Free Tyrant's Blood by Fiona McIntosh

animated.’
    Reuth frowned, glancing at her husband.
    ‘Check with the townsfolk if you don’t believe me,’ Greven baited. ‘The child you seek is not my Petor. It’s just an unfortunate coincidence that both boys are the same age.’ He could almost see the disappointment emanating from them like a dark cloud.
    Clovis sighed. ‘Still, I would like to see him.’
    ‘I forbid it. You will not frighten my child.’
    ‘Master Lark, how can two people like us with our young family be in any way intimidating?’ Reuth asked.
    ‘Well, you’ve done your utmost to intimidate me and I refuse you access to my son, do you hear? Go away and leave us in peace.’
    ‘I cannot,’ Clovis said. His voice sounded grave enough to chill Greven. ‘I gave my word to people who were risking their lives every hour of those terrible days of the overthrow to keep Piven alive. I promised I would find him. I think I have.’
    ‘Go away,’ Greven said helplessly. He turned his back on them, calling over his shoulder, ‘And stay away.’
    He threw two trents onto the counter before Innkeeper Derrian Junes and didn’t pause to exchange pleasantries. He was gone in seconds, striding out of the Grape and Whistle and hurrying as fast as his long legs could carry him towards the forest, where the trees swallowed him up and, he hoped, could hide him.

5
    Piven waited for Greven. He had filled the small sack near to brimming with fungi that would need to dry out on the hut’s windowsill, and it was now duly laid out as Greven liked. Life with Greven had been tranquil, mostly serene. Each day was similar to the previous. And he liked it that way. He liked its order, its sameness…its predictability. He didn’t call Greven ‘Father’; couldn’t call him by that name, much as he knew Greven would like him to, because he remembered King Brennus too clearly. He belonged to the royal family of Valisars—that could and would never change for him. He never wondered about his blood parents, refused to accept that somewhere in the Set a woman who had birthed him might still live or a man who had sired him might roam.
    The raven had lingered, staying close as he busied himself finding the elusive fungi. He wondered if the bird—who he felt sure knew things—had sensed his change occurring. He knew Vyk could hear him; imagined the bird was capable of replying somehow, but that it had chosen not to communicate with him since he’d begun to talk. One day it would—of this he was sure. And so he talked, over his shoulder, never tiring of hearing his own voice, which had been silent for so long.
    ‘…and should be back soon if you’re wondering,’ he said, laying out the fungi beneath the warmth of the sun. ‘You’ll besurprised when you see him. His face, body, arms are now all clear of the sores. The leprosy will have left him by the rise of the next full moon. It’s my greatest achievement yet,’ he murmured, not meaning to boast but needing to say it aloud, to affirm his new talent.
    ‘I told you about the dreams,’ he continued. ‘Strange ones. People are hunting me. I don’t know them but they want to use me and I don’t know how or why.’ Piven turned. ‘Are you faithful to Loethar, or faithful to me? Until I know, I can’t fully trust you with my secrets. One day you must choose, you know that, don’t you?’ He dragged back the flop of hair that had covered part of his face as he turned to look at the bird. ‘You will need to choose,’ he said softly.
    ‘Who are you talking to?’ Piven turned to see Greven approaching up the small incline that led to their hut. The man smiled. ‘Ah, Vyk. Long life to you. Good to see you back.’ Then he gave a feigned sound of disgust. ‘Piven, I’m as bad as you, talking to the bird. Well done, my boy, that’s a very good haul,’ he congratulated, spying the neat row of fungi lined up. ‘Excellent, excellent. Now, child, I want to talk to you about