Chapter Three

The back half of the tower had been turned into three cells, all heavily barred and even more heavily locked. Two were empty, the furthest containing a single man. There were only two windows, one in each of the outermost cells, and so Tallant could not see anything clearly. He stared curiously at Cecil—Rasnake?—but simply could not see much in the limited light. Not a small figure, he could determine that much. Not as tall as himself, Tallant would hazard, but it was impossible to say as Cecil was sitting on the floor. Still, like Milton, he seemed to be broad-shouldered and made of tight, lean muscle. He also seemed to be wearing nothing more than leggings and an under tunic. He did not even seem to have shoes. Had they dragged him out of bed?

"Ho, Henry," Cecil said, his voice a bit deeper than Milton's, a bit rougher. "You brought me visitors?"

"I brought your brother," Henry said quietly, and slipped away out of the tower.

Silence fell in his wake, and then Cecil slowly stood up. Tallant had been wrong—Cecil matched his height, might even be a shade taller. His hair fell in thick, dirty clumps around his face, and his hands were dirty, calloused, covered in scrapes old and new, burn marks—the hands of a fighter, a warrior. But Milton had said a thousand times his brother was a scribe, an artist. In Tallant's experience, such significant change seldom happened in a person, and never for good reason.

"Well, well," Cecil said. "The mighty Milton returns at last. After twelve years, I'm surprised you could still find the place, or even bothered."

Milton frowned, and reached out—but let his hand fall when Cecil jerked away. "Cecil, I had no idea…"

Cecil laughed, sharp and bitter. "What do you want, Milton?"

"I wanted to see you, to see Irene…"

"Welcome home," Cecil said. He turned away and returned to the floor where he had been sitting before.

Milton shook his head. "What the fuck happened, Cecil?"

"What do you care?" Cecil asked. "You left. It's been twelve years. That tattoo means you're battle-bonded to that elf skulking behind you. Obviously you found better things to do with your life. So did I. We don't need you."

Tallant could all but see the anger flare to life in Milton. "Is that why you're locked up, Cecil? Because you can handle yourself? Is that why Irene is missing? It looks to me like your handling of the situation is a monumental disaster."

Cecil snarled and stood again, coming at them with such fury that Tallant would not have been surprised at all if he broke down the cell. "Don't you pretend you understand a goddamn thing, Milton, just don't. You know nothing. I'm in here because that fucking council thinks Irene is dead and I'm all that stands between them and stealing the dukedom. When another girl turns up dead, which she probably will unfortunately, and I've been in here the entire time, they will have no choice but to free me." He laughed in a way far too old and bitter for someone so young. "All this assuming, of course, that they aren't forced to pull me out anyway to deal with a dragon."

"Rasnake," Tallant said, stepping forward slightly. "They keep calling you that. You must be damned good at killing dragons."

Cecil shrugged.

Milton looked near to tears. "I don't—Cecil what happened to you?"

"Twelve years happened to me," Cecil said coldly. "What, did you think that everything would be the same when you returned, Milly? That I'd be carving and drawing for you, and Irene would be sitting in a morning gown pretty as you please, both of us waiting patiently for the noble hero to return at last?"

"No," Milton said hotly, though Tallant knew he'd had something very much like that in mind. "I just…I've missed you. I thought you'd be happy to see me." He sounded hurt, confused. "I've thought about you every single day—"

"Then you should have written!" Cecil suddenly bellowed, slamming his hands against the bars of the cell. "You should not have waited twelve fucking years to bother returning. You're too fucking late! We don't need you and we sure as fuck don't want you."

"What happened to you, Cecil?" Milton asked, voice breaking, angrily brushing away the tears that slipped free.

Cecil gave that bitter laugh again. "If you think I'm bad, wait until you see Irene."

The sound of boots drew Tallant's attention, and he turned sharply, hand going to his sword—but relaxed when he saw it was one of the twins, in dry clothes now but with hair still damp. "Rasnake," the twin greeted, and then spoke to him in rapid-fire thieves' cant. Tallant could understand no more than one word in twenty, and that handful of words was not enough to get even the gist of the message.

"How the fuck do you know cant so well, and why are you hanging around with a bunch of criminals?" Milton demanded.

"There are precious few soldiers left, and when I needed help, they were here," Cecil said. "You weren't."

Milton fell silent, his mouth a tight line, shoulders tense.

Tallant frowned at Cecil. "I really don't think—"

"I don't care what you think," Cecil said, cutting him off. He turned back to the twin, and said something, to which the twin laughed in reply and then departed.

"What did he say?" Milton asked, sounding as though he did not expect an answer.

Cecil looked suddenly weary, leaning his head against the bars, curling his hands tightly around them. "They found another girl dead. They're bringing in the body now. It should be here in half an hour or so. It's Mary."

"Mary…not little Mary, who was three years old when I left," Milton said.

"The very same," Cecil replied, and pushed away from the bars, returning to slump in his dark corner.

Silence fell. Tallant had never seen Milton so unhappy. Tallant didn't know Cecil at all, but even he could see there was a world of hurt there, too. Before he could figure out what to say, Henry returned. "You're free to go, Rasnake," Henry said. "It happened exactly as you said—another girl is dead, and obviously you could not have done it. No offense, but I had hoped we would have to find another way to get you out of here."

"Me too," Cecil said, and stood as Henry unlocked the cell door and pulled it open. Without so much as a word or even a glance at Milton, Cecil strode from the tower.

Henry eyed Milton sympathetically. "I tried to warn you, son. That boy is badly broken. I think your presence will make a world of difference, however, once he gets past his hurt and pride. You'll see."

Tallant moved closer when Milton said nothing. "We'll fix this, Milton. I promise."

Milton shrugged, turned, and left the tower. Sighing, Tallant followed after him, and they made their way to where a small crowd of men had gathered in the back courtyard. Five of them, and all thieves. There was the twins, two men who looked about his age, another man a few years younger, and the last was at least a decade older.

They all had the trademark look of thieves, which was really just a catch-all phrase for all sorts of criminals. Most distinct perhaps was the hair; every one of them wore their hair in a mass of braids or dreadlocks, decorated with tokens, beads, other decorative items. They wore light, sturdy leather armor rather than heavier metal—and all had the same small tattoo somewhere on their person, of a stylized dragon with a sword through it, within a circle that was thicker on one end, thinner on the other—almost like a crescent moon but a complete circle.

That meant followers, and the dragon with a sword…followers of Rasnake. These men considered Cecil their leader. Definitely interesting, that. They were all talking in cant, idly motioning and speaking to someone Tallant could not see. But then they shifted, and he could see all too well—and gods have mercy, but Milton would kill him if he knew the thoughts filling Tallant's head at that moment.

Cecil was washing at the well, currently covered in soap and water—and absolutely nothing else. If it bothered him to have an audience while he bathed, he gave no sign of it. He simply conversed with them, all the while soaping, scrubbing, and rinsing.

He definitely had the same tight, lean, muscular build as his brother, but Tallant thought Cecil might be more muscled. They were neither of them the sort of oversized muscle-heads that Milton like to get into fights with when he was drunk, but there was good reason they always beat said muscle-heads.

More striking than that, however, were the scars—there were dozens of them. Burns, cuts, scrapes, puncture wounds, slash wounds. Cecil looked as though he had lived through a war or two. On his chest, right over his heart, was the sword and dragon tattoo, with a star above it that symbolized his leadership status.

He saw another tattoo as Cecil lifted his arms to wash out his hair. A tree covered the entirety of the inside of his right forearm, a beautiful apple tree done in black, green, and red ink. Tallant wondered what the significance of that was, and if he'd had elf traditions in mind when he'd put it in the place a battle-bond should go.

The tattoo was covered up, drawing Tallant from his musings, and he could not help but watch as the rest of Cecil's impressive form was covered up. Tallant realized abruptly that Cecil was now wearing shooting gloves and bracers, in addition to his regular leather armor. He'd also fixed his hair, rebraiding it with the ease of familiarity, weaving in tokens and beads. He looked like a prince of thieves.

Tallant and Milton were hardened soldiers; they had been through shit that still gave Tallant the occasional nightmare. A battle mage did not gain the number of tattoos he bore by leading an easy life. But he felt like a fragile, spoiled lord next to the hard look on Cecil's otherwise handsome face. He didn't know what to say, or even think, as the others handed over weapons for Cecil to strap into place—a quiver of arrows, at least four daggers, and a heavy sword belt that held not one, but two swords.

"I thought you said your brother was a scholar," Tallant said.

Milton shook his head, looking sad and lost. "When I left, my brother could not even hold a sword properly, and he could not bear to watch as the hunters brought in the day's kills because the sight of dead animals made him cry." He shoulders hunched. "I did not think my brother would have become this much of a stranger. I—he hates me, Tallant."

Tallant glanced again at Cecil, turning over the words and actions of the past half hour. "I don't think he hates you. I think this situation is complicated."

"Yeah," Milton said, not sounding convinced. He reached up unconsciously to grasp the locket hanging around his throat, an oval locket bearing the Holy Star, with a lock of Irene's hair inside. "If that's how my brother greets me, I don't think I want to see Irene after we rescue her." His mouth twisted, and Tallant had never seen Milton look so damned sad. "Not that it really matters what my brother's wife thinks of me."

"It will be all right," Tallant said, slipping into his native language. Milton didn't have much patience for learning other languages; it was why he knew even less cant than Tallant. But over the years, he had managed to teach Milton his native language.

"I hope you're right," Milton said, "because I don't know where I'll go if I'm not allowed to finally come home." He turned and walked away. Tallant did not follow, knowing Milton wanted some time alone. Instead, he turned his attention back to the Cecil and the other men—and drew up short, startled, as he met pale, sharp green eyes. Everything seemed to go still, quiet, and Tallant found it strangely difficult to breathe.

Then Cecil looked away, and the moment broke.

Tallant shivered, feeling bereft, a low ache in his chest. He'd never seen such sad eyes. Just how badly broken was Cecil? He reached up to feel his own pendant, then, the fate token that was the only personal possession he'd taken with him when he'd left his family and country forever.

Fate was a strong belief amongst his people, and it was a belief that Tallant still clung to fervently. A person's fate took real shape as he came of age, and it was on his Age Day that a young man or woman's fate was read, and written out forever on a small piece of stone.

On the day his fate was read to him, the Fate Reader had said simply your destiny lies with wild dogs. He and his family had been more than a little confused, as had the Reader, because dogs weren't native to his homeland. The only dogs around either came with traders, or were owned by foreigners who had settled there, and none of them was wild.

It was not until he had left home, and shortly after he'd met Milton, that he finally encountered a 'wild dog' and understood better what the Fate Reader had not been able to say. Your destiny lies with wolves.

Milton had laughed and laughed that Tallant didn't know what wolves were. Tallant had finally thrown him in the river. He'd been secretly happy, though, to learn that his fate was bound to wolves—it meant he would never return home, that he would always be somewhere else, and never again under the oppressive hold of his unbending family.

Several years later, however, he still had not found the wolves that were his destiny. He had nearly resigned himself to its meaning only that he was meant to live forever with Milton, in this country. That his fate was with foreigners, and nothing more. He glanced down at his bare left forearm, and stifled an old sigh.

He shoved the selfish thoughts away. Right now, his sworn brother needed him and Tallant would be there for him. Turning his attention back to Cecil, he strode closer and said, "A word with you, Your Grace."

Cecil whipped around, and Tallant was again struck hard by the sadness deep in his pale green eyes. He obviously hurt as deeply as Milton, but Tallant was not yet certain how to bridge the gap between them. "I do not go by 'Your Grace'," Cecil said curtly. "Who are you, other than Milton's battle-bonded elf?"

Tallant quirked a brow at the unmistakable hint of jealousy in Cecil's voice as he mentioned the battle-bond. Was he jealous that Milton returned home with a sworn brother? But, Tallant conceded, he supposed that would not help matters. There was nothing to be done about it, though. "Rasnake, then. My apologies. My name is Tallant Delarma. As you say, we are battle-bonded. He is my best friend; we've been through much together."

He presented his right arm as a courtesy, displaying the tattoo, even though Cecil would not understand what any of the marks meant. But then Cecil surprised him, by lightly grasping his arm in one hand, and tracing the inked runes with his fingers. "You became friends in battle. Your first kills together were thieves, and there's something to do with animals. You share physical and magical strength."

"Wolves," Tallant replied, stunned. "He was being attacked by bandits when I came across the fight and helped him. We were barely done when a pair of hungry wolves appeared. How do you know all that?"

To his continued astonishment, Cecil flushed and dropped his arm as though burned, then backed hastily away. Tallant fought a sudden strange urge to reach out and yank him back.

"Why the hell are you two even here?" Cecil demanded.

"Because he was finally allowed to come home," Tallant said, reminded suddenly of the tower, the way Cecil had said Milton should have written letters, the oddness of that. "Because he could not wait to see again the two people he loves most in the world."

Cecil sneered. "Allowed to return?"

Tallant frowned, his confusion growing. "Yes. He showed me the papers a couple of times. He was banished from the kingdom for twelve years, forbidden any and all contact, on pain of your death."

"What—" Cecil bit the words off, and his expression shuttered, but not before Tallant had seen that moment of honest, open, nasty shock.

Cecil hadn't known.

Milton, that fucking halfwit, hadn't told anyone the details of his leaving.

"He collected gifts, you know," Tallant added. "For your birthday, whenever we went somewhere new. Little things easy to carry, but there must be dozens of them. More still for Her Grace. He carries them in a satchel—"

"I don't give a damn," Cecil said. "It's none of your fucking business."

Tallant grew angry at that. "Like hell it's not. We might not be blood related, but Milton and I are brothers. He's hurt, and the reason for that hurt is you, and I'm not going to sit idly by and continue to watch you hurt him."

Cecil turned away.

"Don't you dare," Tallant snarled, and reached out, grasping Cecil's wrist and yanking him back—

—Causing Cecil to trip, bringing him crashing hard into Tallant, nearly knocking them both off their feet. Tallant balanced them, one arm around Cecil's waist, the other around his shoulders. "Sorry."

"Let me go," Cecil hissed.

Tallant immediately obeyed, but he hadn't missed the way Cecil tensed, the way he flushed, the wide eyes—all the little details that said Cecil wasn't unaffected by Tallant and his numerous tattoos.

Not that it mattered, Tallant would never use Milton's little brother that way. But if his presence flustered Cecil enough to drop his guard—that he would use, if doing so helped bridge the gap between the brothers. He'd have to work out the best way to use it.

At the moment, however, his attention was capture by a ruckus at the gate, as men arrived bearing a cart that contained what was obviously a body. Cecil led the way as everyone moved to gather solemnly around the cart.

"Sir," one of the cart-bearers said, bowing to Cecil. "This was found secreted in her bodice. It fell out when we moved her."

Cecil took the object, then sneered and rounded on a group of old, sour looking men who had just arrived. The council, probably. Cecil flourished the object, which proved to be an official-looking medallion of some sort. "If one girl died with one of my trinkets in her hand, and that makes me the culprit—what does it mean, Lord Weatherby, that this dead girl died with your official seal stuffed down her bodice?"

A ringing silence fell, until Cecil motioned to the twins and ordered, "Lock him up." Lord Weatherby was immediately hauled up, his loud protests summarily ignored while a weary looking Henry trailed after with his keys. "See that preparations are begun for a proper burial," Cecil ordered the men still standing by the cart. "I am going to speak to—"

His words were drowned out by the sudden blowing of a hunting horn, which called out a series of notes that meant nothing to Tallant but obviously meant nothing good to everyone else.