Chapter Text
Coen
The messenger arrived shortly after sunrise, bearing a letter sealed with the crest of Boyar Ambrus.
Coen's first thought was that someone had come to arrest or kill him.
His second was that whoever had been sent possessed either extraordinary courage or very little sense, considering how many of the Boyar's soldiers had already failed at both.
The man waiting beside the road seemed more interested in staying alive than attempting either task. He stood near his horse beneath the spreading branches of an old oak, one gloved hand resting upon the reins. A dark surcoat bearing Ambrus's colors hung over his mail, and although he carried a sword, he had made no attempt to draw it when Coen approached.
The morning was cold enough for their breath to show faintly in the air. Mist drifted above the fields, gathering in the hollows where rainwater had collected overnight. Somewhere among the distant cottages, a dog barked. The smell of wet grass and woodsmoke mingled with the sharper scent of the horse, which shook its head impatiently and set the iron fittings of its bridle jingling.
Coen stopped several paces away and folded his arms, regarding the soldier with open suspicion. The man's gaze lingered on the scars along his left cheek before settling on his mismatched eyes. Something in his expression changed, a flicker of recognition quickly hidden beneath a respectful inclination of his head.
Apparently, he'd been given a rather thorough description.
That raised another question. How had Ambrus known which village to send his messenger to? Coen had taken care not to linger in one place for long, particularly with the Boyar's men searching for him.
"You're a long way from your master's keep," Coen observed.
"I've been ordered to deliver a message, sir." The soldier held himself stiffly, his gloved fingers tightening around the folded parchment.
"Sir?" Coen raised an eyebrow. That was an unexpected courtesy from one of Ambrus's men, especially considering how many of them he'd fought over the past several days. "And who's the message for?"
"Coen of Laslea."
Coen glanced at the parchment, then back at the soldier. "Well, you've found him."
The man's shoulders eased slightly, although he seemed reluctant to let his relief show. "His lordship instructed me to place this in your hands and await your answer."
"Did he?"
Coen made no move to accept it. There was something almost insulting about the arrangement. Ambrus had spent the past several nights trying to put an end to his interference, and now the bastard apparently expected him to stand quietly in the road and receive correspondence as though their entire conflict amounted to little more than a petty disagreement.
"What sort of message?"
"I'm afraid I wasn't told, sir."
"Nothing at all?" Coen studied the man's face, looking for some sign that he was withholding information.
"Only that you were to read it carefully."
Coen didn't particularly like the sound of that. Then again, he doubted there was anything Ambrus could have written that would have pleased him.
After another moment's hesitation, he unfolded his arms and held out his hand.
"Very well. Let's see what your master has to say."
The soldier surrendered the parchment with such haste that Coen suspected he'd been eager to rid himself of it since leaving the keep. The letter was neatly folded, its edges carefully aligned and secured with a seal of dark red wax. Coen turned it over, examining the crest pressed into its surface.
He had seen that crest often enough on banners, shields, and the surcoats of men who had descended upon this part of the valley.
His fingers tightened around the parchment before he caught himself and loosened his grip.
He broke the seal with his thumb and unfolded the letter. It was finer than anything he had ever handled back home, smooth beneath his fingers and carrying the faint scent of wax. The handwriting was equally refined, each letter formed with deliberate care. It seemed almost absurd that such elegant script could belong to a man who rarely managed three sentences without insulting someone.
Well, at least the bastard could write politely.
Coen began to read.
Coen of Laslea,
Our continued hostilities have grown tiresome, and I believe the time has come for us to discuss terms of surrender.
You are to present yourself at my keep tomorrow, shortly after midday. I shall receive you in a chamber sheltered from the sun, where we may speak without unnecessary interruption.
Come alone. You have my word that no harm shall befall you during our negotiations, provided you extend me the same courtesy.
I trust that, for once, you will have the good sense to recognize the wisdom of a peaceful resolution.
Boyar Ambrus
Coen stared at the final line before returning to the beginning and reading the letter again.
Beside him, the soldier shifted his weight, the damp leather of his boots creaking softly. "Is there an answer I may carry back, sir?"
Coen scarcely heard him.
Terms of surrender.
Ambrus had neglected to specify whose surrender he intended to discuss, which was precisely the sort of omission the insufferable bastard might leave deliberately, if only to amuse himself at Coen's expense.
And yet, the invitation was difficult to dismiss.
Ambrus wanted to meet in the middle of the day, when the sun would be high and his movements restricted to whatever shelter he had prepared. For a Vrahkir who so thoroughly enjoyed showing off his superiority, choosing such conditions struck Coen as rather peculiar.
He lowered the letter and regarded the messenger with renewed interest.
"Did your master write this himself?"
"I'm afraid I couldn't say, sir."
"Did he dictate it, then?"
The soldier's expression grew apologetic. "I wasn't present when it was written."
"Has something happened at the keep?"
That question earned a brief hesitation. The man adjusted his grip upon the reins, his gaze flickering toward his horse before returning to Coen.
"N-not that I've been told?"
Coen sighed. Either the soldier had been instructed to reveal nothing, or Ambrus had selected him for his extraordinary ability to know absolutely nothing. Given the Boyar's fondness for making other people's lives difficult, Coen wouldn't have put either possibility past him.
He folded the letter, considering the invitation. For days he'd been disrupting Brencis's blood collections, attacking transports and helping prisoners escape. Ambrus, the Knyaz's Right Fist, had good reason to want him stopped.
Perhaps the Boyar was simply setting another trap.
But Ambrus was ambitious, and if there was even a chance he had begun to resent Brencis's authority, Coen could not afford to overlook it. His family remained imprisoned beneath Greifberg Castle, and the thirty-day deadline was drawing closer. He needed a way to reach the Knyaz before it was too late.
He disliked the thought of bargaining with a man who had helped destroy Laslea. But he could listen without forgiving him.
What are you planning, Ambrus?
"Sir?"
He looked up to find the messenger watching him expectantly. The poor fellow had been standing there so patiently that Coen almost felt sorry for him, particularly since he'd spent much of that time questioning the man's usefulness.
"His lordship asked me to return with your answer," the soldier reminded him.
Coen glanced toward the pale sky beyond the trees, where the morning mist was beginning to thin. Sunlight filtered through the branches, catching upon the dew-laden grass and the damp leather of the messenger's tack.
"Tell him I'll come."
The soldier straightened, evidently pleased to have something definite to report. "Tomorrow, shortly after midday, as requested?"
"Yes."
"And you'll be coming alone?"
"Alone," Coen confirmed. He had no intention of bringing Anca or any of the Manumits into Ambrus's keep.
"Very good, sir."
"Tell your master I expect him to keep his word. If this is a trick, he'll regret it."
The messenger's eyes flickered toward Coen's sword. "I shall convey your answer, sir."
My answer, perhaps. The rest of it, I rather doubt.
He stepped aside to allow the man to mount. The horse tossed its head and snorted impatiently while its rider gathered the reins, its iron-shod hooves sinking slightly into the softened earth. The messenger offered one final nod of farewell before urging his mount forward, the clatter of hooves gradually fading beneath the morning birdsong.
Coen watched until horse and rider disappeared around a bend.
He tucked the letter into his satchel and set off along the road. He ought to seek Anca's advice before tomorrow. She might know a spell that would help if the meeting went badly.
By daylight, Coen would lack the strength and claws that came with his Vrahkir nature. Ambrus, on the other hand, would be confined to the shadows. If matters turned ugly, Coen could at least escape into the sunlight, provided he could reach it before the Boyar's soldiers stopped him.
It was hardly a reassuring prospect.
The road had grown busier as the morning advanced. A farmer passed with a handcart piled high with straw, its wooden wheels groaning over the uneven ground, while two women carrying covered baskets approached from the opposite direction. Their conversation faltered as they noticed the sword at Coen's hip, and one of them drew a little closer to her companion.
Coen stepped aside to give them room, offering a polite nod as they passed. The older woman returned the gesture, though her gaze lingered briefly on his face before she hurried after the other.
In Laslea, people had known him simply as Pieter's eldest son, a young man who helped his family, worked wherever he was needed, and generally tried to keep out of trouble. He had never been particularly important, nor had he wished to be. There was comfort in being greeted by familiar faces without having to wonder what they might have heard about him.
Now strangers sometimes knew his name before he offered it, and not always for reasons he welcomed.
Some called him a rebel, while others spoke of a young swordsman who attacked the Knyaz's soldiers. Those accounts troubled him less than the whispers concerning what he became after sunset. He had no way of knowing how much truth had found its way into the stories, or what people imagined when they heard that he was no longer entirely human.
Coen glanced back at the women, who had resumed their conversation farther down the road. Perhaps they had merely been cautious of a stranger carrying a sword. He hoped that was all it had been.
He had been raised to treat others with kindness and respect, especially those older than himself. Back home, he would never have thought twice about stepping forward if he saw someone being threatened or mistreated. The possibility that these women might now look upon him as the sort of man they needed protecting from troubled him more than he cared to admit.
He had spent much of his life trying to be someone others could depend upon. To think that an innocent person might now feel safer keeping her distance from him left an unpleasant heaviness in his chest.
Drawing his cloak a little closer, he continued along the road, wishing he could pass through a village without attracting anyone's notice.
His stomach growled, reminding him how little he'd eaten since sunrise. He rummaged through his satchel and pulled out a piece of stale bread, tearing off a mouthful as he walked. It was dry enough to make him wish for something to wash it down, though he supposed he ought to be grateful he had anything to eat at all.
His father would certainly have reminded him of that if he’d heard him complain.
The thought brought back their kitchen in Laslea, the warmth of the hearth, and Mirto arguing with Lunka over something neither would remember by supper. His little brother could make a dispute out of almost anything, particularly if he thought someone was telling him what to do.
Coen smiled faintly. He'd give anything to hear Mirto argue with him again.
The smile faded. As far as Coen knew, Mirto was still beneath Brencis's castle with the rest of the family. He had no way of knowing whether the boy was being fed, whether he was frightened, or whether he believed his eldest brother had abandoned him.
By the time Coen reached the narrow path leading away from the main road, the sun had risen well above the trees. Its warmth rested lightly against his face, and he paused beside a shallow stream to refill his waterskin.
The water was cool, carrying a faint taste of leather from the skin. He swallowed gratefully before crouching beside the stream and splashing a little across his cheeks.
His reflection trembled in the moving water.
Dark hair had slipped loose from the knot at the back of his head, and several strands clung damply to his forehead. He pushed them aside, revealing the familiar scars along his cheek and brow, and the eyes that had become impossible to ignore.
One blue, the other gold.
He had grown accustomed to the sight, or at least enough that it no longer startled him every time he caught his reflection. That didn't mean he liked it.
The scars were different. He had carried them long before Brencis laid a hand upon him, and although they had once bothered him, they belonged to the life he remembered.
The golden eye did not.
Coen wondered what his family would think when they saw him again. Would his mother recognize him at once, if she was well enough? Would his father be relieved that he'd survived the attack in the mines, or horrified by what survival had cost him?
And Mirto...
His little brother had always noticed everything. If Coen returned with a torn sleeve, the boy wanted to know who had done it. If he came home late, Mirto demanded an explanation, and any attempt to avoid answering only made him more determined to uncover the truth.
He would notice the eye. Of that, Coen had no doubt.
But how was he supposed to explain it? The truth was too terrible to offer an eight-year-old who had already suffered more than any child should. Yet lying to Mirto felt almost as unbearable, particularly when the boy had always trusted him to answer his questions.
Worse still was the thought of his little brother seeing him after sunset.
Coen had struggled enough to accept the fangs, the claws, and the terrible hunger that came with his Vrahkir nature. He could scarcely imagine how frightening those changes might appear to a child who remembered him as nothing more than his eldest brother.
What if Mirto was afraid of him?
The thought made his chest tighten.
Coen turned away from the water and stood, brushing moisture from his hands.
One thing at a time, I suppose.
He had to save Mirto and the others before he could worry about what the boy might think of him.
The thirty-day deadline was drawing closer, and every wasted hour brought Brencis nearer to whatever dreadful power he intended to claim through the Anachora. Coen understood too little of that place and the Knyaz's plans for his liking, but he knew enough to fear what would happen if Brencis succeeded.
Perhaps Ambrus knew more, and perhaps he could be persuaded to reveal it.
Coen adjusted his sword belt and resumed walking, his boots crunching over the gravel as the path climbed toward the wooded hills.
He spent the next several hours searching for Anca, following paths through the woodland and keeping an eye out for any sign of her. By late afternoon, however, he had found nothing, and the shadows beneath the trees were beginning to lengthen.
With sunset approaching, Coen decided it would be wiser to find somewhere sheltered and get an hour or two of sleep before nightfall. Once his Vrahkir nature returned, he would need to hunt and feed, whether he felt rested or not.
He chose a place among the trees, well away from the road, where the ground was reasonably dry and a thick stand of evergreens offered some protection from the wind. He considered building a small fire, but the smoke might draw unwanted attention, and he had little desire to explain himself to another of Ambrus's patrols.
Instead, he settled against the trunk of a tree and drew his cloak around his shoulders.
He would have to make one last attempt to find Anca in the morning. If he could not reach her early enough, he would simply have to face Ambrus without her advice.
Coen took out the Boyar's letter once more.
The broken seal was still attached to the parchment, its dark red wax bearing the jagged crest. He read the promise of safety again, paying closer attention to the words that had seemed so deceptively reassuring when he'd first received them.
You have my word that no harm shall befall you during our negotiations, provided you extend me the same courtesy.
There was something about the wording that troubled him. Ambrus had promised that no harm would come to him during their negotiations. What happened afterward was apparently another matter entirely.
Coen frowned and folded the letter.
Tomorrow he would learn what Ambrus wanted, and whether there was any chance of turning him against the man they both called their Sire.
He didn't expect the meeting to be pleasant, but for his family's sake, he was willing to endure it.
He tucked the parchment away, loosened his sword belt enough to rest comfortably, and settled more firmly against the tree. The wind stirred the branches overhead, and he closed his eyes, hoping to catch a little sleep before nightfall.
Yet even as he tried to rest, one thought continued to trouble him.
Ambrus had never needed a reason to be cruel. And this time, instead of sending soldiers after him, the Boyar had sent a polite invitation.
Somehow, that frightened Coen more.
Petre & Mihai
Petre had survived a good many unpleasant assignments in Boyar Ambrus's service, but few had ended quite so badly as the blood transport he and Mihai had been ordered to guard.
A great black wolf had attacked their convoy after nightfall, scattering the horses, slaughtering the soldiers, and leaving the two of them and the wagon lead as the only survivors. His lordship had been considerably less impressed by their survival than by the loss of his precious cargo.
Their punishment was to guard a child.
At first, Petre had considered himself fortunate. Three days later, he was beginning to suspect that the Boyar had known precisely what he was doing.
"Do you both have to walk so close?"
Petre glanced down at Mirto as they rounded a corner, nearly catching his heel against the boy's shoe.
"Well, we're your guards, aren't we?" Petre replied, tugging his sword belt into place. The blasted thing had been slipping all afternoon, which certainly had nothing to do with his having forgotten it in the barracks and hurriedly buckled it on while running down the stairs.
"Why do I need two guards? Can't one of you do it by himself?"
Petre's fingers stilled upon his belt.
"His lordship ordered two guards," he replied, drawing himself up. "And that's what he's getting."
Mirto glanced at his crooked sword belt. "Maybe he thought you'd need help."
Mihai laughed behind them.
Petre shot him an irritated look. "We're also here to keep you out of trouble, lad."
"I'm not doing anything."
"Not at the moment, no."
Mirto seemed satisfied with that answer and continued down the passage, his shorter strides tapping against the stone between their heavier boots.
The boy had arrived three nights earlier, when Boyar Ambrus returned with several soldiers and an unexpected guest. Petre remembered watching Mirto being lifted from a horse, pale and exhausted, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His brown hair had been cut into a ridiculous bowl shape, making him look even younger than his eight years.
He'd been brought from the dungeons beneath Greifberg Castle, where his family remained imprisoned. Petre knew what happened to prisoners there. The Vrahkiri took their blood, healed them with their own, and bled them again once they'd recovered, much like they did at the keep.
It was a miserable existence, and Petre doubted the absence of lasting scars made it any easier to endure.
Why Ambrus had taken this particular child from the Knyaz's dungeons was not something Petre had dared to ask. His lordship had simply ordered them to keep the boy fed, clean, and unharmed. Mirto could walk about the keep under guard, but he was never to leave its walls or be left unattended.
For all his cheek, the lad was plainly frightened. Whenever Ambrus's name was mentioned, he grew quiet, and Petre had learned not to touch him without warning. On the first day, he'd tried to guide Mirto away from a stairwell with a hand upon his shoulder, only for the boy to recoil so sharply that Petre had immediately let go.
He'd been more careful since.
Three days of warm meals, clean clothes, and a comfortable bed had done something to restore the boy's spirits. Unfortunately for Petre, they'd also restored his curiosity.
Mirto wanted to know how many horses were kept in the stables, whether the soldiers were allowed to sleep whenever they pleased, and why the gates were shut at night. He'd even asked whether a horse could jump the outer wall if it ran fast enough.
Their footsteps echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling as they continued through the keep's inner passages. Late-afternoon sunlight fell through narrow windows, stretching across the worn stone floor, while the distant clatter of pots and servants preparing supper drifted up from the kitchens.
Somewhere farther along the passage, a heavy door slammed. Mirto flinched, his head turning sharply toward the sound.
Petre noticed but said nothing. After a moment, the boy looked away and continued walking as though nothing had happened.
"Can we go into the courtyard?" Mirto asked as they approached a window overlooking the stables.
Petre followed his gaze to where a stablehand was leading a horse across the sunlit yard. Its reddish-brown coat gleamed in the afternoon light, and the brass fittings on its harness jingled as it tossed its head. Mirto hurried to the window and stretched onto his toes, resting his hands upon the sill.
"Not today, lad. His lordship's orders."
"But the horses are outside. They've been out there all afternoon."
"Well, they're horses, aren't they? Where else would they be?" Petre replied, leaning against the wall beside him.
Mirto watched the horse disappear toward the stalls before glancing up at him. "Can you ride?"
"Course I can. Been riding since before you were born."
"Are you good at it?"
Petre gave him an offended look. "What did I just tell you?"
"That you're old."
Mihai laughed, and Petre wondered why the boy never seemed to have such questions for his other guard.
"My brother taught me how to ride," Mirto said after a moment, returning his attention to the courtyard. "Well, he tried. Father said I was too small, but Coen let me sit in front of him when we went to the mill."
"That was good of him," Petre remarked. "Did he let you hold the reins?"
"Only when he was holding them too." Mirto wrinkled his nose. "He was always telling me to be careful."
"Sounds like he was looking out for you."
"He was. But he could be bossy." The boy smiled a little. "He wouldn't let me climb too high in the tree outside our house. Said I'd fall and break my neck, and then he'd have to tell father."
Petre chuckled. "And did you listen?"
"Sometimes."
That, Petre could believe.
Mirto watched the stablehands carrying buckets across the yard, his fingers tracing a groove in the windowsill.
"He looked after me and Lunka a lot," he continued. "Yanna helped too, but father was usually busy looking after mother."
Petre had learned the boy's mother had been unwell for years, though Mirto rarely spoke of her. From what little he'd gathered, much of the work of caring for the younger children had fallen to their older brother and sister.
"Sounds like your brother had his hands full."
Mirto nodded. "He still made time to play with us."
His smile faded as he looked down into the courtyard, now empty save for a stablehand sweeping straw from the cobblestones.
Petre searched for something to say. "And where's your family from, lad?"
"Laslea."
Petre nodded absently, then paused.
Hang on.
The boy's brother was named Coen. And they came from Laslea.
Surely not...
"Oh, fuck," he muttered.
Mihai glanced at him. Petre mouthed the name and watched the same realization cross his companion's face.
Coen of Laslea.
Of all the children in Vale Sangora, they'd somehow been given charge of the younger brother of the very bastard who'd spent the past week making an embarrassment of Ambrus's soldiers.
Petre had seen him once before, when the young Vrahkir came looking for a fight with the Boyar. He remembered the soldiers gathering along the cliff above, laughing at the fellow's audacity. At the time, Petre had thought it rather amusing.
He didn't now.
Since then, Coen's name had become a familiar source of complaint among Ambrus's men. Ruined blood transports, freed prisoners, collection sites left in shambles. His lordship's peculiar interest in the fellow only made matters worse.
And now Petre was guarding his little brother.
He looked at Mirto again. The dark hair, perhaps, and something about that stubborn little face. He hadn't been close enough to Coen to make a proper comparison, but now that he knew, he could almost convince himself he saw the resemblance.
"Did you know my brother?" Mirto asked, noticing their silence.
Petre hesitated. "Aye. Seen him once."
Mirto looked up at him. "Before he died?"
Petre's stomach sank. "Before he what?"
"Before he died," Mirto repeated quietly. "Father said he died when the soldiers came to our village that night."
Oh, bloody hell.
Petre glanced toward Mihai, who gave the slightest shake of his head.
Coen of Laslea was very much alive. Well, alive enough for a Vrahkir, though the distinction hardly mattered when the young bastard was still roaming the countryside causing trouble.
But Mirto knew none of it. Nothing of his brother's survival, or what he'd become.
Petre looked down at the boy, who had gone back to tracing the groove in the windowsill. A moment ago, he'd been smiling as he spoke of his brother teaching him to ride, of climbing trees and being told to be careful. Now he stood quietly beside them, apparently resigned to the belief that he'd never see Coen again.
And Petre knew otherwise.
He could tell him. The words were simple enough. Your brother's alive, lad.
For one foolish moment, he almost did.
Then he thought of Ambrus.
His lordship had gone to considerable trouble to bring this particular child to his keep, and Petre was beginning to understand why. Whatever the Boyar intended, he doubted it involved allowing two ordinary soldiers to share information with his prisoner.
Besides, how was he supposed to explain what Coen had become? That the brother Mirto remembered was now a Vrahkir, the very sort of creature responsible for his family's suffering?
Petre swallowed. It wasn't his place to tell the boy. That was what he told himself, at any rate.
"I'm sorry about your brother, lad," he managed.
Mirto nodded, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his sleeve.
"Thank you," he said softly.
Petre wished he hadn't.
The boy had thanked him. As though Petre had offered some small kindness instead of standing there with the truth caught in his throat.
He looked away, suddenly finding the courtyard rather interesting.
"Come on," he said gently. "Best get you back before supper."
Mirto followed without argument. Petre found that far more troubling than the boy's questions.
They walked the remainder of the passage in silence. Once or twice, Petre glanced down at him, half expecting another question about the horses or the soldiers or something equally ridiculous.
None came.
At his chamber, Mirto stopped and looked up at him.
"Will you come back after supper?"
"Aye, lad. We'll be here."
Mirto nodded and stepped inside.
Petre waited until the boy had moved away from the doorway before pulling the heavy wooden door shut. The lock turned with a dull clunk.
He kept hold of the key a moment longer, listening to Mirto's footsteps retreat.
Three days ago, he'd thought guarding a child would be an easy punishment. Feed him, keep him clean, make certain he didn't wander somewhere he shouldn't. Simple enough.
Now he knew the boy's brother was alive, and he'd looked Mirto in the face and allowed him to believe otherwise.
Petre stared at the key in his hand. He wondered whether Mirto would still thank him so readily if he knew.
A servant passed with a basket of linen. Only when she had gone did he turn to Mihai.
"Did you know?"
"Not a bloody clue." Mihai glanced at the door. "Would've been nice of his lordship to mention it..."
"You don't suppose that's why he brought the lad here?"
Mihai gave him a flat look. "What do you think?"
Petre rubbed his jaw. Ambrus hadn't brought Mirto here out of kindness. He'd taken the boy from one prison and shut him in another, where Coen would have to come to him.
"And when his brother finds out?" Petre whispered. "You reckon he'll come knocking politely?"
"Wouldn't count on it."
Petre glanced at the key in his hand. "Who's going to be standing outside this door when he comes?"
Mihai said nothing. He didn't need to.
Somewhere along the passage, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Petre waited until they faded before speaking again.
"I'd rather face another wolf," Mihai muttered.
"Wouldn't go that far. The last one nearly ate us."
"Aye, well, at least that was only a wolf. This one's a bloody Vrahkir."
Petre looked at his crooked sword belt, then at the locked door. He'd spent three days wondering whether the boy's questions about horses, gates, and swords were innocent curiosity or the beginnings of some foolish escape plan.
Now he was beginning to suspect trouble ran in the family.
Bloody hell. They were going to die guarding a child.