GALLOWSBIRD, DISPLAYED SABLE : AGAIN
(a Birthright Lord High Executioner Story: 12)
by Dru Pagliassotti

I tighten my collar as I walk down the steps. Behind me, ropes and beams creak in the winter wind, straining. Three corpses act as weathercocks, signalling a cold wind from the north. Three corpses. Six hooks. Three are empty.

I tug on the cuffs of my gloves, making sure they're snug.

The empty hooks mock me. I wonder if they mean that crime is going down, or if they mean the criminals are getting smarter.

It is too cold for the street urchins. Too cold for anybody with someplace else to go. Executions have become common fare in Seasedge, hardly a reason to venture out into the frost-edged wind anymore. I'm an actor performing to an empty house. The square feels abandoned. Ropes creak. Wood groans. Frost crunches under my boot heels. The tail of my long leather coat slaps against the tops of my boots.

I walk into the Hangman's Rest. Quentin Brace's son looks at me silently, places a steaming mug on the bar, turns away. Not many patrons today. They give me sidelong glances, then turn back to their conversations, voices lowered.

I sip the tea, hardly feeling the mug's warmth through my leather gloves. Hot. Sweet. With milk. Luxuries, but I'm one of the few here who can demand them.

Lord high executioner. The archduke's bodyguard. The archduke's killer, they say, when they think I'm not listening.

There's fear and loathing in their voices when they say it.

That doesn't bother me. Once upon a time it had just been loathing.

Fear strikes me as a step up.

There's an expensive mirror behind the bar. I glance at myself, then look away. When I returned to Seasedge, six years ago, I used to gaze at my reflection, wondering. Wondering that I was still alive. Wondering that I was once again in my stark black uniform, abandoned for so many years. Wondering if I was still myself, once the hair dyes and skin paints and costumes had been removed.

Now I see myself again, and I wonder that I had been so eager to return.

Same pale hair. Same pale eyes. Same pale flesh. No brilliance anywhere — white and black, body as colorless as spirit, clothes as black as mood and reputation.

I turn, look outside. At three bodies, swinging in the winter wind.

I bought my return with blood. The blood of the people Aeric sent me to kill. The blood of the people I killed simply to survive. The Blood my steel drank and transfused into my own veins.

And at the last, the blood of the princess of Avanil.

They didn't let me kill her, but I was among the ones who handed her over to the executioner. And I would gladly have been the one to wrap the rope around her neck, the one to give her the ignominous end of a traitor.

They didn't let me kill her, but they let me watch. And when the rope snapped taut, when her body jerked from momentum and then hung motionless — I knew. I felt the rush of blood to the surface of my skin. I felt the surge of excitement. And I knew it was done.

Thirty-one years after taking my oath to the archduke, after becoming the realm's executioner, I had finally become a killer.

Then things went to hell.

After the princess dropped, Aeric had me work another year, and then abruptly called me back. I abandoned Dosiere, abandoned the rest of the Guardians, to go to him, to help him wage his war against the realm. I stood by the archduke's side as he ordered the muster, the attacks, the incursions beyond Boeruine's border. I rode beside him at the head of his army. The Rook, they called me. Not just Rook, my last name. But The Rook. Because wherever I went, death followed. And where I went was wherever Aeric ordered — usually riding close behind him, keeping a sharp eye out for assassins and traitors, ready to step between him and an arrow or blade.

The new scars are hardly visible now against the puzzlework that already criss-crosses my body. Several of the wounds would have been deadly if it hadn't been for my curse. Azrai's taint, the poison I was born with, the poison I've assimilated anew over the years. The poison that, paradoxically, mends my flesh so I can stand again to take another wound for my archduke.

Not all of the attacks were aimed at him.

Avan — he calls himself emperor now that he occupies Anuire — Avan has sought to avenge his daughter's death. So far he hasn't succeeded. Not against me, anyway.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to the rest of the Guardians after the Long Night fell and the gates to hell opened. I hope they survived. I hope they weren't on any of the same battlefields that I was on. For a while I considered them to be my friends. Until I abandoned them for their enemy.

I don't think I killed any of them. My job is to protect and to punish. When I ride into battle, it's to keep an eye on the archduke. I seldom lift my blade for anything else. I don't like the chaos of war. It isn't clean. It isn't orderly. I can't control it.

At first I tried.

The chaos of war. Blood rises, blood falls. And soldiers lose their minds. They become the same criminals I'm used to finishing on my scaffold. But on the battlefield there are no laws. I had once thought otherwise. Even in exile, even as a spy and a murderer, I once believed there was honor in battle. A code of chivalry.

I was still innocent then. Despite all the evil things I'd done, I was still innocent.

Since then, I've seen terrible things.

I've tried to stop them.

I've begged to punish them.

And Aeric has always refused me.

After a while, whenever the battle was over, I simply found a quiet place among the corpses and sat. Drank, sometimes. Tried not to know.

The alcohol didn't affect my hearing, but it made it harder to see. The elderly, the women, the children. Just blurs on the ground. Just another body. Soldiers used them and killed them. I told myself they were the enemy.

I don't drink anymore. I don't really have any head for it. And it seems I'm a dangerous drunk.

Aeric didn't like it when I killed his able-bodied soldiers. And when he draws upon him all the regal power of his Bloodline, nobody can stand against him.

I've seen him angry many, many times. I'm lucky to have survived the few times that anger has been turned on me. But he can't kill me. I understand that now. He needs me. We're linked by some dark destiny. Ever since I returned from exile, I've felt it. He needs my hand on the rope, the axe, the sword. He needs my body between him and the assassin's hatred. I've eaten his food and quaffed his wine, all to make sure nobody was trying to poison him. I'm his sword, his weapon, his defense. I'm too valuable to get rid of. I'm too worthless to respect. And though he seldom acknowledges it, I'm too sharp to handle carelessly.

Bitter. I set the cold tea down, watch the leaves swirl against the bottom of the mug a moment. Black, sodden. I've traveled to lands where they claim to read destinies in tea leaves. Destinies writ in refuse, fates foretold in dregs.

I leave. I don't pay. My tab will be picked up by someone else. The guard, perhaps. The palace. The army. I don't know, and I don't care. I no longer worry about such little things.

I button my coat as I walk across the square, pulling up the collar against the cold. The bodies will hang until morning, when I'll finally cut them down. They'll be frozen then.

The stocks are empty, silvered with frost. I run a gloved hand over them, pause a moment to check the padlocks. Cold. I'll oil them tomorrow to keep them from sticking. I turn, misjudge the distance. My sword's scabbard clanks dully against the wood. I drop a hand to the hilt, shift the weapon back into place. Its name is Whisper. It is a sword of the kind legends are made of. I took it from an assassin six years ago, while I was still in exile. Once I buckled it on with a sense of pride, exulting in being the kind of man who wears an enchanted blade. Now Whisper is just another tool. Its silence is a mixed blessing. It obscures my footsteps while it blocks my ears.

I don't draw it very often anymore.

"Rook."

I turn. Captain Bracken's grizzled beard is covered with frost. More white than black at the best of times; now more silver than anything else.

I shake off my mood, muster a smile, hold out a hand. He is my mentor, my stepfather, my friend. We are all that we have left, now that my mother is dead, now that so many of the men and women we both knew have been lost on cold, remote battlefields.

"Captain."

We shake, grips firm, but neither of us can feel the other through our gloves. Frost drifts from my glove. It glitters as it falls to the rimed cobblestones.

"The archduke wants you." His grey eyes are steady but sad as he looks at me. Like a bloodhound's. Those eyes have seen too much. Like mine. Pale grey, pale blue. Eyes washed out from too much seeing.

"Why?" I'm already turning toward Castleroad. He falls into step with me, and I slow my pace to accommodate his. He relies more on his cane now. I worry that someday he'll fall, break a bone. He's old. I worry that he wouldn't recover. I walk close, ready to catch him if he slips. A bodyguard against the elements. It's a more satisfying way to use my skills than most.

"I don't know." He sounded irritated. "He didn't say. But he's angry."

I draw a deep breath, feeling the ice cut my lungs, and let it loose in a puff of white.

"Any guesses?"

"No." Bracken looks sideways at me. I pretend not to notice. "But be careful, all right?"

"I'm always careful."

He grunts, then stops. I pause.

"You go on up alone," he says gruffly. "And stay at arm's length, okay?"

"I will." I reach out, touch his arm lightly to reassure him. He gives me a wry smile and limps away.

The captain doesn't approve of the things I've done for the archduke. But we've made our peace. He worries in a way my real father never had. I value that. He's one of only two people left in the world who bother to worry about me.

I continue up Castleroad alone, wondering what crisis I'll be called on to resolve now.

The study is dark, lit only by a large fire in the hearth. The archduke isn't there yet. I pace through the room, lighting candles and searching the shadows for hidden threats. Then I stand by the fire to warm up and wait for him to enter.

The archduke arrives in a cloud of fur and wine fumes.

"ROOK!"

I kneel, head bowed.

The archduke of Boeruine is still a majestic man, despite the grey and white that dominate his hair now, the wrinkles of anger and violence carved deeply into his face. He radiates a cruel magnificence, a sense of raw power, that never fails to overwhelm me when I'm in his presence. There is no question but that he should be the one sitting on the Iron Throne, not Avan. I hope to help put him upon it.

His heavy jeweled robe brushes me as he strides past and throws himself into a chair. He holds a heavy bone and gold goblet in a white-knuckled fist.

"Gods DAMN her!"

I look up, waiting, as he curses again. Gripped by a spasm of fury, he throws the goblet at the far wall. Spiced wine sprinkles me like a baptism of anger as it flies over my head. I hear it strike the stone behind me, clatter against the floor.

"She's gone too far. I don't know how in the hells she managed to discover him, but by the gods, I won't let her win this time." He turns an angry gaze on me. "You will stop her, whatever the cost."

"I will, your grace," I say firmly, though I don't know who he's talking about. It doesn't matter. His enemy is my enemy.

He continues to glare at me, as though I were, somehow, part of this plot against him. I wait for my orders.

"They're in Trent," he says at last. "You need to go and bring them back here before her assassins can reach them. I want them brought in secretly but immediately. Do you understand?"

"Yes." I understand what he wants. Not why, or how, or who, but what. And that's all I need to know.

At least, I think to myself, it will be good to be a rescuer instead of a murderer for a change.

His fury begins to subside, and he looks at me broodingly.

"You're satisfied here, Rook?" he asks. The question surprises me. Aeric does not ask such things of his servants.

"Yes, your grace."

"You have what you want." A statement this time, not a question. Still, I answer.

"Yes, your grace." And it is true. I have not always liked what I've been asked to do, but I can imagine no better life in this war-torn land. I've seen how less privileged men fare. I'm one of the fortunate.

He grunts to himself. I wonder if he doubts me, and if so, why. I do not complain of my lot to others. Not even to Bracken. If I sometimes dislike what I have become, I have nobody to blame but myself for the choices I've made. And if in the middle of the night I lie awake and think of all the people I have killed, I also admit the truth to myself.

I like to kill.

"I need a loyal man for this one, Rook. A man willing to die to save them. A man who won't question why, or how, but simply serve me to the best of his ability."

"I'm that man," I say, daring to look up at him squarely. His eyes drill into me, and I feel they can see my soul. His aura of power has not diminished over the years. If anything, I believe he becomes more godlike with every battle. And I am proud to be the rook on his shoulder, carrying his messages, conveying his will.

"They're in Trent," he repeats. "A remote estate on the hill, Bryony House. North of town. A woman and her son. I want them returned here, immediately. Nobody is to see them."

"Yes, your grace." I stand and bow, then turn to leave.

"Rook."

"Your grace?"

"Don't fail."

"I won't, your grace."

I take three horses from the stables and ride down to my small house to write out notes for my assistants — when to remove the corpses from the scaffold, where to find the schedule for the rest of the week's executions, a reminder to tell Bracken that I am out of town. I leave them on the table. My small traveling bag is already packed, for just such summons as these. I pull off my executioner's doublet and replace it with a nondescript padded leather jerkin that is warmer and more anonymous. Then I pull my coat and gloves back on, wrap a scarf around my neck, grab my traveling bag, and go outside to mount and ride for Trent.

The journey takes a day and a half, riding as quickly as I can day and night, changing horses at regular intervals. Few people travel the roads in the middle of winter, in the middle of wartime. I shout passwords at patrols who occasionally cross my path, and they wave me past without forcing me to slow. My stops are brief, just long enough to feed and water the horses and empty my bladder; then I'm back in the saddle again, kicking the beasts into a gallop. I am lucky. None of the three are injured during our reckless journey.

Trent lies far up the northern coast, still within Boeruine, but only just. It is a small timber village, a stop for ships loading up for lumber and then continuing south to Seasedge. I draw close as a wolfstail dawn begins to lighten the sky, and I move off the road and into the heavy pine forest. Once I'm far enough away from the road for the horses to go unheard, I hobble them and give them food and water. Then I shoulder my pack and, skulking in the shadows of the trees, begin walking toward the village and looking for Bryony House.

The air is crisp and ice crunches beneath my boots as I walk. I pull my scarf over my mouth and nose. Pines rustle, crows call, sometimes snow slides from branches and makes me start. A good, clean morning.

Prints mark the road — horses, waggons. I can't tell how recently they were made. No snow has fallen in several days. I hope my enemies haven't reached the village before me.

Trent is easily skirted, since few people linger in the streets. Two ships are docked off the icy, rocky coast, rowboats anchored at creaking wharfs. Beyond the village rise steep foothills, and then jagged mountains, half-black with forest, half white with snow. I feel a surge of love for Boeruine's harsh beauty. This is the Boeruine I yearned for during all those years of my exile.

The estate isn't hard to find. The lower trees have lost their leaves, and pale stone walls glimmer through dead branches. A large estate; unusual in such a small village. The local mark, perhaps, holding the coast for Aeric.

I stay off the narrow trail that leads through the forest and strap snowshoes to my boots. The snow is deep under the trees and I walk slowly, trying to avoid patches of ice that might crack underfoot, dead branches that might snap. I see animal tracks, but no other. Good.

The wall is rough and high. I pull off the snowshoes, tuck them under a bush, replace them with hooked straps, one for each boot, one for each gloved hand. Then up the wall. Its rustic design makes climbing simple. I lie flat on the top, grateful that it isn't topped with spikes or broken pottery.

Neat grounds, covered with snow. A well, with tracks around it. An outhouse, more tracks. Stable. Tracks.

The house is stone, well-built, snug against the cold. Wood roof, steeply slanted. Smoke rises from two chimneys. Windows are unshuttered, but paned in bubble-filled glass that makes seeing inside impossible.

Two horses stand beside the front door, breath steaming, still saddled. No sign of a stableboy to take them away.

I frown. High-quality harness, nicely groomed beasts. Money there. Such horses wouldn't normally be left standing in the cold. Something is going on.

Keeping low, I scuttle across the top of the wall to the stables, then leap from wall to stable roof. My feet slide off the snow, but hooks dig into the weathered wood, keeping me from slipping all the way off. I freeze, waiting for someone to come out to investigate. Nothing. I scrabble over the roof, cautiously lower myself, and peek inside.

Two more horses, secure in their stalls. They make small noises, seeing me. I leave, turn, and look toward the house.

Nothing at the back door. I crouch and run toward it, then slide around the edges of the house toward the horses. I want a closer look.

The corpse lies half-under the bushes, almost invisible, except for the blood starting to stain the snow.

I crouch and put my cheek to the dead man's. Still a trace of warmth there. Blood still trickles from the wound.

The stablehand must have gotten in somebody's way.

I yank off the climbing hooks, shove them into my pack, and draw my sword.

Whisper's silence surrounds me.

There is something surreal about moving in utter silence. I know nothing with which to compare it. One feels separated from the rest of the world. At times the silence makes ... certain actions easier. As if one cannot really be held responsible for what happens in such a dreamlike state.

I run up to the front door, shove it open, look around. No sound escapes Whisper's radius — my steps, the slamming door — all are supernaturally muted.

I see firelight to my left and run toward it. A woman in a servant's colorless garb lies crumpled on the floor. I think she is still moving, but I jump over her. Perhaps she's the woman I'm looking for. But if so, then there's still a boy to find.

The salon, a great fire burning in the fireplace. A man stands before a well-dressed noblewoman, gripping her chin in one hand, a knife in the other. Another holds the woman's arms behind her back.

Her eyes meet mine over knife-wielder's shoulder, widen with surprise, and I freeze.

Impossible.

The man holding her shouts something, but Whisper's circle of silence mutes his words. Still, his moving mouth and startled eyes are enough to make the man with the knife turn.

I say her name, but my voice, too, is deadened by Whisper.

Gwenavaere?

Her lips move, perhaps with my name, perhaps with nothing more than a plea for help — I cannot tell, I'm still too confused, my mind trying to sort through a hundred impossibilities. But then the knife-wielder turns and the blade flashes.

I snap out of my shock and thrust. Whisper buries itself into his shoulder a split-second after his knife slashes her throat.

The shower of her blood drenches us both. I howl, unheard, and kick him over as he crouches and clutches his shoulder. I chop off his head with one well-practiced move. Then I turn furiously toward the second man, but he is running.

No time. I drop Whisper and kneel, searching for some way to stop the noblewoman's bleeding. There is none. Her face is already turning white, life draining from her eyes.

I have seen her dead once before. To see her that way again —

I think I'm screaming something, but I can't tell what, and I don't care. I snatch up Whisper and follow the fleeing man, intent on nothing but his death.

I catch up to him on the staircase and ruthlessly chop him down, then keep hacking until he is nothing but red and my fury begins to die.

I stand over him, panting, shaking uncontrollably.

A mistake. It couldn't have been her. But —

Fifteen years ago she had been my prisoner. And instead of giving her a traitor's death, instead of permitting her to go through one more day of torture, I had given her a knife and shut the door.

She'd killed herself and her unborn child. But rumor had blamed me, forcing Aeric to throw me into the dungeons for murder.

I had denied everything, of course, but I had no proof of my innocence. The blade that had taken her life was unmistakably mine.

Still, the archduke had been merciful. He had engineered my escape in exchange for my becoming his agent outside Boeruine.

Fifteen years I had served him loyally and well, doing penance for that mistake, that single act of illegal, misunderstood mercy.

But how —?

I can't hear myself. Suddenly sickened by the dead silence, I wipe Whisper on my leather sleeve and resheathe it.

My own breath, dripping blood, the squeaking of the stairs as I shift my weight, the crackling of a fire.

Still too silent.

I look up the stairs.

He stands frozen there, a dagger in one fist, his other hand clutching the bannister. His face is colorless, his blue eyes wide with terror.

He is young. Thirteen, fourteen. No longer a child, not quite a man.

"You're her son?" I ask, my voice harsh. My throat hurts.

He swallows but doesn't say anything. Doesn't move.

I cough, look down at the body. A bloody mess. Gore covers my legs, my leather doublet. I hold out my hands. Scarlet.

No wonder the boy is terrified.

I look back up at him.

"This man was going to kill you."

Silence.

"The archduke sent me to take you to safety."

He tries to say something, fails on the first attempt, then tries again.

"Where's Mother?"

"Dead." I catch his eyes, hold them. Normally I wouldn't be so blunt to a child, but there is no time to soften the blow. "This man's partner killed her. That man's dead, too."

He swallows again, then takes a stiff step forward, down the top step. Then another.

Blue eyes. Fair skin. A sturdy build, promising strength once he grows into his height. But the black hair is wrong.

I reach out and he flinches, then stands still as I run a strand of his hair through my gloved fingers. Blood leaves it streaked the scarlet it should have been.

She'd dyed it. I have dyed my own hair often enough in the past to recognize the lifeless color.

My god. My god.

It was his son.

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice steady enough to pass muster. Steady enough for a youth in shock.

"Rook. Now, come on. The archduke wants you."

His eyes flicker slightly at my name, but he says nothing else. I move aside to let him precede me down the stairs. The gesture is instinctive. Even though he is a child, even though he is white with shock, something deep inside of me responds to his bloodline.

He steps gingerly over the body, unable to avoid all of the blood soaking the stairs. He continues to hold his dagger tightly. I follow him down, stop behind him as he stares into the salon where his mother lies dead.

An inarticulate cry, and he runs toward her, drops to his knees to hold her close. He bursts into tears. I don't blame him. I wept at my own mother's death, just a few years ago.

Mother and son. She is Gwenavaere; there can be no mistake. Fifteen years older, but still lovely enough to make a man's eyes search for a ring on her finger, and feel glad not to find one.

The archduke's mistress. Supposedly murdered fifteen years ago.

Suddenly I know which woman had sent assassins after her.

The duchess had never liked Gwenavaere.

I still can't think everything through — there is too much to grasp and not enough time. But one thing — one thing I have to know.

"Who's your father, boy?"

He looks up, tears streaking his face, filled with grief and rage.

"None of your business!"

"Who is he?" My words snap. He glares at me.

Sullenly. "He's dead."

"Who is he?"

The boy points over the fireplace. I look up. An oil portrait of a man dressed in respectable merchant garb. Nobody I know. I step closer, look at the nameplate. Lismore Kincannon.

Whoever Lismore Kincannon was, I know he was not this boy's father.

So the boy doesn't know.

Then I won't tell him.

"Come on. We have to go."

"Why? They're all dead, aren't they?" he asks, rebelliously.

"Assuming there were only two. But they may have associates waiting for them in Trent. Go put on something warm."

He ignores me, still cradling his mother. I feel a surge of anger, looking down at the two of them.

Somebody lied to me.

I abruptly turn and go upstairs to find his room, stepping over the corpse again.

Somebody lied. Somebody lied.

I damn her for having lived long enough for me to recognize her, I damn the boy for being born. His room is easy to find. I throw open his wardrobe and pull out warm clothes, roll them into a bundle and secure them with a belt. I grab his coat, gloves, boots, hat, scarf.

Damn him!

I'd been publicly disgraced because of him and his mother.

I'd lost my mother's love and my stepfather's respect.

I'd been thrown into prison.

I'd been exiled.

I'd been turned into a spy.

I'd been turned into a killer.

Somebody lied!

I slam the wardrobe doors shut and see my reflection in the mirror fastened to the door.

I look like a ghoul, covered with blood, face twisted with fury.

"Damn them!"

I slam a fist into the mirror. Polished metal. It shivers but doesn't break. My knuckles hurt, and the pain helps clear my head. I bare my teeth at my reflection in a fierce, angry grimace.

Aeric knew where Gwenavaere was living.

He knew that she and her son were alive.

He knew that I hadn't killed them.

Somebody had lied to me, all right.

Aeric.

I glare at my reflection, at the bloody streaks across my face, staining my hair, soaking my clothing.

A splash of color at last.

Years of training reassert themselves.

One thing at a time. First, survive this day. Then make plans for the next.

I walk to the boy's washbasin and wash the blood from my face, daub at it with a linen towel until it is sticky but no longer wet on my clothing.

I look around the room. Books — unusual in a country estate. Boy's things — a sling, a bird's nest, a small weasel skull picked clean, half a rusty sickle. Some dusty toys on shelves, things he has outgrown but hasn't had the heart to throw out yet. No sign of a sword or other weapon, save the dagger he'd carried with him.

I walk back downstairs with his clothes.

He's still crouched over his mother, no longer weeping.

I drop the clothes on the carpet behind him, away from the pool of blood.

"Get changed. We're going."

He gently lowers his mother, then gets to his feet.

"There are servants," he says, looking at me.

"What do you want me to do with them?"

He looks confused a moment, then his eyes widen as he realizes the implications of my question.

"I — Are they alive? I can't just leave them here."

"Your stablehand is dead. There's a woman out in the hall. I don't know if she's dead or alive. Who else is here?"

"The cook. The maid." He is already walking out into the hall to check on the woman there.

I leave to look for the kitchen. They are hiding in the root cellar, an older woman, a little girl no more than a child.

"Your mistress is dead," I tell them. "Leave and tell nobody that you were here."

When I go back into the hall, the boy is wiping blood from the woman's forehead with his handkerchief. She draws in a sharp breath when I walk up.

"They're alive," I report. "Now come on. We have to go."

"But what about them?" He looks up at me, as if expecting me to have an answer. "Mo-Mothe — " he can't get the word out and I see him steel himself against more tears. "I'm supposed to look after them."

For a moment I am silent. He is correct. A lord must look after his people. But he is in my charge, and I must get him to safety.

"We can't take them with us. Tell them where the money is, give them permission to take it, and dismiss them."

"Who are you?" asks the injured woman. I guess that she is a housekeeper or governess. Somebody close to the boy, from the way he tends to her.

"I can't tell you," I say. "But I'm here to protect him. His mother's dead."

She draws in a shaking breath, then nods quickly, as if she'd expected it.

"It's all right, Master Cynric," she says, putting a hand on the boy's cheek. "Don't worry about us. I'll take care of the house."

"You should leave," I say firmly. "Go far away and never tell anybody who you used to serve. It's too dangerous now."

There's understanding in her eyes. I wonder how much she knows. Enough, apparently.

"Go, Cynric. Get to safety."

He reluctantly stands. I walk back and bring him his clothes again. This time I hold his coat as he puts it on, hand him his boots, gloves, and everything else. His bundle I throw over my own back.

"Come on."

"Rook."

I turn. I feel strange, hearing my name on his lips. There is an echo of his father's voice there ... but just an echo.

"Are you Corbin Rook?"

"Yes." I watch him warily.

"My mother used to tell me that if I were ever in trouble, I should go to Seasedge to find you."

The words hit me like a blow and take my breath away.

He gives me a solemn look, then steps past me and begins walking. I pull myself together to follow, mind awhirl with questions. Only one need be directed to him.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Cynric Aeric Kincannon."

Ah.

"We'll take the horses," I say.

We quickly adjust the harnesses and then ride the killers' mounts away. I find myself riding close to him, as I do with his father, my eyes constantly searching for danger.

Keeping watch over him prevents me from thinking too much.

We pick up the other three horses and ride until nightfall. He doesn't ask any questions. Sometimes I think I hear him sobbing, but I don't look or listen too closely.

That night I find us a woodsman's hut. We tether the horses outside and take shelter inside, building up a fire from the wood left by its previous occupant. I brew a rough camp tea in the single mug in my pack and give it to him, then break out hard bread and dry cheese and meat.

"Why did they kill my mother?" he asks at last, breaking the silence. He hasn't eaten much.

"They were sent by her old enemy," I reply.

"Who? Who would hate my mother that much?"

"I can't tell you." The answer makes me feel uncomfortable. "Maybe later."

"You said you were sent by the archduke."

"Yes." That also makes me uncomfortable.

"Then this has to do with the war?"

"Yes." But only peripherally. I know now why the archduke wants his bastard back. The archduke's heir Arden had been assassinated on the walls of Seaharrow. Aeric had no other children. Now he has no choice but to invest all of his hopes in this bastard son.

"Why did Mother tell me I should look for you?"

I give him a helpless look.

"I don't know." That's not quite true, so I struggle to find a better answer. But I still don't have all the pieces, myself, so it's hard to guess what she had been thinking when she'd given him that piece of dubious advice. "I — I offered to help her once, before you were born. I guess she thought she could trust me."

"How did you help her?" he asks curiously. He seems to be coming back to life again. I'm loathe to let him down, but:

"I can't tell you," I say heavily.

"Did you know my father?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Tell me about him, then."

"I can't." Because the father I know is not the one he knows. I don't know how much to tell him. I don't know what I am going to do with him yet.

"Then what can you tell me?" he demands, angrily. That temper is his father's, but his father would have underscored the demand with a blow.

"Cynric," I say slowly, "you're in grave danger. If I take you to the archduke, you will be in even more danger than you are now. Right now there's one person trying to kill you. If I take you to him, many more will try."

"Why?" he pleads. "I don't understand!"

I sit huddled up and rest my chin on my arms, looking into the small fire. I don't know what to say to him.

"I don't understand it all myself," I admit.

We sit in silence for a time.

"Mother said I should find you and trust you," he repeats at last. He looks at me, and I feel my gut wrench, his eyes are so familiar. "What do you think I should I do?"

I wish I were the one asking that question. I think back on better, wiser men than I, men I had known when I had been in exile.

I wish I could ask one of them for advice.

I take a deep breath.

"Before I take you to the archduke, I want to make sure I know exactly what's going on," I tell him. "What I think you should do is stay hidden here for another night or two without me. I'll leave you food and water and the two horses we took from your estate. Will you stay here and wait for my return?"

He gives me a long look, his face shadowed by the dancing light of the fire. Then he nods.

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