The others must have joined the procession, although he never turned around to check. For a while, his eyes were busy absorbing the familiar sights of home: the snow-covered pastures, the croplands, the orchards, and the villages. Unlike Windthorn, the Elkat valley was designed for prosperity, not defense. The castle was fortified, yet everything else—everyoneelse—was spread out in the places where the work was done. Instead of a single walled city, there were several smaller villages, protected by nothing but a guard post. With his newly trained eyes, he could see how exposed the valley was.
There were certainly advantages to the Elkat system. If he’d been tired enough or shameless enough, he could have ducked inside one of the larger houses in the first village and waited for that sleigh to come pick him up. If he made it a little farther, to the next village, there’d be a rough inn, one used by traders who couldn’t drive their caravans all the way to the castle market in time for nightfall.
But he hadn’t walked all that way to quit right on his doorstep. So he kept moving, and as the sun was setting, they reached the castle itself. Rough stone, few windows, a moat and a drawbridge; finally, the Elkat valley was showing its defenses. Of course Finnvid knew, and was sure the Torians could tell, that the castle wasn’t large enough to have much food or water stored. It could protect its inhabitants from quick raids, yet it would never stand up to a patient siege. And Torian invaders were known for their patience.
“You’re home, Prince Finnvid,” Ekakios said. Finnvid turned to see the Sacrati step off the path. “We’ll leave you here, safe.”
“You need to resupply,” Finnvid protested. “Rest, too, even if you only stay one night.”
“It’s not necessary,” Ekakios said.
Then Zenain strode forward, and leaned in so only Ekakios and Finnvid could hear him. “We should stay the night,” he said firmly. “My men need the break, and the supplies. If they know the Sacrati are out here, it will create resentment, and we don’t need that right now. Bring your men in, and let them have a few drinks with their comrades before we head for home.”
Ekakios frowned. “Our hosts may not appreciate having a band of drunken Torians under their roof.”
“So tell your Sacrati to control themselves. Surely their famed discipline can extend that far?”
“The Sacrati are not my chief concern,” Ekakios said pointedly.
“They should be.” Zenain’s voice was close to a growl. “They should be youronlyconcern. Do not overstep yourself.”
“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” Finnvid interjected. “We have a Great Hall, where traders and travelers of all sorts feast and then sleep in the summer. And the messengers will have told my brother we were approaching; he’ll have food prepared for us.” He grinned as he saw Ekakios’s wistful expression. “Roasts, and vegetables and fresh bread, and wine and ale, and cake and fruit. Afeast. He’ll be most put out if he has no one to share it with.”
Ekakios looked at the castle, then at his men, and finally shrugged acquiescence. “I wouldn’t want him to be put out.”
Finnvid knew the wave of relief that washed over him was a sign of a larger problem, but he chose to ignore it, focusing instead on keeping his gaze away from Theos. He waved an arm somewhat grandiosely toward the castle and told the men, “Please, come inside. Welcome to Elkat Castle.”
The men trailed in behind him, and he glanced around to see the Torians staring at the building: the mosaics on the wall, the light wells and the gas-powered lamps, the mirrors and carpets, and the soaring staircase in the main entry. It was much fancier than they were used to, maybe fancier than anything they’d ever seen.
But, he realized, that wasn’t why they were staring. At least, not why the Sacrati were. They were assessing the defenses, scanning for hazards, memorizing the terrain and searching for advantages. And maybe that was why they were the first to become alarmed.
Finnvid saw the Sacrati step to the sides of the grand entry hall, looking for shelter, and followed their gazes to the archers in the upper gallery. “No, it’s fine,” he said with a laugh. “It’s not unheard of for them to be there; just security, nothing to worry about.”
He peered ahead and saw his brother step into the entry hall, his deep-purple, fur-lined coat swinging as he moved. “Alrik,” Finnvid said in greeting, and he strode forward as his brother raised his arms for an embrace. The embrace was stronger than usual, almost fierce, more like wrestling than hugging, and Finnvid had to stagger to maintain his balance.
And then he was yanked forward—his brother was dragging him out of the entry hall! Finnvid struggled, but he was too shocked and confused to be effective. He heard screams from behind him, roars of anger, pounding feet, metal clashing against metal.
The archers. The archers were firing on the Sacrati. And Finnvid couldn’t stop them.
Chapter Twenty-One
There were bodies everywhere.
It made no sense. None of it made sense.
It had taken only a minute for Finnvid to free himself from his brother’s hold, but by the time he ran back to the door of the entry hall, it all seemed to be over.
The Elkati soldiers who’d been traveling with him had retreated into the antechamber, staring at the carnage. And the Torian soldiers, the non-Sacrati . . . they were still upright, over by the main doors. Zenain was standing in front of them, his arms wide as if shepherding them away from the massacre.
Finnvid tried to understand the scene in front of him. It was the Sacrati who’d been attacked.Justthe Sacrati. They’d clearly counterattacked, somehow; there were Elkati bodies mixed in among the dead. But— The Sacrati— Finnvid stumbled forward, his brother’s arm catching him again, holding him away from the bodies. From Theos.
Finnvid drove his elbow into his brother’s ribs, twisted free, and launched himself toward the chaos. There was so much blood, and so many bodies. Some of the archers had fallen down from the gallery and they’d landed on top of other men. There were moans and cries from the survivors, and maybe one of them was Theos . . .
More hands caught at him now. Strong, trained hands, yanking at him, pinning him against the wall. If he’d had a knife, he would have plunged it unthinkingly into those restraining him. But he wasn’t armed; he was helpless.
Still he struggled. And then she was there. Lifting her skirts as she stepped daintily through the carnage, her gaze never leaving his face to acknowledge the disaster surrounding her. “My son,” she said. “You’ve returned safely. We must celebrate.”
He stared at her, then twisted so he could see his brother. “What have youdone?” he screamed. “Why?”
