“I can’t betray him, Father.” Aazen put a tremor in his voice, a weak, small titter that his father would not be able to tolerate. His father despised weakness. “Please don’t ask me—”
The slap blurred the edges of Aazen’s vision. His left eye immediately began to throb and water, but the blow had not been debilitating. His father meant only to silence him.
Obediently, he sat, teary-eyed, as Balram rose slowly to tower over him.
“I am asking you, boy,” he said, his breath hot and sour on Aazen’s face. “I am asking you to help me, to protect me, as I would lay down my life to protect you. Do you hate me so much that you would allow me to be taken, to be killed?” His eyes softened. The hurt crept in. The sight of it made Aazen sick to his stomach.
“No, Father!” he cried, “I don’t hate you!” And that was the truth. The only person Aazen hated in that instant was himself. “No, of course not!”
“Of course not,” his father repeated, his tone soothing. “You are becoming a man, a loyal son.” He touched a large hand to Aazen’s head and wiped the moisture away from his reddening eye. “I will bring my horse, and you will ride. Go swiftly, and do as I instructed. In the morning, all this will be a fading memory.”
A memory, Aazen thought. If only his whole life could be someone else’s memory.
Chapter Five
Kall swung off the horse. He seemed to fall a long way to the ground. He felt grass under his feet, and mud. In the colored twilight, he gazed up a steep hill speckled with what looked like small swaying firebrands.
The tangerine rose bushes were seasons old and thriving, planted one each in front of a dozen small headstones. The land he stood on belonged to Morel, the burial plots for servants who had died without family in his fathers employ. No one passing on the nearby lane would notice the graves, but the expensive flowers—grown for the memory of twelve servants whose names would never be recalled—were sure to be marked by all.
He climbed to the steepest side of the hill, leading Haig’s horse up alongside him. Letting go of the horses reins, he dropped to his knees between two markers. He began plucking at the grass, fingers and nails raking, searching for a seam. His father had shown him the place long ago, but Kall remembered this pair of stones clearly. His father had made him memorize the names: Seth Tarin and Rose Olindrake.
Mud and grass stains covered his hands. It was no good—he’d need something to cut through. Reluctantly, Kall stood and turned to Haig’s horse. He felt around the saddle blanket to the bags draped on either side. He found a knife in one.
Movement from behind set every nerve in his body on edge. Kall spun, slashing blindly with the knife.
Aazen caught Kall’s arm before he could drive the blade into his neck. “It’s me,” he said.
Breathing hard, Kall took a long time to focus on his friend and comprehend that he was not some specter from the surrounding graves. The knife fell forgotten to the grass. “What are you doing here?”
Then it came to him in a rush—Aazen’s washed-out face, his swollen eye, and the grim set to his mouth. “Your father,” Kall croaked. “He—”
“I know.” Aazen nodded. Kall mirrored the gesture. It was all the acknowledgment either seemed capable of giving.
“He will kill you,” Aazen said. “His men are hunting for you now.”
“They don’t know about this place,” Kall said. He retrieved his knife and started digging.
Aazen scraped dirt aside with his hands. “You don’t have much time,” he said. He hesitated, looking at the ground. “These won’t help you.”
Kall’s blade found the niche he’d been looking for, and he peeled the grass back, like slipping the lid off a stubborn box. Beneath lay a hollow space lined with wood and cloth. Two bundles of tightly wrapped linen were nestled on top of this, the larger tied with a rope to be worn on the shoulders. He drew them out reverently, as he’d seen his father do when he’d first shown them to Kall.
“I’m going back,” he said, glaring into Aazen’s skeptical eyes. “If I can just get to Father …”
“Your father believes you have betrayed him,” Aazen said bluntly. “He is allowing mine to deal with you, in whatever way he sees fit.”
Kall’s gaze faltered. “You’re lying,” he said automatically. “Father would never believe I betrayed him.”
“He has no say in the matter. Father has Morel under his control. I don’t know how…” Aazen’s mind seized on his healed wound. “Magic, perhaps.”
“Magic.” Kall’s forehead wrinkled. Magic was only a vague concept to him, little more than a fixture in the stories his father used to tell of his mother. Fantastic and sometimes brutal as the tales had been, he’d only ever listened to the parts about the woman herself, soaking up every small detail… .
No, Kall thought savagely, thrusting the memories away. All that had been a lie. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ll go back and free him. I have these”—he clutched the bundles—“they have magic. Father told me. I’ll kill Balram!”
The words rang out between them, and Kall sucked in a breath, watching Aazen, hearing the words and their implications for the first time.
He’d just sworn to kill Aazen’s father. In one day, their worlds had shattered. Nothing would ever be the same for either of them again.
Aazen said nothing at first, only smoothed the dirt and grass back in place over the hole. He looked up as the sun dipped below the horizon. “You have to leave the city. I was sent out to lead Father’s men to wherever you might be hiding. I came to warn you, but I can’t stay here. When Father realizes I’ve put him on a false trail, he’ll be tracking me.” Aazen stared into the distance, as if seeing something frightening in the dark. “I can’t hide for long.”
“He won’t forgive you. He’ll beat you to death and won’t know he’s doing it,” Kall said bitterly. “You have to run.”
They had no choice. Aazen was right. If Kall went back now, without his father’s aid, he had no hope. It shamed Kall to admit his fear, but stronger than that was the anger, the fury at Balram and all he’d stolen from Kall’s family. Balram wanted him dead. The only action Kall could take right now to thwart him was to stay alive.
Absorbed in thoughts and plans, Kall didn’t notice Aazen’s silence. His friend got to his feet and started walking, out into the dark. Abruptly, Kall realized what he intended and yelled, “You can’t go back. You’ll die!”
Aazen paused, not looking back. “No. I don’t think … no. I’m all he has. He cares for me.”
Kall’s mouth twisted. “How can he? Your father’s a murderer.”
Aazen said, calmly, “So is yours.”
And then, as if it had been waiting, the scene in the garden broke fresh in Kall’s mind. He saw his father drowning Haig as the sun shone down and insects buzzed around their bleeding wounds. He’d managed to block it out before, when he’d needed to escape, but Aazen’s words conjured the memory effortlessly.
Kall put his head in the grass and vomited. Sweat dripped between his shoulder blades, but he was so cold his fingers were numb. He tried to stand, but the sickness racked his body. Aazen made no move to help him.
“You said … you said he was under Balram’s control!” Kall spat and wiped his mouth. “Father would never have killed Haig.”
“Morel hates the Harpers. My father told me your father had reason to want Haig’s death.”
“No!”
Aazen looked down at Kall pityingly. “Get on your horse,” he said. “Don’t come back. Don’t come after Balram. I’ll have to … to kill you, if you do.”
Then Aazen went, his footsteps shuffling dully through the grass. Kall sat, frozen in shock, but he didn’t call out again. He simply listened, his breath aching in his chest, as his best friend walked away from him.