You cost me a son … don’t cost me an heir.
Delysia grabbed the basket and ran back to their camp, ignoring the cuts against her skin from the thorns. She wasn’t sure what she’d say, and part of her feared what Thren would do. But what could he do other than kill her? Even that would be a risk. If he wanted to win Haern over, her death would put an end to their cooperation. Thren needed time; he needed opportunity.
The sun was almost set and she out of breath, by the time she reached the camp. Haern sat before the fire, a crude spit set up to cook the rabbit above it. He smiled when he looked up and saw her and the berries, but he quickly sensed something was amiss.
“Del?” he asked.
Beside him sat Thren, and he glanced at her with a passive expression, as if nothing at all had been said between them only minutes before.
“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Alone.”
“Whatever needs to be said I’m sure can be said in front of me,” Thren said.
“No, it can’t,” Delysia said, glaring. Haern looked between them, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of his sword.
“I’m sure you won’t mind giving us a moment of privacy,” Haern said as he stood.
Thren shrugged.
“Go ahead, but I make no promises on the raspberries. If you take too long, and I eat them all, it’s on you.”
At Delysia’s lead, the two wandered away from the camp, until she felt comfortable Thren would not hear. Leaning against one of the few trees nearby, Delysia crossed her arms over her chest and tried to make sense of her thoughts.
“We have to go back,” she said.
“What?” asked Haern.
“All of us, we have to go back; we have to stop this. Whatever you’re hoping to accomplish, it isn’t worth it. We can do more good in Veldaren.”
Haern glanced back to the campfire, and a frown came over his face.
“Is that why you came all this way?” he asked. “To tell me to turn back? Because I won’t, Delysia. I have to know what is going on, and this is the only way.”
She knew it wasn’t, but there was no doubt in Haern’s voice, no questioning in his eyes. His mind was set, and she felt her stomach sink.
“It’s not worth it,” she said, voice quieter. “Not for such a risk.”
“I can handle a few dark paladins.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Haern let out a sigh, and he kicked at the tall grass.
“I’m not afraid of him,” he said. “He needs me.”
“He does,” Delysia said. “And that’s what I’m afraid of.”
She pushed off the tree, took a step toward him. She put her hand on Haern’s cheek, guided his eyes to hers. His eyes were so blue, she thought. Like a child’s. Like his father’s.
“He knows,” she whispered. “Who you are. Don’t you understand? He knows.”
His entire body tensed as if preparing for battle.
“Did he tell you this?” he asked, his own voice softer.
“No,” she said. “But I feel it in my gut. After all these years, he views this as a second chance. He wants to bring you back to him, make you as you were. Can’t you see that? Thren Felhorn wants his son returned to him. He wants his heir.”
“It’s impossible,” Haern said, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t he have confronted me before now? Why let me live on the streets for so long, working against him? It’s not like him; he wouldn’t have…”
“He’d do whatever it took to get what he wanted,” Delysia said. “And he won’t let anyone stand in his way. He told me so while I was in the field.”
His face darkened, and she saw the thought go through his mind.
“Did he threaten you?” he asked.
Delysia swallowed. Haern would not return to Veldaren. His mind was set, but if she revealed the threat, she knew what he’d do. He’d send her away, refusing to trust her. That was how Haern worked, and she’d come to accept it. The man would take any risk so long as the consequences were only on himself, but should it be someone else, someone he cared for …
“He never said he would harm me,” she said, as close to a lie as she could manage, and still she felt ill by it.
Haern let out a sigh.
“I’ll pay more attention, all right?” he asked. “But I refuse to believe he knows I’m his son. He’d have acted far sooner. The moment he knew, he’d have torn Veldaren apart to have me back at his side. Listen, perhaps you’re right, and he wants to recruit me in some way. If that is the case, I promise you, I’ll never be what Thren wants me to be. I’m stronger than I ever was, smarter, wiser. I can stand against him far better than when I was a child.”
The words were like tiny needles to her heart, and she stood on her toes so she could kiss his cheek.
“Don’t you see?” she asked him. “It’s the child you were that must survive.”
With that, she returned to the fire, determined to deny her fear of Thren, to be there no matter the cost. At her arrival, Thren tore off a leg of the rabbit and tossed it her way.
“Dig in,” he said as she caught it. “It’ll be tougher than it looks, though.”
He winked, and she smiled sweetly back as she bit into the flesh, vowing that no matter the cost, she would not let such a horrible man win.
CHAPTER 7
Lord Victor Kane stood before the mirror and adjusted the collar of his shirt for the third time.
“Forget it,” he said, yanking off the silken garment. “It’s not me, anyway.”
Instead, he put on a plain undershirt, followed by his finely woven chain mail shirt. It was heavy, but when he clasped his sword belt to his waist, it helped to distribute some of the weight. That done, he grabbed his sword, pulled a tunic with his family’s crest over his head, and then looked once more into the mirror. This time, he looked ready for battle, the rings of his chain mail shining in the light streaming in through his window.
Much better, he thought. Better he be comfortable than pretend to be something he wasn’t.
“Milord?” asked a man at the door after a quick set of knocks.
“Come in, Sef,” Victor said.
The door opened, and into Victor’s small room stepped Sef Battleborn, a heavyset and bearded man whose long brown hair had more than a fair share of gray in it. Sef had been a loyal soldier of his family for decades now, and Victor hoped he’d be around for decades more.
“Going to Alyssa’s again?” he asked, looking Victor up and down.
“Hard to woo a woman when you’re not at her side.”
“The poets say differently.”
“The poets write their ballads so that young maidens will throw themselves at their feet afterwards,” Victor said, tugging on his chain mail to readjust its weight so it was centered instead of too far on his right shoulder. “And since when do you listen to poets?”
“When I’m off drinking,” Sef said. “Something you used to do with me before all this started.”
Victor ran a hand through his hair, glanced at Sef.
“Is there a reason you’re here, other than to complain about my not getting shit-faced with you at a tavern?”
“Sadly, there is,” Sef said, and he sighed. “The mercenary captains have all gathered downstairs. They want to be paid, Victor, and they aren’t leaving until they get what they think is theirs.”
“How many?” Victor asked Sef, who stood in the doorway to Victor’s room looking miserable.
“Fifteen,” his old friend said. “If you tally up those under their command, it’s nearly six hundred of our mercenaries.”
Six hundred of their remaining thousand. Victor slowly stood from his chair, walked over to Sef.
“Fetch me soldiers still loyal to my cause,” he said. “Have them outside in case I need them.”
“Yes, my lord,” Sef said, bowing his head. “Will you come speak with the captains?”
“In a moment,” Victor said. “Just … tell them to give me a moment.”
When the door closed, Victor walked back to his desk and grabbed his dagger off it. Staring into the edge, he asked himself how far he was willing to go. His parents’death … how far must he go before they were avenged? How much spilled blood was the city of Veldaren truly worth?