The Broken Realm Read online

  He’d never wished for Anabella’s death. No, that wasn’t entirely true. In those early days, he’d fantasized of performing the task with his own hands, strangling the life from those beautiful eyes with his cock buried deep within her. A seed for the dying, for the dead. Perhaps he’d continue when her body had gone cold, even, leaving a message for the Guardians. When finished, he would simply toss the boy into the sea and be done with it. The last of his worries, washed away.

  But that errant anger had been what washed away instead. As he sniffed at the filthy sheets no one had bothered to send to washing, that still smelled of her, Eoghan thought of how calm he felt, suckling at her breast, the hard, fearful beat of her heart lulling him into a fugue. Sometimes his cock would rise from beneath his pants, and he would tend to the ministrations that his body demanded, ignoring her rise of disgust as the white stain spread over his hands, his clothing, sometimes her bed.

  But never, not once, had he taken Anabella. Now that she was gone, and no longer his, a remorseful pride came over him at his tremendous restraint. For, there had been nothing stopping him, save his own willpower. Nothing stopping him from burying himself in her night after night, while her son watched as he suckled his thumb in the corner of the cold chamber.

  His hand felt for the crumbled vellum in his robe. Isa. My beautiful. Not his name for her, but he’d stolen it, forcing her to sign her letters with a name that would forever remind her of her dead husband.

  Your Grace, my thoughts are often with you. How I long for your presence. For your lips upon my breasts, so that I may feed thee and see thee grow strong.

  Eoghan shivered. She’d never meant the words. She’d bartered with them, for her life, for her son’s life. But their power over him were no less potent, even now.

  “I’m here, Your Grace.” Assana’s voice cut through his reverie, but his anger stilled before it could take over. He’d called her here. It was as if he’d known only the presence of another could combat the loss of himself to the ghosts of his past.

  Eoghan lifted his hand and waved his fingers toward the meager bed. “If you cannot produce a child bearing my blood, you are of no use to me.”

  “Your Grace.” Assana moved tentatively toward the bed. He could almost read the questions brewing within her. Why here? Why now? Was this some trick?

  “On your knees.”

  Assana fumbled through the removal of her clothes. As she prepared herself, Eoghan recalled once more the warm milk that spilled over his tongue as Anabella’s hair fell over his face, a blanket of protection from the world. Anabella had taken that. Asherley had taken that. Assana would have this for him, in due time, but he had to swallow his disgust of her and do his duty by her to get there. As he had done his duty when he sent Darrick to his death. As he had done his duty when he imprisoned the traitor in the next cell over.

  Eoghan climbed upon the bed behind her. His erection was born of every drop of milk he’d had from the women not his mother. Every last nourishing drink. They were all there, kneeling down to deliver to him that which he most needed, Asherley, Anabella, every milkmaid in the keep who had serviced his needs over the years. Assana screamed as Eoghan drove inside her, imagining her covered in milk, filled with milk, milk spilling from her privates, from her mouth and ass.

  “Louder, for your father,” he commanded, grunting his satisfaction into every aggressive thrust, grinning through his victory that, at last, he had found the manner of which to deliver a future to his house and crown.

  11

  The Quarrels of Our Past

  “Your Grace!”

  Khallum lowered himself into an inelegant bow, his feet performing an awkward dance as he reacted too late to the moment he hadn’t prepared for. He’d never bowed in his life, not for any Rhiagain at least. At first, he hadn’t realized he was looking at Prince Darrick at all. He could have been looking at any man in the kingdom, any laborer from the smithy’s forge to a spinner from a clothier. Dressed in the threads of a commoner, as was wise, but it gave him a pause he felt the urge to apologize for. He’d met this young man before, once, when he was a lad on progress through the kingdom he was destined to serve.

  “You needn’t bow to me, Lord Warwick. I’d not be standing here if it weren’t for your determination.”

  Khallum rose. Now, he could regard the man better. He was tall and comely. He reminded Khallum of someone, though he was too flustered to place the recognition. Though he hadn’t seen Darrick fresh from Camp Atonement, the skin melting from his bones, he could almost see it now, in his eyes, where the last five years lived. To look at him now, Khallum wouldn’t have known the man’s trials, only his resilience, which radiated from Darrick Rhiagain as if a color he was painted with.

  But it was something else that had caused his eyes to pass over the prince in search of the real one. Khallum realized he’d been looking for the gnarled form of the brother, of pitiful, broken Eoghan, and not this strapping, princely man standing before him now.

  “It has only been five or so years since I met you last, but it may as well have been a lifetime,” Darrick said when Khallum couldn’t find the proper words. Here, at last. Darrick Rhiagain, in the flesh. Not a dream, or a whim, but a real man, of blood and bone, of honor. Alive.

  “Aye,” Khallum said. His voice cracked and he pounded the base of his throat. “You speak true on that, Your Grace.”

  “Darrick.” His smile was half-hearted. “Or Godfrey, when the ears are listening.”

  “I could never. No matter what I might think of your brother or forebears.”

  “Ryan did.” Darrick looked down at the Strong boy. He ran a hand over his forehead lovingly. “And will again.”

  Khallum checked the door, to be sure Hamish wasn’t lingering. “What are they saying, about young Strong?”

  Darrick lowered his eyes. He brought his hand back and lowered himself into the chair next to Ryan. “They say we are fools to look for his waking. I say they do not know the man I served with. They did not see the flesh beat from his bones, or the fire in his eyes as he spoke words that would take food from his belly. They did not see the man who swallowed the herbs knowing well that he may not come out the other side of it. Knowing he may die for his realm, to save it.”

  Khallum sighed as he watched Ryan. Slow breaths, rising and falling, but nothing else to show the spirited boy who had chased seabirds in Sandycove was still within. The whip of a lad who had deigned beyond his reach, but had done so for the fire of love burning hot within him. He wondered if Ryan even knew Esmerelda had gone to the Guardians.

  He’d never wanted this. Only to slap his hand and remind him of his place. Not this. “He was your friend, then.”

  “He is my friend, Lord Warwick. And my friend he’ll remain, for I have hope where others have surrendered theirs. I have hope enough for all of us.”

  “There isnae harm in hope, till there is.”

  Darrick nodded. “And if it were me upon that bed, there’d be no shortage of it, I presume.” A more serious look passed over his face. “I must ask you to relieve me of a curiosity I’ve had since Ryan first told me you’d sent in him to find me.”

  Khallum grunted. He shifted his boots on the wood. “Aye. If I can.”

  “The Warwicks have good reason not to love a Rhiagain. Why put this effort into restoring one to the throne instead of seeing it all undone and let the Reaches rule unto themselves, as they once did?”

  Khallum expected this question, though not so soon in their acquaintance. “What ye say is true. We’ve reason, and so do others, even if they’ve not the belly for the same hatred we’ve grown in salt and sand. But the Rhiagains were nay the first to think themselves worthy of ruling all in the kingdom, only the ones who made it work. Before the Rhiagains, there was more than unrest. There was war, war with no winners. For even a battle won is not a victory when they never end.”

  Darrick nodded. “You believe if you pulled Eoghan from the throne with no replaceme
nt that there would be war.”

  “Aye. War from those who have seen how good a crown looks upon a Rhiagain and might ken it would look well upon them as well.” Khallum cleared his throat. He had a powerful urge to send the snot careening into the wall, as he would in his own keep, but he was standing before a man who would be king. “Things were well under the reign of Fynne the Good. I ken they could be well under you.”

  “I hope to prove you right, Lord Warwick.” He nodded again, his thoughts once more seeming to be elsewhere. “My wife and son. Have you any new word?”

  Khallum had sent the Dereham scout back without a message of his own, because he’d begun to distrust any message delivery in the kingdom. And then he’d received Lady Gretchen’s message about the growing unrest in the cave. If Gwyn had been the one to plant the idea of coming to Whitecliffe, it had been Gretchen’s worries that solidified it. If the situation with the young prince was compromised, then it was once again down to Darrick Rhiagain alone. Khallum could no longer leave the matter of the future king to others.

  But he would not trouble Prince Darrick with such things. “Your wife and son fare well. They grow stronger, and are eager to join you, when the time is right.”

  Darrick smiled, looking off to the side. “I never in all my dreams imagined I would see her again, but a son?” He shook his head. “I once told Anabella that not all that lacked explanation should be disregarded as magic, but I may have been wrong. Only magic could have delivered me such a gift.”

  “I know you’re eager to be reunited.”

  “I want more for them to be safe, and far from harm.”

  Khallum’s belly turned. The prince was being charitable. He’d not mentioned Khallum’s failure to act, when it must be all he could think about in this agonizing convalescence, so far from where the action should be. “There is no place more safe than the Northerlands, right now, if Dereham’s borders hold. But I ken we didnae spring you from prison for safe, did we?”

  Darrick laughed. “No. We did not.”

  “My hesitation… my…” Khallum stopped short of saying fear. “My delay, Your Grace, Darrick, is only due to recent events in the kingdom. What Lord Quinlanden has done, as I assume my men have kept you well informed on.”

  Darrick nodded. “His treachery regarding Lord Byrne will be paid tenfold. But what he has done to the Medvedev is even beyond my imagining. Has anyone deduced how he’s managed such an unfathomable feat?”

  “It is said he has a Rhiagain sorcerer in his employ.”

  “Does he?” Darrick pondered this. He seemed to go somewhere else.

  “Do you know about that, Your… Darrick?”

  “The great sorcerers of Ilynglass,” Darrick said, as if he was talking more to himself. “I’ve known a few. Oldwin toils in the sky dungeon at Duncarrow, or did when I was there. There is also Mortain, and I remember there were two others my father spoke of, though they weren’t around when I was growing up. Spies, I always thought, though he never said that. Lysanor and Isdemus. There may be more. I don’t know. Those who might are dead.”

  “Ilynglass?” Khallum repeated.

  “It is said that is where the Rhiagains come from. Before Carrow washed upon the shores of this kingdom.”

  Khallum wanted to know more, but there’d be time for that later. “Mortain. That’s the one. The one The Deceiver has in his employ.”

  Darrick nodded, sighing. “Yes, I could see that, then. But why now?”

  “It is true then, of the sorcerers? That they are…”

  Darrick again turned to check on Ryan, this time running the damp cloth over his face. “Who can say? But my father insisted Oldwin looked no different when my father was a boy than he did when my father was old and dying. He says Oldwin served his father, and his father before him. It defies explanation, but many things do.”

  “If The Deceiver did have one? Could a sorcerer truly subdue them all? As powerful as the Medvedev are known to be?”

  “Our magic is not your magic,” Darrick replied. “I can’t pretend to know how magic works, but I know that when we came to your kingdom, we brought with us a kind the kingdom had no defense against. Though should not also the reverse be true, that those of you native to these lands must have magic we cannot defend either?” He shook his head. “It isn’t true what some say, that Rhiagains have magic. It’s the magic of sorcerers to be feared. There are few, but they have never needed numbers for power.” He dropped the cloth in the basin. “Yes, I believe it’s possible. What you ask.”

  “How do we stop this madness?”

  “I don’t have the answer,” Darrick said. “Even Rhiagains don’t understand their magic. Only another sorcerer would.”

  Khallum snorted. “Aye, and the lot of good that does us, when we’ve none?” He remembered himself, his quick fire fading. “Your Grace.”

  “Lord Warwick, you’ve been right to give pause to action rather than storming into the Easterlands with no eye to the risk awaiting you. But Mortain is one creature, not many. His magic may have been enough to enslave the Medvedev, but his power has limits, as all things do. If the kingdom knew of Quinlanden’s crime against them, they would not accept it.”

  “You think I should spread word of this treachery?”

  “I do.”

  Khallum leaned back against the wall. Maeryn Blackwood had trusted him with this secret, but he’d never considered why it should be one. Or had that been her motive all along, to deliver this knowledge to one with the power to see it answered? The one with the fire and mettle to do what others would not? “I confess, I’d not given this the thought it deserves.”

  “Aiden is in Duncarrow with my brother. He’s been out of communication, they say, and so his men are under command of his officers. Without leadership, they will fall apart, and his officers will only provide enough of that for so long.” Darrick looked at Khallum, meeting his eyes. “I think the reason Aiden has sent no word to his men is because Eoghan has imprisoned him.”

  Khallum’s mouth parted. “And why would you think that? Your brother is who ordered the attack upon my brother, upon the Medvedev. Who else would have given him the sorcerer to do as he pleased?”

  Darrick rose to his feet. He moved to the tiny window at the other side of the room. “I don’t think Eoghan ordered any of those things. He wants obedience, not war. He wants others to worship him, not loathe him.”

  “Too late for tha’.”

  “If Eoghan gave Aiden use of Mortain, it was in gratitude for laying Rowanwen at his feet. Eoghan must have thought… must have believed he had subdued Quinlanden himself with his acceptance of such a gift. He wouldn’t have realized that the act had empowered him, not stilled him. Lord Byrne’s murder would have horrified Eoghan, as such a thing can only be taken as an act of war.”

  “You have a soft spot for him? After what he did?”

  “I have nothing but contempt for Eoghan,” Darrick said, turning away from the window to look again at Khallum. “But I won’t let my anger get in the way of what I know to be true. Eoghan is no conniving monster. He is weak, and he is foolish, but that is not the same. He will be horrified by the guards patrolling the Westerlands, inciting rebellion from those loyal to Lady Blackwood. He’ll be lost for how to deal with it.”

  “I don’t ken what you mean for us to do. Ally with the ratsbane? That cannae be what you’re implying?”

  “No,” Darrick said. “I have something else in mind.”

  * * *

  Hamish waited until Darrick’s steps faded into echoes at the base of the spiral staircase. He’d thought Khallum might join the prince, so that Hamish could again be with his son, but Khallum lingered in the room where Ryan convalesced. If he wanted to be with his son, he’d need to face Khallum as well.

  “Lord Khallum. Forgive me, it’s only that I want to be here. When he wakes, ye ken.”

  Khallum sat in the rickety chair half supported by the wall. He watched Ryan. “Hamish. My old friend. I’v
e been waiting for a moment where we could have a word.”

  “A word? Have I displeased ye, sir?”

  “No, not that, it’s only... now that I’ve seen Ryan with my own eyes, I know what he’s done to bring this gift to us, and I want ye to know my gratitude. But I also need you to know, it was never this I wanted.”

  Hamish flushed. The sensation traveled all the way to his fingers and toes. He’d always been the man in the room short on the right words, but it most aggrieved him when he had no proper response for his lord, who had done right by him, better than another might have. Khallum had never forgotten their friendship as children. He kept the other men from silencing him when he did have the words to say.

  But Khallum was apologizing, even if he’d never say the precise words, and Hamish would be expected to accept it as it was.

  “I did… I wanted to punish him, for kenning he could have what was nay his,” Khallum went on. “For assuming himself upon my Esmerelda. But I didnae send him in to hurt him, Hamish. I had faith in yer boy, and he did what he was sent to do. He saved us. He may have saved this entire realm.”

  “Aye. I never doubted him,” Hamish managed. His eyes burned. He didn’t need these words from his lord, for he’d known Khallum’s love for him was not tinged with vengeance. He’d never been angry that it was Ryan who had been sent, and not someone else’s son. “He’s my son. My true blood, through and through. My only son.”