“Saw him?”
“Y-yes, my lord,” the man said, staring at the blades.
“Do not watch the swords, for your eyes will not stop them from doing their work should I order it,” Feledias said. “Only your voice might do that. Now, tell me, where did you see my brother? The Black Woods?”
“T-the Black Woods? F-forgive me, my lord, no. He is in my village. Ferrimore.”
Feledias frowned. “Ferrimore.” He knew the place, of course, knew every town and city, every shithole in the entire kingdom, for even before his Bernard’s betrayal, while his brother had focused on killing—anyone, really, on that point he was never particular—it had been Feledias’s job to follow behind him, cleaning up the mess, appeasing terrified, grieving villagers who inevitably suffered when his brother passed through.
“Ferrimore?” Commander Malex asked from behind him, his surprise clear in his tone. “But how? Surely he should have went to Valaidra. Why would he have chosen Ferrimore instead?”
“There is only one reason,” Feledias said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “He knew we were waiting for him.”
The soldiers shared uneasy glances at that. “Forgive me, my prince,” the commander said, “but how could he? How could he possibly have known?”
Feledias’s frown deepened. “I think I know. It is that pet mage of his—I saw him, before, was present when he had one of his…fits. Visions, he calls them. More than once, those visions saved my brother and his merry little band from disaster.”
“You mean the mage, Challadius?” Malex asked, surprised. “But…he died, didn’t he? Fifteen years ago?”
Feledias hissed. “An illusion, no doubt. My brother’s pet mage has a knack for those, if nothing else.”
Malex frowned, perhaps doubting it, but that was fine, just so long as he kept his doubts to himself. Feledias, though, knew it was true, felt it, inside himself. The mage was back. A foolish mistake, for he could have went on living in whatever pathetic rathole he’d crawled into and done so for a few more years. Of course, Feledias would have hunted him down eventually, once he’d dealt with his brother, but he promised himself now that he would make the taking of the man’s life, the tearing apart of it bit by bit, a priority. But first, there was the farmer to deal with.
He turned back to the man. “How long ago did he pass through Ferrimore?”
“B-beggin’ your pardon, my lord,” the farmer said, “but he didn’t pass through. Him and the others with him, they’re still there—they took rooms at the inn not a couple of hours gone.”
Feledias felt his breath catch in his throat at that, but something the man said caught his attention, and he forced himself to remain calm, forced himself to resist the urge to sprint to the horses and to go riding off in the direction of Ferrimore as quickly as possible. It was something his brother would have done, in the past, trusting in himself—and more importantly, his axe—to carve his way past whatever problems a decision made in haste might produce. Feledias, though, had always been, by necessity, the thinker of the family, the strategist, and so he resisted the compulsion, kneeling beside the farmer instead. “Others? What others?”
The man’s bruised face screwed up in thought, no doubt thought made more difficult by the swords at his throat. “There was a young lad, a boy, really, seemed scared of his own shadow, you ask me. And a fat man in purple trousers, the most ridiculous set I’ve ever seen. And…and a woman.”
Feledias frowned. “Woman?”
“That’s right,” the man answered, nodding quickly. “A woman.”
“Well?” Feledias demanded. “What did she look like, fool?”
“A…an older woman, my lord,” the man said, “in her forties, perhaps. Pretty though. Handsome.”
“Maeve,” Malex said from beside him, and Feledias turned, giving the man a small smirk.
“Oh, that’s right. You and Marvelous had a bit of a tryst, didn’t you?” He watched the man carefully. “I trust, Malex, that you will not allow the past to hamper the carrying out of your duty.”
“Of course not, my lord,” the man said, “I wouldn’t think of it.”
Feledias nodded, leaning back. “Of course not.” He gave a thoughtful hum. “Maeve the Marvelous, it appears, has returned from her self-imposed exile. It seems my brother is getting the whole band back together.”
“But why?” Malex asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. “What does he intend?”
Feledias rose. “The same thing he always intends, no doubt. My brother is many things, Malex, but complicated is not one of them. He intends to fight. So come—let us accommodate him. If we ride hard, we should reach Ferrimore within the hour.”
He started away but paused when Malex spoke. “And what about…him, my lord?”
Feledias turned back, frowning at the farmer who he had nearly forgotten about in his urgent need to come to grips with his brother and the other traitors who followed him. “Ah yes, our dear peasant. Tell me, man, what do you think should be done with you?”
The man licked his lips nervously, his gaze traveling between the two soldiers above him. Fear was there, in his gaze, but as Feledias watched, something else arose within it too. Greed. “Might be…” The man hesitated, clearing his throat. “Might be…I could get a reward?”
“A reward,” Feledias said, musing over the words, rubbing at his chin in consideration. Then he gave a single nod. “Very well. And a reward you shall have, dear peasant.” The man started to smile, but the expression froze on his face as Feledias spoke on. “A traitor’s reward. For you see, whatever else he is, my brother is still a prince of the realm, and you the man who, out of greed and anger—for do not think me such a fool that I cannot guess at who has done the work on your face—have chosen to betray him.”
He glanced at the two guards standing over
