by Peter Fane
Gart stopped, swallowed, looked from Kate to Kyla.
“The voice said something—and then, oh Great Sisters curse me, the bastard cut her throat.”
Gart dropped the pistol to his lap and covered his face with his good hand, shuddering.
“I could hear the Queen gasping—Sisters forgive me. I could hear our guards coming up. Too late. It was already over. They’d killed her, they’d tried for him, but they’d killed her and her mastiff. The one standing on me, he stomped my hand.” He lifted his cast. “Then he ran. Guards broke down the door. The killers all ran over there.” He lifted his chin toward the eastern antechamber. “And then they were gone the same way they came in. Ancient magic—High Pendants, for sure, but we don’t know how they got so many in here.” He looked at Ness for a moment. “Either way, they left more than half their number dead behind. I got up and went to the bed. The guards came in. Blood was everywhere. But the King, the King was breathing. They’d hurt him bad, hit him hard, blood all over his head, but they hadn’t managed to kill him. He was still breathing. He couldn’t see. And his hand kept patting at the bedclothes. He found the Queen’s hand, and he touched it and said something like ‘There, there’—just like that, like everything was just fine. He thought the guards and Lily had saved them, see? He didn’t know she was gone. He didn’t know. He just kept patting her hand. ‘There, there.’ They fought so hard. The Queen, Lily, they tried so hard.” Gart bowed his head and seemed to cave in on himself. “I can’t believe it—.” Then he looked up at them, his eyes bright with misery. “I am to blame. I am—. Stupid, useless old fool. Forgive me, Ladies. Forgive useless Gart.”
He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let out a strange noise, a kind of sob.
Kate was squeezing Kyla’s hand so hard, but even so, Kyla still couldn’t feel it. She was dizzy. Her head spun, the images coming again and again and again. She could see it—but she didn’t want to see it. She closed her eyes, tears still coming. Her throat was hot; she could barely breathe. And the rage . . . the unquenchable rage.
Gart cleared his throat and looked up at them. “Lord Michael, he went mad, by the Sisters he did. Michael had brought the Vordan home to the Tarn five years ago. But the King and Master Falmon always kept it locked up. Michael would use it for sorties, for missions. But he would always bring it back down to Falmon when he’d return from the field and Falmon, he’d lock it back up. Michael was up here only a moment after the guards. He took one look, he saw his mom lying there, saw Lily on her lap, his dad holding her hand, blood everywhere—and he went mad, I tell you. He went to Falmon, took the Vordan and the key to the blade’s vault. Falmon didn’t dare oppose him. Not even Master Falmon. Who would dare, I ask you?
“Then Michael went to the stables, had Okros and the rest of the war bears clad in their best armor. He went into the pen with great Okros, talking to him, talking to him for a long time, for bells it seemed. The Vordan was in there with them, whispering its black whispers. And the more Michael talked to that great bear, the more enraged Okros became. It was black death in that pen, I tell you. Garen and Colj and Anna—they all went down, tried to talk to him, to get him to come back, to talk to the King. Michael wouldn’t speak to them. Told Garen to get out, to get out and tend the King’s wounds. Told Anna to prepare the Davanórians for action, same for Colj and his ogres. But Colj and Anna, they refused—on account of the High King’s command. The King had ordered them to stand down. They had words, horrible words.
“So, Michael went out with his bear riders alone, two full companies. All of them in disguise. No marks, no flags. Supposed to look like a rogue sortie by one of our allies. But how could it, with the Vordan screaming for blood? They left through the deep catacombs, undersea. Came up on the far side of Tarntown, on the other side of the mountains, came in from that way, killing everything in sight. And not just soldiers. They won’t say it, but it’s true. Nobody will say it. Anyone who stood in his way—man, woman, child, merchant, soldier, friend, or foe. Our people, theirs—didn’t matter.”
Gart looked from Kate to Kyla. “He killed our people out there, Ladies. Michael cared not. He was insane, I tell you. He killed his way through town, through to the Pretender King’s center. The Vordan was screaming. All of them were screaming—Okros, the war bears, the riders, Michael, everyone. Everyone here in the Tarn heard the sounds of battle, but they didn’t know what was happening, nothing had been planned, and they saw no flag or standard of the Tarn. The enemy was trying to sight their big iron on Michael from the ridges, turn the guns on the headlands around, but Michael and his men were moving too fast, the enemy blasting holes in their own lines, total chaos. Then Lord Doldon ordered our own guns to open up, ordered the greater cannon brought up. Says he didn’t know the King had forbidden it. Madness. Those men out there, on the headlands, the town, most of them were our men, Ladies. And Tarntown is our city. Those good people took terrible fire from the front and the rear. Michael and his riders were in their middle. Everyone here ran to the walls and the towers, some of ‘em cheering like cursed idiots. But even at that distance, over the guns, you could hear the Vordan’s shrieking. And I could hear another scream, I tell you. I could hear Michael screaming. Don’t know how. It was like his scream and the scream of the black blade, like they were one and the same.”
Kyla remembered this, even though she hadn’t known what it was about at the time, a week ago. “A skirmish” Garen had told her later. “Nothing of consequence.”
My family is killing itself. The thought came unbidden.
“When they came back through the catacombs, every one of them was drenched head to toe in blood. Everyone inside here was going crazy, screaming like demons from the walls and the towers, like they’d gone crazy with the dark blade’s blood lust themselves, the whole column dripped with gore. Okros’s coat was soaked through. And when he came back, Michael wouldn’t lock the Vordan away. He wouldn’t put it back in the vault. He kept the key himself. Master Falmon stopped asking him for it. Now Michael keeps the black blade with him always, always at his side.
“Next morning, Michael sent young Lord James through the High Gate. Gave him free reign to hunt the Queen’s killer, told him not to come back without the assassin alive, in chains. Falmon and Ness, they think they might know who the killer was, where he hid. But I tell you true: that thrice-cursed dog, whoever he is, he is nothing to our young High Lord. You should’ve seen James, Ladies. His eyes were razors, high silver vest worn under travelling clothes, ancient pistol of the deadliest make. Garen gave him one of our last Pendants, a pouch full of coin, and a bag of his dirtiest tricks. Even Falmon gave him one of his own blades. James took a knee in front of Michael. Swore he wouldn’t come back without the murdering dog. Swore he’d die trying.
“Then Michael called in Garen, Ness, Doldon, and Colj. We still don’t know how the assassins got in here, see? Those five had strong words, they did. Completely private and none of them would ever let on, but Michael all but accused ‘em of letting the killers in here. I was there, I heard it. Michael was in the wrong, but that didn’t stop him. I heard it all. ‘Where were your cursed men?’ Michael asks Doldon. He’s holding the Vordan, squeezing the cursed thing. ‘They were there,’ says Doldon. ‘Why weren’t they outside the door?’ Michael asks. ‘Father asked for privacy,’ Doldon says. Colj just listened. The Tarn’s defense and interior is Doldon’s sphere, see? Then Michael asks Ness and Garen to explain how the killers had gotten in; when they had no answer, he cursed them, too. They all took Michael’s rebuke, but you could tell it was hard. Now we’ve got Targeads on the watch, the best killers in the Realm. They won’t get in again so easy. Curse me and my stupid bones. Not that it matters now. She’s gone. The Queen is gone.”
From the bed, Grandpa whispered softly: “It’s true.”
Kyla and Kate leapt to their feet.
“She is gone.” Grandpa continued, “But we must not despair. She wouldn’t like it.” There was a lo
ng pause. Then his voice changed, became strange. “Is Tomas here with you? I thought he said he’d come . . . .”
Kyla and Kate looked at each other, confused, then they rushed to the bed, each to a side.
Grandpa was covered in blankets and furs. His eyes were closed.
And he looked entirely different, Kyla realized with rising horror.
She’d seen him about two weeks ago—but it was as if decades had passed. It was as if the High King of Remain, Bellános Dallanar, had been replaced by a dried-out husk, a withered doll made in his image. Grandpa’s thick, silver-grey hair and beard were now white and thin. His once proud cheeks were sunken and hollow. Both of his eyes were bruised purple and yellow. His lips were cracked and dry. When his mouth opened slightly, Kyla could see at least two broken teeth. A thick bandage swathed his head, making his neck and face seem smaller still. He took shallow breaths, as if anything more caused pain.
Kate took one of his hands. Kyla took the other. His hand was bony and dry. Scabs and scratches marked his knuckles, blue veins running between prominent tendons.
“Father.” Kate stroked his hand. “Dad?” His eyes were still closed. He didn’t stir.
It was as if his words had come from someone else.
“Grandpa?” Kyla raised his hand to her lips, kissed the back of it. Bruno was at her side of the bed, up on it, sniffing and whining, his black nose wet.
Grandpa’s eyes fluttered, his eyelids heavy and translucent.
Then his eyes opened, and he looked at Kyla.
His right eye wouldn’t fully open; it was deeply bloodshot, hardly any white remained.
Grandpa looked at her. Then he turned and looked at Kate for a long moment, then turned his head back toward Kyla. “Kyla?”
Kyla nodded; her lips pressed tightly together. She didn’t know what to say, so she kissed his hand again. His good eye searched her face, moving back and forth over her features. He didn’t look into her eyes. Kyla squeezed his hand, fighting the terrible sorrow—the terrible anger—that threatened to come once more.
“Father . . .,” Kate said again.
“Kate.” He sighed and closed his eyes.
He swallowed dryly.
Then he cleared his throat, opened his eyes, and looked from Kate to Kyla, back to Kate again. “Kate, you’re home. Home at last. Did you find it? Do we have it?”
Kyla’s eyebrows went up. She looked across the bed at Kate.
“It’s here.” Kate nodded and reached into her messenger bag.
From it she pulled forth a High Cup of high silver.
Kyla recognized it immediately.
It was the Cup that Kate had retrieved from Paráden. The same High Cup that Garen had had in his study, the same Cup that had prompted parley. The same Cup that Garen had supposedly presented to the Lord of the Siege, Vymon Ruge. The same High Cup that Michael had destroyed.
That Michael thought he had destroyed.
Kate had been gone over two years to retrieve the Cup—or, more accurately—to retrieve the memory that the Cup contained. That had been her mission: to retrieve this Cup, to protect this Cup.
To protect this Cup from Michael?
For here the Cup was, yet again.
Had Garen even offered the real Cup to Vymon Ruge? Or had the Silver Fox known all along that he’d be met with betrayal from his own son?
“It’s here, Dad,” Kate continued. She pressed the Cup into Grandpa’s bruised hands. “Michael drank from it. So did Doldon and Garen. So did Ness. So did I. It’s true, Father. It’s exactly as you said. He lives, Dad. His name is Christopher. He lives, Father. The last Dallanar in Alea’s line—.”
Kyla stared, her head spinning. “That’s what this is? Another heir to the Silver Throne?”
“A rightful heir.” Kate nodded. “A neutral heir, if the High Laws are to be observed.”
“Ah.” Grandpa sighed and closed his eyes. He held the Cup to his chest. “There’s hope.”
Gart stepped toward the bed, a clay mug held in his good hand.
Kyla looked at Kate, the import of what she heard dawning.
Grandpa’s mouth moved soundlessly, as if he’d fallen back into a silent dream.
Kyla said, “You know Michael won’t stand for it, Kate. ‘Rightful heir’ or not, ‘neutral heir’ or not, he’ll have his war. We can’t stop him.”
Kate frowned, but Kyla could tell that she knew it was true.
Kyla continued. “I don’t know if anyone can stop him. Nana is gone. We can’t keep that secret forever. And yesterday, we killed thousands with a weapon no one has seen in millennia.” She shook her head. “For Michael, there can be no peace. Maybe, if Nana was alive, we’d have a chance for diplomacy, some new treaty based on a just heir, a neutral outsider, fully supported by the High Laws. But now? How can we convince him? With everything that’s happened? Michael won’t have it.”
“I’ve restrained him thus far,” Grandpa murmured, out of nowhere, his eyes still shut. “Is that not so? Even though he has no talent for peace. Even though he forgets his role in the start of all this.”
Kyla didn’t know what Grandpa meant, but his tired voice closed her mouth. She nodded, almost to herself.
Kate turned to Grandpa and stroked his hand. Grandpa looked at Kyla, his eyes suddenly and absolutely clear. “Did it feel good to kill yesterday?”
The abrupt lucidity of his gaze, the strange angle of the question threw her off. “I—what?” Kyla asked.
“The killing.” His gaze was razor sharp. “During battle. Did it feel good, Kyla?”
She blinked.
He continued, like his old self, “Think back on the battle for a moment, Ky. The mighty battle, the roar of the guns, the smoke, the noise, the dragons. Think about the excitement you felt, the joy of combat, the thrill of watching things unfold from your vantage, the pleasure of firing from on high, watching your enemies crumple beneath your aim, the joy of killing. Remember that?”
Kyla’s face went warm. She nodded.
“Did it feel good?” Grandpa asked.
Kyla nodded again.
Grandpa reached his hand out for hers.
She took it.
He looked deep into her eyes. “Against that most ancient pleasure we fight.”
He looked at her for a long time, then squeezed her hand. “And it will take all your cunning, all your resourcefulness, all your power to hold it back. It’s a thing they never tell you when you’re young, even as nobility. Restraint. The highest virtue of royalty, the most difficult use of power. But you see it now, don’t you? You see it. You understand why we cannot continue this madness? Why it must be stopped? You see the real reason. Why we must try?”
“Yes,” Kyla whispered. “I see.”
Grandpa nodded; his eyes fluttered. “That’s why you’re the hope we seek, Ky.” He held the silver Cup over his heart. He closed his eyes. “That’s why it must be you. You will seek him out.”
Kate looked at her. Kyla lifted her chin, but she didn’t know what Grandpa meant.
“What do we do, Father?” Kate asked. “Dorómy went to great lengths to conceal this Cup. In the end, he tried to destroy it. He’s committed to hiding the memory it holds. He’s scared of it. He knows what this Cup means. What are your orders?”
Grandpa shook his head. “Dorómy’s not scared of this Cup, child. He’s not afraid of anything, living or dead. His children are gone; he thinks I killed them. The only thing Dorómy fears now is losing a chance for vengeance.”
Grandpa’s eyes were still closed. Then he opened them and looked at Kate, then turned to look at Kyla again. “Might I trouble you for more water, dearest?”
“Of course.” Kyla looked to Gart, who stood at the ready. He handed the clay mug to Kate, who set it to Grandpa’s lips.
Grandpa nodded and closed his eyes. “Hmm.” He was silent for a moment, breathing with difficulty. He opened his eyes, tried to scoot up toward the headboard, winced with the effort, waved them all
away when they tried to help, then settled back into his pillow.
“Can we make you more comfortable?” Kate asked. Ness had come forward also, standing at the foot of the bed. Bruno sat at Kyla’s side, his dark mastiff eyes bright with concern.
Grandpa shook his head and said nothing for a long moment.
Then he opened his eyes and frowned.
“What were we saying?” he asked. His eyes looked glassy. Kyla held his hand gently, gave it a squeeze. But when Grandpa looked to her, she saw no recognition in his face. None. She looked again at the mass of bandages around his head, a horrible thought coming once more to mind.
“We were talking about the Cup.” Kate leaned over and kissed his forehead. “The Cup?”
“Yes? Well . . . right. That’s fine,” Grandpa nodded absently. “Fine.” Then he shook his head. “I understand your brother’s reasoning . . . . I must confer with him. Where is Tomas? He said he would come. Or Michael? Where are they? They don’t come often. You must convince Tomas to come, Kate.” He cleared his throat and looked at the clay mug in Kate’s hands, as if not remembering how it got there. “A sip, please? Hmm. My thanks. Now—.” Then he blinked again, shook his head slightly, and looked around, confused. He smacked his lips aimlessly. But then his eyes came suddenly into focus. He cleared his throat and looked at Kate. “You drank from the Cup?”
“Yes,” Kate said, but she looked to Gart, then to Ness, then to Kyla, concern spreading across her face.
Cold dread threaded its fingers around Kyla’s heart.
Had his mind been damaged in the assassin’s attack?
She looked again at the wide swath of cloth wrapped around Grandpa’s head.
Had they injured his brain?
Grandpa was nodding. “Thank the Sisters. You drank . . . and what did you see?”
“I didn’t see things clearly, Father,” Kate said slowly, carefully. “I did see the young man: Christopher Dallanar. But I didn’t see what Michael or Doldon saw. Garen saw something else entirely. As did Ness.” She looked at the old librarian, who inclined his head. “We’ve all seen Christopher. He does live. Yet we’ve all seen him differently.”
