Betrayal Page 4

  Now Brion remembered that strange look of surprise and shock that Neahl had given him that day as Airic lay dead at their feet.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Brion asked.

  Neahl raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “How could I tell you something like that when we were trying to save Brigid and Finola?”

  “But this changes everything,” Brion said.

  “What does it change?” Neahl countered. “Where was the Duke when you needed a home? Who raised you and loved you?”

  Neahl’s face grew red and his gaze grew hard. Brion knew that Neahl was right, of course. But Neahl didn’t know about the hidden prince. Brion glanced at the cabin. Cluny stood in the doorway, watching them. Brion grabbed Neahl’s elbow and stepped several more paces away from the door.

  “Look,” Brion said. “I’ve got papers and a ring Papa left me. I have to tell you about them before I can agree to this. It explains why we’ve been tracked and hunted.” He glanced back at Cluny again. “Someone is trying to kill us to keep us quiet. But I promised Papa I would see it through. I think I am going to have to go find the Duke.”

  Neahl tried to interrupt, but Brion plowed ahead.

  “And we have to find out what happened to Paiden and Shavon. I can’t just take off into the heathland without knowing where they are. Besides, I don’t think I want to fight for King Geric. Redmond was right. I don’t want to die so he can keep a throne he murdered people to get.”

  Neahl grabbed Brion’s arm. His grip was tight and his eyes hard.

  “You’re not fighting for some soft noble,” he growled. “You’re fighting for your homeland. The nobles can sort out their own problems for all I care. But these are our people, Brion. If we don’t use the skills we’ve developed, our people will die.”

  Brion shook Neahl’s hand loose and then leaned in close to Neahl.

  “Weyland helped them rescue the real prince during the coup,” he whispered. “The prince is alive. I saw him at the Great Keldi.”

  Neahl stared at him with his mouth hanging open. Then he glanced back at Cluny. The hardness evaporated from his face.

  “Don’t say that again while they’re here.” Neahl said. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Well, that does change a few things,” he said. “You can’t refuse the King’s orders, Brion. Cluny will arrest you and take you to Mailag. You won’t have the chance to talk to the Duke.” Neahl shook his head and rubbed his beard. “I don’t know how long this will take,” he said. “The war could last for years or a few weeks. But we’ll only be able to operate for a few weeks before it gets too dangerous. Then you can find the Du . . . your father.”

  “What if things don’t go well?” Brion asked. “What if I mess things up?”

  “You won’t,” Neahl said. “I trained you.”

  “Yeah,” Brion said with a laugh. “You beat me until I was black and blue and made me sit out all night freezing in the pouring rain.”

  Neahl grinned and slapped Brion on the back. “Best training you’ll ever get,” he said. “Are you ready to give Cluny an answer?”

  Brion nodded, and they returned to the cabin where Cluny waited with his gloves in one hand slapping them into the other.

  “Can we get on with this?” Cluny demanded.

  Brion still didn’t like the man. He came across as pompous and domineering. “I’ll only accept if Redmond and Emyr come with me,” Brion said.

  Cluny shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

  “That’s my condition.”

  “Brion, the King doesn’t—”

  “He didn’t say who I could choose for my company, did he?”

  “Well, no, but—“

  “Then they come with me, or I don’t go.”

  “Cluny.” Neahl said, giving him an exasperated expression.

  “Oh, all right.” Cluny gestured to the other men with his gloves. “Hayden, Jaxon, and Tyg will go with you. That would give you a team of five.”

  Brion considered protesting, but a look from Neahl silenced him. He inspected the men more carefully now that he knew his life could depend on them and their skills.

  Hayden wore the arrogant smirk of a bully. Jaxon was more serious. And it wasn’t just because of the creepy eye. He had a solid build for a Salassani and a deeply tanned face. He carried himself like an experienced fighter, and his dark eye seemed to hold little empathy. He was a hard man. That was plain enough. But why would Cluny be riding with a Salassani on the eve of a major war with most of the Salassani tribes? And why would he make such a fuss about Emyr being raised as a Salassani when Jaxon actually was one? It didn’t make any sense.

  Tyg looked like he would be more comfortable with a barrel of honey mead and a loaf of bread than with a bow or a sword. This apparent ease made Brion suspicious. He studied Tyg. Tyg’s eyes kept moving. He was wary and alert despite his façade of unconcern.

  Brion regarded Cluny. “I thought I could choose my own company.”

  Cluny raised his eyebrows.

  “I chose these two for you,” Neahl said with a casual wave at Jaxon and Tyg. “The King sent Hayden.”

  Brion examined Jaxon and Tyg more carefully. If Neahl chose them, then they had some special quality Neahl valued and trusted. Brion nodded.

  “So long as I get Redmond and Emyr,” he said.

  “Done,” Cluny said. “Have you heard from them yet?”

  Brion shook his head. “They went to warn Dunfermine. The Dunkeldi and Taurini have surrounded it.”

  “So they have,” Cluny said. “Well, you have a week to collect them. You had better consider alternatives in case they don’t appear.”

  He said this as if he didn’t expect Redmond and Emyr to show up. Brion had long nursed a healthy distrust of Cluny, ever since he wouldn’t meet his gaze after Weyland and Rosland had been murdered. He still didn’t like him.

  Cluny slapped the gloves in his hand again. “Well, I’ll be on my way. Brion. Ladies. Neahl.”

  The other three men followed him out of the cabin with curt nods to Brion and mounted their horses. Seamus still loitered by the shed.

  Cluny waved to Jaxon, Hayden, and Tyg. “They’ll be staying in town until you’re ready.” Cluny mounted his horse and rode off at a canter. The other three followed.

  Brion watched them go with a furrowed brow.

  “You could’ve warned me,” he said to Neahl as they disappeared over the rise.

  Neahl shook his head. “King’s orders. Had to be secret.”

  “I’ve never led men before, Neahl,” Brion said, “and operating behind Dunkeldi lines is a suicide mission.”

  Neahl poked a finger at Brion. “Look, there are only three, well, maybe four men in the entire kingdom of Coll that could pull it off, and you’re one of them. Take it as a compliment and quit complaining.”

  Finola and Brigid exchanged glances but didn’t say anything. Brion was too preoccupied to give it a second thought, but Neahl frowned.

  “And don’t you ladies get any silly ideas into your heads.”

  Finola opened her hands submissively in front of her, looking around in shock. “What did we do?” she asked.

  “Don’t try to pull that on me,” Neahl said.

  “What does this mean?” Brigid interrupted. “What are we supposed to do while you and Brion are off fighting Salassani again?”

  Neahl shrugged. “You can’t stay in Wexford. It’s likely to get overrun. Actually, I was thinking of sending you south. I have a friend there—”

  But a chorus of protest from Finola and Brigid overwhelmed his words.

  “Look,” he said, waving his hands at them as if he hoped to swat away their objections. “Come inside, and we can talk this over while you make me a nice, hot meal.”

  Finola scowled. “You expect us to cook for you after what you’ve just said?”

  Neahl smirked and shook his head. “I’ll cook for myself, then.”

  “I’m not eating what you cook,” Finola replie
d. She stomped off into the cabin. Brigid followed.

  “That one’s too headstrong for her own good,” Neahl said.

  Brion turned to follow Neahl into the cabin when he saw Seamus still standing by the smokehouse with the horse’s reins in his hand. His expression told Brion that he had something on his mind.

  “Seamus?” Brion said.

  “I want to come with you,” Seamus said.

  Brion didn’t know what to say.

  Apparently, Seamus had been listening to the entire conversation. “I can use a bow and a knife. And I’m the best grappler in Wexford.”

  “I know Seamus, but this is the real thing. We could all get killed.”

  “Well, I’m not staying here,” Seamus said. “If you won’t take me, I’m going to Mailag to join the army.”

  “What about the tannery and your parents?”

  “My father said he would go if he could. My mother, well, she’s Momma.” He said this with a shrug. “Either way, I’m going to fight.”

  Brion sighed. Seamus had been his friend as long as he could remember. Seamus had remained loyal even though his loyalty had placed him in danger. And Seamus was a good fighter, but he hadn’t been trained the way Brion had. Still, he knew he could trust Seamus, and that was something he had grown to value in the last few months. “All right Seamus,” he said. “But you have to do what I say.”

  Seamus grinned. “I’ll be back tomorrow with my gear.” He climbed into the saddle and galloped away.

  Chapter 6

  Rhodri squinted into the setting sun to watch the eagle bank and turn on the wind. It soared over the crystal waters of the lake, banked again, then folded its wings and dropped. The eagle pulled up before it plunged into the water. Its great wings sent up a spray as it rose into the air with the fish twisting in its talons.

  Rhodri lifted his right hand to examine the tiny brand of melted skin. The eagle-shaped brand formed the same curving arch of the eagle’s wings as it had lifted the fish from the water. He had been branded at his mother’s bedside seconds after birth—the mark of the prince. As he watched the eagle alight on the limb of a gnarled, old tree and begin to shred its prey, he wondered if he was more like the eagle or the fish.

  Rhodri hefted the deer onto his shoulders and trudged up the rocky bluff. The musky scent of the deer filled his nostrils. The soft fur was warm on his neck. The day had been hot, but now a cool breeze filtered its way through the junipers and rustled the little clumps of blue and white heather that dotted the hillsides. The breeze played with his sweat-soaked tunic.

  It had been more than a month since he had seen the young warrior at the market of the Great Keldi trying to hide behind a mask of paint and Salassani clothes that didn’t fit him. He had found the eagle face paint the young man had worn strangely appropriate, but he doubted that the young man understood it. The young warrior had no idea who Rhodri was or why he had helped him escape the tall Salassani that had pursued them.

  Maybe it didn’t matter. The Dunkeldi were going to war and dragging all the other tribes with them. The young man didn’t even know that he was being used to start that war and that someone very powerful in Coll wanted him dead. But Rhodri knew who the young man was because Finn maintained a complicated network of spies, and Rhodri had tried to warn him. Rhodri had given him the golden eagle for the Duke of Saylen just in case he survived.

  Still, he and Finn had escaped the slaughter at the Great Keldi that followed the boy’s daring rescue of his sister. Tristan, the king of the Dunkeldi, had chosen to use that rescue as an excuse to inflame anti-Alamani sentiment and to stir up the northern tribes for war.

  Rhodri crested the ridge, pausing to catch his breath before working his way down into the valley on the other side. His time was coming. He sensed it like he could sense the smell of the rain on the wind. He expected a messenger from the Duke any day to set the plan in motion. In fact, he had expected this some time ago. He couldn’t understand why the Duke delayed.

  The sun settled behind the Aveen Mountains as Rhodri descended into the shadowed valley. The aroma of wood smoke drifted through the stand of pines and junipers, drawing him toward the encampment.

  Rhodri stopped and sniffed at the air. Something wasn’t right. That smoke had a greasy scent and feel to it. He dropped the deer on the blanket of pine-needles that covered the ground and placed an arrow on the string of his short, recurve bow. Dusk had fallen and the shadows were deepening. Rhodri crept toward the encampment until he peered into the clearing from the cover of the trees. Yellow and orange tongues of flame licked at the smoking remains of the Carpentini shelters. Bodies littered the ground. A few blackened corpses lay in the ruin of collapsed lean-tos.

  A sudden dread filled him, hot and tense. Where was Finn? The old steward had rescued him as an infant and fled with him into the heathland to the far northern end of the island to hide him among the Taurini. Rhodri had lived the outward life of a slave while Finn had trained him in secret for the moment when he would return and reclaim his family’s throne. Finn was his mentor, his savior, his friend.

  Ignoring his better judgment, Rhodri hurried into the collection of smoking shelters, searching every corpse he passed. The shelter he and Finn had been using lay in a tumbled heap. Finn was nowhere to be seen. Rhodri kicked at a smoking pole. All of his gear had been in the tent. But that would have to wait.

  He continued his search when a rustle in the undergrowth on the edge of the clearing sent him dashing for cover. He drew the bow and trained the arrow on the spot where the serviceberry leaves shook.

  Finn stumbled into the clearing. The left side of his face was bathed in blood, and his left arm dangled at his side. Blood dripped from his fingers.

  “Finn!” Rhodri rushed to him and helped him lie down. Rhodri drew his knife and cut away Finn’s sleeve. Finn’s arm lay open to the bone and was gushing blood. Ripping Finn’s sleeve free, Rhodri tied it around the wound. Then he held it tight, trying to stop the bleeding. The head wound had already stopped bleeding and was starting to clot. Finn blinked up at Rhodri with his somber, blue eyes. The gray hair matted to his head.

  “They came for you,” Finn said.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. But they were looking for the ‘slave boy.’” Finn swallowed.

  “How could anyone know?” Rhodri asked. “We’ve never told anyone.”

  “Someone in Coll must suspect. At least two of them were Alamani, from Chullish by their accent.”

  “But how could they connect us to anything in Chullish, and how would they know we were here with the Carpentini?”

  Finn rolled his head from side to side. “I don’t know.” He tried to lick his lips.

  Blood continued to seep from between Rhodri’s fingers. Why wouldn’t Finn’s arm stop bleeding? If he didn’t do something, Finn would bleed to death. Rhodri searched the burning huts in desperation until his gaze fell upon the blackened hilt of a sword poking from under a still-flaming log.

  “Hold on,” he said as he jumped to his feet and snatched the sword from the flames. Its tip glowed a dull red. Rhodri knelt beside Finn.

  “I’m sorry, but this will hurt,” he said. He straddled Finn’s body, pinning his arms to his side, and pulled aside the bandage. He placed a hand over Finn’s mouth so his cry wouldn’t attract any attention and touched the hot metal to the flesh. It sizzled. The blood boiled. Finn screamed and bucked before he fainted away. The reek of burning flesh stung Rhodri’s nostrils. Rhodri moved the tip of the sword around to cauterize as much as he could before the metal grew cold. When he was done, he washed the wound with water, made sure the bleeding had stopped, and went in search of sphagnum moss. He collected enough to last for several days.

  After washing the moss clean in the little creek, he applied it to the wound. He knew that the moss would protect against infection and that it would absorb any blood or discharge from the wound. He wrapped everything tightly in strips from Finn’s shirt. That was all
he could do. The moss would keep the wound moist and clean and hopefully prevent an infection.

  Finn didn’t awake until late in the night. Rhodri had carried him to the shelter of a rock overhang and gone to find any of their gear that hadn’t been destroyed in the fires. He found that Finn had saved most of it, which meant they were in a much better position than he had feared.

  Finn opened his eyes and swallowed as Rhodri dropped the gear beside him.

  “How do you feel?” Rhodri asked.

  Finn blinked. “Listen to me,” he said. “You have to leave me and go in search of the Duke.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “Rhodri, there’s something you need to know, in case I don’t make it.” Finn swallowed. “There was another boy, a baby.”

  “Another prince?”

  “No, but they gave me another baby to put in your place. I thought he was dead already, but now I can’t be sure.”

  “You mean there might be another boy my age with a brand on his hand who thinks he’s the prince?”

  Finn nodded. “I didn’t think so, but I’ve heard whispers. I just don’t know anymore. You need to be careful.”

  Rhodri sat back on his haunches and stared into the fire. All his life Finn had told him that he was the prince, had forced him to learn the names of all the noble families in Coll, to study statecraft and warfare. Finn had told him stories about his father and mother and how his mother had died trying to save him. Now Finn was telling him that some other young man might be out there with someone telling him the same things.

  “How do I know that I’m the real prince then, Finn?” he asked.

  Chapter 7

  “I feel like a noose is tightening around my neck,” Brion said as they bent over the steaming bowls of savory stew Finola and Brigid had cooked. The cooking herbs had filled the cabin with a delicious aroma. “We need to find out who paid Emyr to attack us, who sent the assassin, who ransacked our cabin, who betrayed us to the Salassani, and who killed the old midwife.”

  “Midwife?” Neahl asked.

  “She was stabbed to death in her cave,” Finola said.