by Peter Fane
“It’s late, Lord Librarian.” Kyla looked at him pointedly, breathing deeply, focusing on her breath, holding at bay that nagging suspicion, that lurking sense of dread.
“That it is, my Lady.” Ness nodded. He scratched Bruno’s back as the big mastiff snuffled around his feet. Then he looked her in the eye. “The High King has asked for you.”
“Of course.” She nodded.
At last.
“Bruno is invited, as well.” Ness leaned over a bit, put most of his weight on his walking stick, and scratched the mastiff behind his floppy ears. Bruno closed his eyes, savoring the attention, jowls glistening.
“Very well,” Kyla said. “Give me a moment.”
Ness bowed.
She shut the door, quickly dressed in practical pants and a tunic, then belted her dagger to her waist. Before she returned to the door, she opened the small box on her nightstand, took from it a plain silver ring—a gift from Nana—and slipped it on the index finger of her right hand. The ring wasn’t a ring. It was an ancient golem that only looked like a ring, just like Garen’s future-speaking silver bird only looked like a bird. With the right touch, the ring-golem would shape a small needle from itself, a needle laced with a deadly variety of Marsinion poison that had been woven into its essence millennia past. When the needle was out, Kyla could kill with the touch of her hand.
72
BRUNO LEADING THE way, old Ness’s stick ticking the pavers, they walked down the hallway, past Daniel’s new bedroom, up a short flight of stairs, past Tarlen and Susan’s quarters, up another flight of steps, finally past a junction guarded by two of Colj’s ogres. There, a short hallway led to a bronze gate that marked the entrance to the royal apartments. Two Targead assassins, wearing the traditional golden robes of their duchy, stood on either side of the gate. Their fingers were steepled in front of their chests, fingertips just touching. Their skin was tan, a color that perfectly complimented the collars of gilded bronze they wore at their necks. Each was armed with a falchion of high silver belted at the waist and a high silver revolver slung across the chest in typical Targead fashion. The assassins’ golden robes were wrapped tightly around their limbs, ready for instant action. Their eyes were bright and vigilant.
Ness stopped and asked one of the Targeads, “Has Lady Katherine arrived?”
“Yes, my Lord,” the assassin answered. His accent was thick. He looked at them, then at Bruno. “Just a moment ago. She asked the same of you.”
Ness nodded. The Targead opened the gate. They stepped through, walked down a long hallway, up a final flight of stairs. Another pair of Targeads waited at the top of this staircase, at the edge of the foyer just outside the door of the royal bedchamber.
Kate stood at the foyer, talking quietly with the taller of the two assassins, waiting. She wore a jerkin and pants of blue Abúcian hide. A leather messenger bag was slung over her shoulder. It looked like she was ready for travel. Kate didn’t smile as they approached, but she did give Bruno a good thump on the side when he trotted up to her.
What was all this? Kyla frowned.
“Lady Katherine.” Ness bowed.
Kate nodded, then looked at Kyla, stepped forward, and hugged her. When she stepped back, her face was deadly earnest. The Targead assassins looked on with merciless eyes.
Something was wrong.
The cold in Kyla’s hands threatened, but she took a breath, allowing her trained awareness to unfold.
Kate had been gone two years, and she’d changed, that much Kyla had already seen. But now, here—in the middle of the night, standing outside the royal bedchamber waiting for only the Sisters knew what—Kyla was finally able to put her finger on the precise nature of the difference: Kate looked worn. It wasn’t just that she was older. It was as if ten years had passed, not two. Indeed, Kate’s face, posture, movements, her entire presence, was more precise, tighter—and tired.
Kate took Kyla’s hands in her own and looked her in the eye. “Everything you see and hear beyond this door must be held in the closest confidence, Ky.”
There was something wrong with Kate’s voice, Kyla realized.
“Not a word,” Kate continued. “Not to anyone. Do you understand?”
“Of course.” Kyla lifted her chin and pressed her heels together, unconsciously standing at attention, meeting Kate’s gaze. Her whole body was freezing. Bruno leaned hard against her knee.
“The High Queen is dead.” Kate cleared her throat. “My mother is dead.”
The bottom dropped from Kyla’s stomach.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her gut clenched, and she felt her mouth begin to open.
Bruno growled.
On their own accord, as if the icy tremors had never left her, her hands began to shake.
“What—?” Kyla began.
Kate continued without pause, squeezing her hands, her eyes glowing with a strange mix of unspeakable sorrow and barely suppressed rage. “High Lady Adara Dallanar is gone, Great Sisters sing her praise. Assassinated one week ago. Nobody knows, Ky. The family, the inner circle, they all know, of course. But no one else. It must stay that way. The next months will see the end of all this.” Kate lifted her chin at the hallway’s walls, at the Targead assassins. “The end of the killing, this war—all of it. But until then, no one else can know.” She looked at Kyla directly. “Nobody.”
Kyla nodded, her head spun with disbelief and sadness, a strange taste rising in her mouth, copper and ash.
Her legs felt weak.
Impossible.
Nana?
How could she be gone?
And yet everything became perfectly clear.
That strangeness she had sensed in Michael, in Anna, in Garen, in Falmon, in Colj—in all of them this last week. The odd glances. The sudden silences. That feeling that they were hiding something, that the world had ended, it now made perfect sense.
Because they had been hiding something.
The world had ended.
The High Queen was dead.
She’d been dead for a week.
Kyla’s head spun faster. She reached for Bruno. He leaned harder into her leg.
And they couldn’t tell her.
They wouldn’t tell her.
And it was Michael’s doing.
Of that, Kyla was certain. “Give her time,” she could almost hear him say. “She was Nana’s favorite.” But more specifically, he’d point to her age. She was only fourteen. She hadn’t completed her rites of passage. Legally, Kyla was still a child and thus not to be trusted—at least that would be his excuse. The truth was that when Kyla turned sixteen, Michael knew she’d be a threat to his plans and his ambition. She could never challenge his claim as heir, of course. But there were other ways to resist. So he isolated her now, planted those seeds of doubt . . . .
My family is killing itself.
Kyla blinked, tried to take a normal breath, and willed her training to come. Kate cleared her throat, squeezed Kyla’s hands, then cocked her head at the door of the royal bedchamber.
“If our allies hear of the Queen’s death, if others learn, peace will be impossible—.”
“‘Peace?’” Kyla whispered, words tumbling out. “What ‘peace?’ The High Queen is slain. Nana is dead.” Her voice hitched. “This morning, they tried to kill Garen, to kill us all. Hundreds of our soldiers and riders and dragons are dead. To say nothing of the uncounted thousands—tens of thousands—that Anna and Michael and Daniel slaughtered today. You think Dorómy and his commanders—Lessip, Serán, Ruge, Taverly, the others—you think they’ll consider another parley after a child annihilates their entire army? You know what they’re thinking, Kate. ‘The Silver Fox has played us all, yet again.’ Can’t you hear Lessip say it? ‘The ultimate trick.’ That’s what they think. This whole time, we’ve had a hidden ace up our sleeve, an asset of legendary power, a prodigy, a savant that the Silver Fox had been waiting to deploy, parley nothing more than a trap, baited for our enemies
.” Kyla shook her head. “Jared Ruge was killed on the Long Bridge, Kate. I saw him die. And Marden Julane, Eleanor’s uncle. Dead. How many other Legionnaires and Guardsmen did Michael and Anna and their men kill today? How many highborn officers were lost? ‘Peace?’ Yes, we must try; I know we must, but . . . .” Kyla shook her head. Her face flushed, tears threatening to blur her vision, her head spinning. “But how? How can we—?”
“Be quiet,” Kate said softly and squeezed her hands again.
Kyla shut her mouth. Bruno growled at her side, worried.
“The High King waits.” Kate cleared her throat. “We were summoned to receive his orders. We must trust in him, as we always have, especially now.”
Kyla swallowed, nodded, and breathed. She willed her training to come—but it was hard. So hard.
The High King has orders.
Kate shook her head and looked at her closely. “Father is tired, still weak from his wounds.” Kate looked at Ness. “Is that not so?” Ness nodded. Kate continued. “There’s no time, Ky.” She cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “We’ll mourn later. Now, we act. And we obey. For our family. For the Remain.”
But there was something else behind Kate’s words.
It wasn’t just that Kate spoke these words to herself, that she sought solace in duty . . . .
“You yourself haven’t seen him yet,” Kyla breathed, knowing it was the truth the moment she’d said it. “Since you returned, Kate. He wouldn’t see you. Or couldn’t. And there’s been no time. Not with parley, not with everything that’s happened. When we saw you in the library, you’d only just returned, and parley was less than a sunrise away. You don’t know what this meeting is about.” She inclined her head at the door to the royal bedchamber. “You don’t know what he wants.”
Kate nodded. “I know that he wants us, Kyla. More specifically: He wants you.”
73
THE ROYAL BEDCHAMBER was warm, its ceiling low and comforting. In the left wall, the chamber’s huge fireplace lit the room with a steady, orange glow. Colossal pillars squatted in each of the room’s four corners, monoliths set deep within layers of ancient masonry. The pillars were some of the oldest elements in the fortress, Kyla knew, erected by some Konungur monarch millennia past on a holy site near the peak of the world’s great mountain, Aaryn’s Cry. During the Founding, it was said that the Great Sister Aaryn herself had ordered the pillars be taken from the mountain top, moved into the throne room of the Tarn—her new imperial fortress—as symbols of her power. Some centuries later, the great stones had been moved here, when this room had served as the private audience chamber for Katherine the Second, the pillars once again serving as symbolic testament to the Tarn’s strength. Indeed, it sometimes felt to Kyla as if the royal bedchamber and these enormous stones held the weight of the entire Kingdom on their shoulders.
“Lady Kate. Lady Kyla,” a hoarse voice croaked from inside the bedchamber. Kyla looked past Kate as they stepped forward.
The voice belonged to old Gart, Grandpa’s steward. The old man sat beside the royal bed in a fur-covered chair. As they approached, Gart put his finger to his scarred lips—shushing them—cocking his head at the bed where Grandpa slept, snoring softly. Gart was a short man, but stocky, his thick arms covered in tattoos and scars. Most of his right ear was missing, lost years ago when he’d rescued a pair of youngsters, Bellános and Dorómy Dallanar, from a gang of Konungur poachers up past Korfort. Gart had aimed his chair at the door. He held a high silver pistol in his lap. An ancient dagger rested on the bedtable beside him. His right hand and wrist were set in a plaster cast.
Sorrow swelled once more in Kyla’s throat, but she pushed it back.
Four Targead assassins stood guard in the hall, yet still old Gart watched over his Lord and Master, watched over his dearest friend.
Kate stepped closer. Kyla followed. Gart made a move to get up, but Kate gestured for him to stay.
Kyla realized that Gart had pulled everything—all the room’s furnishings, the bearskin, the chair, Grandpa’s night table, the royal bed itself—all closer to the fireplace. A clay pitcher and mug rested on the bedtable next to an ivory statuette of the Great Sister Aaryn. Grandpa’s sketch book and his copy of the Tarn’s Canon were there also, several pages marked in both. The bearskin rug faced the fire, the flames warming the bear’s dark nose, his eyes closed as if in peaceful dreams.
Kate took off her boots, stepped across the bearskin, and knelt before the High King’s dearest servant. Kyla did the same.
“Gart.” Kate took the pistol from him, placed it on the bedtable, and held his uninjured hand in hers. Gart looked at her, then he turned his eyes to Kyla. Kyla placed her own hand on top of Kate’s. Bruno sat at Gart’s side, nuzzling the old man’s knee. Ness stood in the door’s shadow, a silent witness.
“I tried my best to help, Ladies,” Gart said. His voice was raw. He cleared his throat and raised his chin, but he didn’t look at their faces. His voice wavered. He pressed his lips together, glanced at the statuette of Aaryn, then back down at his lap. “Great Sisters know I did. But they killed her.”
Gart withdrew his hand from theirs. He took the pistol from the bedtable and held it to his chest.
It was Nana’s gun, Kyla realized.
There was a jagged bruise on the left side of Gart’s face, near his temple. Kyla hadn’t noticed it until now. The bruise was greenish-yellow.
About a week old.
Gart looked away from them, into the fireplace. “I tried my best,” he whispered to the flames. “So did Lily. Good old Lily girl, best dog we ever had.” He closed his eyes. “We tried so hard; we did.” He absently patted Bruno’s head. “Didn’t make no difference.”
“Can you tell us?” Kate asked, her voice strangely monotone.
Gart nodded and cleared his throat. “They’d gotten in here somehow, see? Killers. Used old magic, for sure. Pendants, must’ve been. But even so, we don’t know how so many got in at once. But they did, all dressed in black. Good Lily, she was sleeping there by the fire, snoring away like she did. She knew something was wrong right away. She gave a loud bark, and I came running, and they hit me and knocked me down. I saw them moving around the bed there. Didn’t hit me hard. Stupid old man, not even worth killing. Lily already got two of ‘em, blinked and tore their throats out. The Queen had killed another one, already. But I could see it in their eyes, both Lily’s and the Queen’s. They knew they couldn’t save him. They were both trying their best, fighting so hard. This way and that Lily went, shifting as best she could, fur like lightning clouds. She’d go to one of them, then the other, biting and trying to get in the way. The Queen was the same. She was like an angel of death, spinning, daggers like liquid silver, painting the walls with blood. But they’re both older, see? They fought, killed so many, but there were more than that. If it had been twenty years ago . . . if Bruno had been here.” He patted Bruno’s big mastiff head. “Might’ve been different.”
“I tried to get up, but one of ‘em had his cursed foot on my back. I couldn’t move. Lily and the Queen, they were fighting. But there were just too many. The King, he was already up when I come in. Standing in the middle of the bed, he was, Lily and the Queen in front of him. They were all around, maybe a dozen in all, coming at him from all sides, silver daggers and swords. The King must’ve shot one or two of them himself, a few moments after they arrived. He was probably up and firing at Lily’s first bark, just like the Queen—you know how he was in a fight.” Gart glanced at Ness. “He was young again, blazing away, that calmness in his eyes, cursed jackals dropping at his feet, the Queen leaping to protect him from every side, she must have taken another two or three in those next moments. Never seen anything so fast. Her blades, they glowed with her speed—but she didn’t have this.” He clutched Nana’s gun to his chest. “And then they just mobbed them. The King, he got another one with his gun, then another one with his blade, but then they changed tactics. A bunch of ‘em went after the Queen.
Lily shifted right in front of her, just like a good dog, took the first knife in her side. I could tell by her breathing they’d got Lily in the lungs. Good dog, didn’t howl, just leaned into it and bit at the man, got his arm, nearly tore it off. Queen threw her knife, caught him in the jaw, still trying to protect the King. Then a big one came up, clubbed Lily on her head. I could see Lily’s fur starting to mist, getting ready to shift out, to get him, I could see the Queen trying to move, too . . . but then Lily pushed her back, to protect her. She almost shifted to kill the man, see? But then it was as if she remembered that she couldn’t leave the Queen. Good Lily. She was bleeding from her nose and her ears. The Queen was bleeding, too. And then they stabbed Lily again, her fur was covered in blood. And good Lily, she just leans back, and they keep stabbing and stabbing. She didn’t even try to bite, after that. She was bad hurt, I could tell. She knew. They were trying to get the King now, they were trying, but Lily and the Queen kept getting in the way. Then one of them got past them; he hit the King and knocked him out. Then they just swarmed on top of them, Great Sisters curse me. I couldn’t see what was happening. But I could hear. Great Sisters curse me, I could hear it, hear them stabbing the Queen, stabbing Lily, still trying to get at the King, those two dying for him, trying to give him a few more moments for help to come . . . .”
Out of nowhere, Kate grabbed Kyla’s hand and squeezed it, squeezed so hard.
But Kyla could barely feel it.
She could barely see, her eyes hazed by hot tears, her throat thick, the crazy spinning in her head threatening everything with madness, a fury near overpowering.
“Then I hear this voice,” Gart continued. “—this cursed voice. Couldn’t hear what he was saying. But I could hear his voice. I could hear Lily wheezing, and I could hear this cursed voice whispering to the Queen. She could barely breathe herself. The voice asking her something. Couldn’t hear the words.” Gart looked up at Kate. “Then your mom, she said something in that quiet way of hers, talked to him, for a long moment, but I could tell by her voice she was dying—.”
