? Leave you to this fool’s errand simply at your behest?”

Dais was hard-pressed not to react to that.

He couldn’t very well go on his “fool’s errand” without their permission. They had more or less captured him. Instead of him approaching them as an equal—or at least approaching them from a bargaining position—they had taken him off guard and now he was their prisoner.

He gave the eldest Warlord a cagey smile and said, “Truly, my lord. What is the more appealing prize? My mangy hide? Or the possibility of a young,
powerful
woman?”

“Hmmmm. You do make a good point.”

They watched as he left.

They remained silent and motionless long after the flap of the tent swung closed behind him, aware he was skulking about in the shadows. He made no sound, but he was there nonetheless. They continued to wait, until he finally withdrew.

After all, he couldn’t stay there forever, not if he wanted to find this so-called female Warlord to turn over to them. Not if he wanted to live. Warlords rarely lost their prey, and if he did not deliver as promised, his life was forfeit.