Draylon sat crossed-legged by the fire, watching the flickering light playing over Yarif’s features. His cheeks were hollow—more so with his lovely hair gone—his skin ashen. Had the fierceness that Draylon now realized he admired faded? If so, would that spark ever return, or would what Yarif endured over the past few days haunt him forever?
Yarif’s eyelids fluttered open, his eyes and mouth going wide. “Draylon! You’re okay!” He tried to sit up, then grimaced and lay back down.
“Shh. Rest. You’re in no condition to be moving around. They beat you,” Draylon said, barely keeping the anger from his tone. It wasn’t Yarif he was angry with.
“I’m fine,” Yarif replied. A flinch belied the words.
“Let me see.” Draylon placed a hand on Yarif’s shoulder.
Yarif shrugged Draylon’s hand off. “I said I’m fine.”
There’d been too much heat under Draylon’s hand. He added all the authority of a commander behind his words. “And I said, ‘Let me see.’”
Yarif peeled his blanket off with a sigh, wincing until Draylon helped. Then came Draylon’s turn to wince. Yarif’s back held a crisscross pattern of welts and cuts, some newer than others. A few of the open cuts were a swollen, angry red. None had cut deep though. Draylon had seen men beaten to death.
One of his old lieutenants knew herblore, often treating battlefield injuries, yet remained in Renvalle. Yarif needed a healer, and, quite possibly, so did Draylon. There might be others among the group with injuries.
For a moment, temptation loomed to run out into the darkness, find Rufe and the remaining mercenaries, and locate the nearest active village. They’d lost their guide, but if they followed the main road, eventually they’d find people.
No. They couldn’t wander in this weather without a set goal.
Whipped. Yarif had been whipped. If Draylon could, he’d bring Illa back and kill her all over again. Slowly. Painfully.
Such thinking wouldn’t help Yarif. They needed a plan for the moment dawn arrived.
And to discover Illa’s destination.
Yarif put on a brave front, clenching his teeth, emitting no sound while having his back examined. It appeared Jayra’s man had cleaned the wounds. Draylon settled Yarif into the furs, tossed another log onto the fire, and hunkered down near the pallet with his sword to keep watch.
Yarif slept fitfully on his side. The pack mule carried supplies that might help treat wounds, but there was no telling if the beast survived, let alone where it might be now. Draylon followed hoofprints to another house—where evidence showed Rufe had kept his own mule—but hadn’t seen the pack beast.
He barred the door on his return to the house, leaned against the wall, and strained his ears for sounds of footsteps, hearing nothing but an owl and night creatures. In the distance, a wolf howled. Wolves might follow the scent of blood, and if any of Illa’s soldiers survived, they’d be led directly here by the woodsmoke.
Unacceptable. Draylon knelt and held Yarif’s hand. Were the twins okay? What would Father do to them if Yarif and Draylon didn’t return?
Draylon had defied his father and even now might be labeled a traitor. So much unknown. Illa’s words and Draylon’s own observations showed Father was behind this entire plot. Hints had been dropped here and there for some time that Draylon hadn’t pieced together before. Conversations about the gold recently found in these mountains. Maps of Delletina spread on a table.
Father carrying out military plans without Draylon’s knowledge.
Father had long wanted Delletina as part of the empire. That would leave only Craice before he controlled the whole continent. Historians would tell of Emperor Soland Aravaid uniting the kingdoms, likely saying nothing about the ruthlessness, the loss of life, and the treachery necessary to obtain the goal.
The betrayal.
Lleval, Draylon, and Yarif were merely tokens on a gameboard, to be placed here or there as Father saw fit or even wiped off the board entirely.
Avestan was an honorable man, and couldn’t possibly be privy to any such schemes. He’d negotiate if he held the throne, not seek to conquer by force. He valued life. Though Draylon wracked his brain, he couldn’t recall any reference to Delletina from Avestan.
Another pawn for the gameboard, one who’d be forced to resolve the mess if Father’s plotting failed.
Could Draylon possibly get word to his brother? Then again, what could Avestan do? He wouldn’t openly challenge Father.
Someone needed to.
Yarif moaned, squeezing Draylon’s hand. “Where are we?”
“I’m not really sure.” Draylon placed his free hand on Yarif’s brow. Heat. Too much heat.
“Thank you,” Yarif murmured.
