Tyrant’s Blood

‘The first time or the second time?’

‘Don’t toy with me, man!’

Faris regarded him. Freath maintained his glower. He was furious but also tingling with anticipation. Leo was within his midst somewhere—the long-held dream of returning the Valisar throne to its rightful sovereign was within grasp.

The tallow candles guttered in tandem with his anticipation and Freath took his eyes off Faris to glance at them.

‘Hog fat,’ Faris said. ‘We save our sheep-fat candles for polite guests.’

‘Listen to me, Faris,’ Freath threatened, ‘lives are in the balance. Many have already been lost to protect King Leo. Many more have been pledged to save him. Don’t make light of my suffering.’

‘Yours?’ Faris looked at him with disgust. ‘Why shouldn’t I just slit your throat here and now, Freath? Did you honestly imagine you’d leave this place alive? As it is, a word from me and your companion will be rotting in the earth somewhere between here and Brighthelm.’

‘My companion?’ Freath stuttered. ‘Kirin? What do you mean?’

‘Kirin? Is that his name? Well, my merchant friends will have no hesitation to end his life should that be necessary, let me assure you.’

Freath felt his skin turn clammy. The elation he’d experienced just moments earlier fled.

‘It amazes me that you have not considered this outcome,’ Faris baited.

Freath cleared his throat. ‘It amazes me that you think I would invest my time and energy and no small amount of personal funds if I was anything but earnest.’

‘So, despite all I’ve heard to the contrary, I’m to believe you are a loyalist?’

‘To King Brennus? Yes!’

‘But you work for the emperor. In fact, you’re a close aide and indeed confidant of Loethar.’

‘I am seen to play those roles.’

‘Oh, is that so?’ Faris replied. His tone was quietly mocking. ‘And so why are you looking for me?’

‘You know why.’

Faris knocked back his Rough in a single swallow. ‘I want to hear you tell me why.’

‘I am here,’ Freath began, placing his shot glass, its fiery liquid unsipped, on the ground beneath his stool, ‘to learn of King Leonel.’

‘You call him king,’ Faris replied.

‘And you speak of him in the present tense.’

Faris nodded and smiled. Freath did not return it. He was not in the mood for games.

‘What is your interest in the Valisars, Freath?’ Faris pressed.

‘The same as yours, I imagine.’

‘Which is?’

‘Revenge.’

‘I have many enemies,’ Faris said coolly. ‘Yet I know none of them.’

‘Then we are kindred spirits.’

‘Ah, not so,’ the outlaw replied, glancing over at Tern in what Freath sensed was some sort of silent signal. ‘I know of at least two enemies of yours, Master Freath. And so do you.’

Freath shrugged, watching Faris’s man leave the enclosure. ‘I agree with you that I have many. It would not surprise me if you knew of them.’

‘Is it true that you killed Queen Iselda?’

Freath hung his head. The old shame warmed his face and sent a fresh spike of self-loathing through his ageing body. ‘I did.’

Faris drew a small but fearsome looking blade from his hip. ‘I should gut you now for that admission alone and leave your entrails for the birds to peck at.’

Freath did not lift his head. ‘Perhaps you should,’ he sighed. ‘I have walked a treacherous path, Faris. I suspect you would be doing me a kindness.’

‘No,’ said a new voice. ‘He will not grant you such a swift end, Master Freath, not without my say so.’

Freath looked up in startlement. He could see only the bottom half of the man who had spoken. He frowned, crawling out of the enclosure, followed by Faris, to stand and face his accuser. It was dark and the weak illumination from the tallow candles threw up only a ghostly glow. Freath squinted through the shadows to see a young man: tall, lean, fair-haired and, although he bore little resemblance to either parent, his bearing was unmistakeably regal.

‘Give me light!’ Freath demanded. ‘Now!’

Faris must have nodded because Tern lit a lantern from one of the tallow candles. ‘It can only be lit for a few moments,’ the leader of the outlaws growled.

Freath grabbed for it, swinging it perilously close to the young man’s face. He knew precisely what he was looking for and there it was, the tiny scar above his right eyebrow that had been won when he fell from a pear tree, clipping his face on a branch. He sucked in a gasp of excitement. ‘How did you get this scar?’ he asked, pointing towards it.

He knew everyone was leaning in to scrutinise something they’d probably not even noticed before. It was tiny. Only just visible, a thin silvery blemish.

The younger man didn’t hesitate. ‘I fell out of a tree, hit my head on a knob of the branch. By the time the de Vis twins and I arrived at the infirmary, I looked as though I’d fought through a day’s battle.’

Freath’s lip began to tremble. ‘What sort of tree was it?’

The younger man sneered. ‘A pear tree. The fruit wasn’t even ripe and to add insult to injury I got bellyache for my trouble and then the trots. My mother was not pleased with me. She worried I would be scarred badly but I can recall you scoffing at the suggestion, Freath. Besides, I always hoped it would add a warrior’s mark to my soft appearance.’

‘How old were you?’ Freath persisted.

The man blinked. Freath held his breath.

‘I was six. Mother had recently lost another baby so her mood made her overreact to my wound. She banished the de Vis brothers from my life for what felt like an age.’

Freath sank to his knees. ‘It was four days, your majesty,’ he said, his voice choked with relief. ‘They were banished for four days.’

‘They were only about eleven anni themselves,’ Leo continued.

Freath nodded, his eyes glistening. ‘King Leon—’