“Harper?”
Dhairr started at the sound of his son’s voice, as if he’d forgotten Kall was present. Kall stared at Haig, his hand outstretched to the man, too many questions pressing into his throat.
Balram continued, “There are traitors in your house, my friend,” he said to Dhairr. “This one, I warrant, is Alytia’s work.”
“Is this truth?” Dhairr asked. “Speak!” he shouted when Haig hesitated.
Haig met Kall’s eyes briefly. “I was asked by the Harper Alytia Morel to see to her son’s protection when she was forced to leave this house. I honored her request… and continued to do so after her death.”
“No,” Kall shook his head in denial even as the words sank into him like a cold kiss, through the heat, the buzzing of insects, and the tension of raised blades all around him. His chest seized up. His mother … a Harper? Sent away? That was impossible. His mother died giving birth to him. His father told him the story long ago. Haig was confused, he was lying… .
Beside him, Dhairr stood in a similar state of shock, but Haig’s words did not have the same paralytic effect.
His gaze still on Kall, Haig never saw the attack coming.
Dhairr hit the Harper from the side, driving him to the ground. Haig’s skull struck the fountain’s edge, and Kall could see the whites of his eyes as he went limp. Dhairr hauled him over and plunged him up to his neck in the fountain, jolting the man back to semi-consciousness.
“Not yet, not yet,” Dhairr growled. The sudden outpouring of rage transformed him into a creature Kall did not recognize. Stunned, he fell back a pace.
“Before you die, you will tell me who hunts me!” Dhairr screamed. “Do you hear?” He shook the senseless Harper, plunging him beneath the water again. Haig’s hands came up, spasming weakly. “Did Alytia send you to kill me? Is this her revenge?”
“Father, stop!” Kall grabbed Dhairr’s shoulder, trying to wrench him off Haig. He pulled, gasping, pounding with his fists, but the lord’s muscles were clenched balls of heat and strength. A boy couldn’t hope to overpower him.
Kall felt a hand close over his throat, yanking him back. He glared hatefully up into Balram’s eyes. “Liar,” he gasped. Balram shook him.
“Now, now,” he said soothingly, stroking a thumb across Kall’s windpipe. “Leave them alone. You and I can entertain ourselves.” He raised Kall to his toes. “You say Aazen was injured?” His jaw tightened. “How careless of them. It was supposed to be you. And where is Aazen now, Kall?” Balram asked, his voice rising. “Alone … wounded? Did you leave him to die?” He pressed down. Spots clouded Kall’s vision. Disgusted, Balram dropped him into the mud.
“He … alive,” Kall choked. His tongue felt swollen in his mouth. Using one arm for leverage, he dragged himself through the ferns as Balram stalked unhurriedly after him. “Haig!” he sobbed, watching the Harper’s body twitch as his father held him under the water for the space of a breath, two, three—too long.
“Father!” Kall screamed as he clumsily dodged a swipe from Balram’s foot. “Stop! Help me!”
Balram kicked him in the ribs, knocking the air from Kall’s lungs. He tried to curl into a ball, but Balram kicked him again. Kall’s arm went numb. He lurched back, reaching desperately, but his father didn’t seem to hear anything going on around him.
“If you do not resist, I will tell your father you died defending him,” Balram promised, and the reassurance, the sincerity in his voice sent a horrible chill through Kall. He scooped up a handful of mud and hurled it into Balram’s face.
The guard captain staggered back, and Kall ran—out of the garden, through the main hall and the double entry doors. He stopped when he saw Haig’s horse standing on the track leading from the estate. His ribs burned—hard breathing sent a fire raging over them.
He stumbled to the horse and crawled up the animal’s back. It neighed and balked, but eventually settled as Kall draped himself over its back and kicked its flanks. The horse sprang to life, but Kall didn’t even glance at the direction it chose. He half-expected a hailstorm of arrows to follow him out the front gates. He buried his face in the horse’s dark mane and waited, but he felt only the fire in his ribs and an awful, searing pain in his heart.
CHAPTER FOUR
Balram spat mud. The boy wouldn’t get far.
He raised his sword to the east tower, signaling Meraik. The man saluted and disappeared from view.
“Captain.” Dencer hurried to him. He cast a wary glance at Morel, who crouched beside the fountain next to Haig’s body floating in the water.
“Speak,” Balram said, and added pointedly, “Kall yet lives.”
“Forgive me, Captain,” Dencer said, and lowered his voice. “Haig interfered. My arrow missed the boy.”
“And found its way into my son,” Balram said grimly. “Forgive me,” Dencer pleaded.
Balram regarded the man for a long time. “Bring my son home to me, Dencer,” he said finally.
“I have already seen to it,” Dencer said, visibly relieved. “Someone has healed him.”
The Harper, Balram thought. “Begin a count of who is dead and who is merely wounded. If you find witnesses, silence them.”
Dencer nodded and departed. Sheathing his sword, Balram went to Dhairr. The lord clutched the Harper’s pin in his fist and watched the body float in the fountain. He looked up at Balram like a lost child.
His mind is shattered, Balram thought. This will be easier than I could have hoped.
“Come away, my friend,” he said. “It isn’t safe for you here.”
Dhairr stood unsteadily. He allowed Balram to lead him from the garden, up the stairs to his office. He paused along the way, murmuring, “Kall?”
Balram fixed an expression of sorrow on his face. “I am sorry, my lord. I’m afraid your son was in league with the Harper. I cannot be certain, but he may have helped the assassins gain entrance to the house.”
“To kill me… .” Morel’s face turned ashen. “He is only a boy. The guards—he said they were traitors—”
“A lie,” Balram said smoothly. He draped an arm over Dhairr’s shoulder and pressed the object he’d been palming into the cloth of the lord’s cloak and through, piercing the skin below his collarbone with a needlelike point.
Dhairr stiffened and tried to brush the stinging object off, but Balram held him fast, waiting for the magic to seep into his blood. When he was sure, he drew the object—a small, silver broach set with a square amethyst—out of Dhairr’s skin and pinned it neatly to his cloak, as if it were an ornament that had always been there.
He supported Morel the rest of the way up the stairs and into the office, putting him in a chair. He took the one across the desk and waited, watching the magic swirl like winter clouds in his friend’s eyes. Abruptly, Dhairr’s vision cleared, and he sat up.
“Are you well, my friend?” Balram asked.
“Aye,” Dhairr murmured, pressing both palms to his forehead. “What happened?”
“The wounds the Harper inflicted nearly overcame you,” Balram said, rising. “I will send a servant in to tend them.”
Dhairr touched the drying blood at his shoulder and temple. “The wounds, yes.” He looked up at Balram. “I killed him?” he asked uncertainly.
“You slew the assassins who stalked you twelve years ago,” Balram assured him. “Be at peace, my friend. You are safe.”
“Safe,” Dhairr repeated. He settled uncertainly in his chair as Balram strode from the room. When he was alone, he murmured, dazedly, “Kall.”
Daen sat at the bottom of the stairway, his legs tucked up against his massive belly like a dam holding the floodwaters at bay.