by C. S. Pacat
‘I was wrong to doubt you,’ said Justice. ‘You’ve never faltered, even when the Stewards cast you out. I know that I’ve betrayed your trust.’ Justice’s brown eyes were serious. ‘But I’d be honoured to fight beside you, Steward and Lion.’
She swallowed the emotion in her throat. ‘Don’t Stewards fight with a shieldmate? What happens with Marcus gone?’
‘While Marcus is missing, I can’t form a new shield bond.’ The words were an admission. ‘I don’t have anyone to watch for me.’
She thought about what it meant to fight – as a Lion or a Steward, or any person trying to find a path through the dark. ‘Maybe we can watch for each other.’
‘A full-frontal attack.’
Leda spoke as captain to the small group of twelve that had returned to the great hall. Violet stood at the foot of the dais steps. The High Janissary and the Elder Steward stood beside her, and with them were Justice, Farah and a handful of Stewards and janissaries who manned the armouries and led the patrols. Will had returned quietly, slipping into place beside Violet.
Violet found herself looking up at the four empty thrones, an eerie symbol of what they were fighting against. The four kings had ruled over the ancient world before the Dark King had turned them into shadows. Now Simon threatened to make a shadow that could destroy the new world. If they couldn’t rescue Marcus …
‘The grounds of Simon’s estate at Ruthern will be dangerous,’ said Leda. ‘We’ve made assaults on Simon’s strongholds in the past. Justice lost eleven Stewards fighting to free Will from Simon’s ship. But it wasn’t the sailors and cutthroats who killed Stewards, it was—’ She broke off.
‘Simon’s Lion,’ Violet finished for her. Tom. Her mouth went dry. Tom would be there. Tom would fight – would kill Stewards like he had on the ship – or be killed. An almost overpowering desire to warn him seized her, and she had to force herself to speak. ‘I’ll distract him,’ she made herself say. ‘He won’t attack me.’
‘It’s true, we have a Lion of our own,’ said the High Janissary speculatively.
‘I’ll stop him from killing Stewards,’ said Violet. She didn’t know how; she only knew that she had to. She saw a few of the others exchange glances, nervous, sceptical.
Will knocked his knee against hers, an oddly reassuring gesture. Her eyes flew to his and he gave her a small nod. You can do it. The others didn’t seem to notice – neither his quiet reassurance nor her own spike of nerves. She drew in a breath and nodded back at him.
‘Simon’s deadliest fighter isn’t the Lion, it’s the Betrayer,’ said Leda. ‘James may be our prisoner, but that doesn’t mean this will be a fight without magic.’
She felt Will’s shoulders stiffen.
He still hadn’t learned to unlock his own magic, she knew. Even against James he had tried and failed to use it. He never talked about it, but she had seen him devote hours and hours to practice, poring over ancient books, searching for new methods, losing himself in chants and meditations, all to no avail.
We have a magic user of our own as well. She could almost hear the unspoken words. They hung in the silence, but no one said them aloud because they knew that Will had shown no sign of his power.
It was Will who confronted the topic head on.
‘I know I can’t use magic,’ said Will. ‘But I want to help you fight.’
Justice shook his head. ‘You’re too important to risk. If the plan goes wrong – we can’t lose you to Simon. Your role will come later. We need you safe in the Hall.’
Will flushed but said nothing.
‘What can we expect at Ruthern?’ said Jannick.
Violet looked back at Leda, who addressed them all in her captain’s cloak. The Stewards were strong, an unnatural strength granted to them by the Cup, but they had no easy way to fight against magic.
‘First, the branded men,’ said Leda. ‘We do not yet know the extent of the power the brand grants them. There are rumours that a branded man can become Simon’s eyes, that Simon can feel what they feel, see what they see.’
‘—but Tom has a brand,’ said Violet, and then wanted to bite out her own tongue as the Stewards all turned to look at her. Did Simon look out of Tom’s eyes, inhabit his body? She instinctively clasped her own wrist, remembering her own desire for a brand, not that long ago. The thought that Tom had given his body over to be inhabited by Simon made her skin crawl.
‘It’s said to be how the Dark King commanded the battlefield,’ said Leda. ‘His minions bore his brand and that gave him mastery.’
It was somehow even more frightening than turning people into shadows, the idea that once they were branded, his armies belonged to him fully, that he could inhabit their bodies, individually or many at once. She imagined looking into the eyes of hundreds of soldiers, and they were all the Dark King—
‘Second are the Remnants,’ said Leda. ‘The men with pale faces that we drove back on the marsh. Each wears a piece of armour once worn by a member of the Dark King’s inner guard. Or – should I say that the armour wears them. We believe it changes them. Their fighting style … it is eerily similar to ours, as if the armour knows the ancient skill of its old wearer. We have never faced them in open battle, but on the marsh it took twelve ward stones to drive them back.’
The three blank-eyed men in strange pieces of black armour galloping across the marsh, their hounds streaming out ahead of them. Violet’s stomach churned at the idea of fighting not the men but the ancient armour itself, still animated on its quest to protect the Dark King.
‘They can be fought, but not easily,’ said Justice. ‘It takes spears, or long-range weapons. You cannot get close. A single touch is deadly. That may be how Simon knew where to dig for the buried armour: anything it touches withers, never to regrow. Above the ground where it was buried no tree took root nor bird would fly.’ His eyes were serious as he spoke the warning: ‘As you approach the estate and its parklands, beware the dead grass.’
Beware the dead grass. Violet shivered and kept that in mind.
And then there was a silence. Violet looked around at the gathered Stewards, all of whom had gone quiet, almost as if there was something they did not want to face.
‘And the last—’ Leda broke off.
‘The last?’ said Violet.
Leda didn’t answer, as if she found the subject too disturbing. Violet saw Jannick and Justice exchange looks. The silence stretched out. In the end, it was the Elder Steward who spoke.
‘The last is Simon himself,’ said the Elder Steward.
‘Simon!’ said Will.
Violet knew Simon as a distant figure, the man her family had worked for over many years. There had always been rumours about him, communicated in hints and sidelong looks. That his rivals met misfortune, that it was dangerous to take him on. When she’d imagined fighting him, she’d imagined fighting the forces of his trade empire, not the man himself.
‘Do not forget who he is. Simon is the Dark King’s descendant, the heir to his throne,’ said the Elder Steward. ‘Simon may have no magic of his own, but his blood allows him to use the Dark King’s objects and weapons, just as we use objects of the Light.’
‘His weapons?’ said Violet.
‘The sword you saw on the ship,’ said the Elder Steward. ‘Ekthalion, the Black Flame.’
The moment she said it, it felt inevitable. That sickening, terrible black fire from the ship, sailors on their knees vomiting up black blood. But—
‘How can he use it? He’d die. Everyone would die.’ Violet could almost taste the river water in her throat. She had never wanted to see that thing again.
‘There are a lot of legends about the sword,’ said the Elder Steward. ‘It is called the Corrupted Blade, but it was once the Sword of the Champion, forged to kill the Dark King. The Sword of the Champion bestows the power of the Champion … Those words are cast into its length. But it was utterly defiled, corrupted by a single drop of the Dark King’s blood. Now it shares the destructive instincts
of its master.’
Violet remembered the way it had torn through the hull of the ship and the feeling she had had that it was trying to get out. The men closest to it had seemed to rot from the inside out.
‘Its sheath was forged to hold its power back,’ said the Elder Steward. ‘But when it is drawn … That single drop of the Dark King’s blood is more destructive than anything in our world. And you’re right. Once it is fully unleashed, everyone and everything around it dies … except Simon himself, who cannot be harmed by the Dark King’s blood, because that selfsame blood runs in his veins.’
The Sword of the Champion bestows the power of the Champion. Those words stuck in Violet’s mind.
‘If it was once the Sword of the Champion—’ said Violet.
‘No. Do not attempt to take up the Blade yourself. Many have tried, chasing the old tale, believing they could cleanse the Blade and restore the sword to its glory. All are dead. If Simon has Ekthalion, our only chance is to prevent him from pulling it from its sheath.’
‘He won’t risk drawing the Blade if there’s a chance it will kill Marcus,’ said Will.
Violet blinked, startled by the insight. Will had been quiet throughout the discussion. It was very like him, she realised. Every now and again, he came out with that kind of unexpected observation, as though his mind worked differently from other people’s, leaping several steps ahead.
‘We can use that against him during the fight,’ said Will.
‘He’s right,’ said Leda slowly, as if this sort of artful tactic would not have occurred to her straightforward Steward mind.
‘How many Stewards will we need for the attack?’ asked Jannick.
‘All of them,’ said Leda. ‘From the newest to the oldest, every Steward must fight.’
‘As well as those of us who aren’t yet Stewards,’ said Cyprian, entering the great hall. He came down the centre aisle through the forest of columns. ‘I’m coming too.’
‘This battle is no place for a novitiate,’ Jannick said.
‘I might not have drunk from the Cup,’ said Cyprian, lifting his chin, ‘but I know how to fight. I’m more than just a novitiate. I’m the best trainee in the Hall. Better than some full Stewards.’ That was true, no matter how much Violet had always wanted it to be misplaced arrogance. She could almost feel the hot jealousy that flooded her any time she’d watched him fight: that perfect technique, that effortless mastery of form, even if he didn’t have a Steward’s strength. ‘If we lose this battle, we lose everything. Everyone who can should fight.’
Jannick’s eyes were on Cyprian’s as he gave a slow nod. ‘Very well. We will call up the novitiates. Leda, I leave that task to you.’
If he’s willing to take novitiates, he’s desperate. Cyprian might be the greatest fighter in a generation, but Emery or Beatrix would be slaughtered by someone like Tom. Her stomach turned over at the thought. If Tom’s there, I’ll find him. I’ll find him and stop him.
‘Marcus is our priority,’ said Leda. ‘If we can’t reach him, we’ve failed. We will engage while a smaller group penetrates the estate and aims for Marcus. If we do get to him—’
‘I know what to do,’ said Justice steadily. ‘I made him a promise, and I intend to keep it.’
‘You mean kill him,’ said Cyprian.
‘If I can,’ said Justice. ‘Even if he hasn’t turned, the shadow in him will fight.’
Cold fingers of horror splayed across Violet’s spine. She didn’t know how it would play out. But she had a sudden terrible glimpse of a creature, half shadow, fighting, grasping and clawing, wearing Marcus’s face—
Cyprian had gone white. ‘I understand. If it comes to … I won’t get in your way.’
‘If he’s turning, how will we—’ Violet swallowed. ‘What are the signs?’
There was another silence, this one almost painful. She had stumbled across one of those Steward taboos. Jannick forced the words out, though they were bitten off, unwilling.
‘A tremor in the hand. Heightened emotion in the voice. Loss of control. In the later stages, you can glimpse the shadow. Behind the eyes. Under the skin. The Steward starts to become insubstantial.’
A line of unwavering Steward swords, all in a row. Voices chanting in perfect harmony. Forms practised over and over. Every Steward exercise was like a test, taken day in, day out, to prove they were still themselves.
And if they failed—
‘Marcus was never afraid to die,’ said Justice, as if reading her thoughts. ‘It’s the half life he feared. It’s the same for all of us. I’m not afraid to die fighting. I made that choice when I drank from the Cup. I’ve already given my life to the fight.’
Jannick nodded for them to begin their preparations, and several of the Stewards stood up from the table.
‘The light will shine for you in the Hall,’ said the Elder Steward. ‘The janissaries will tend to the fire, the Final Flame that has never gone out. For there will always be a light in the darkness, while a Steward lives to defend it.’
Will stopped her in the hallway, a hand on her wrist, tugging her aside.
‘What is it?’ she said as he guided her to a quiet alcove where Cyprian was waiting. Will’s voice was hushed as he spoke to both of them under the curved grey stone.
‘This is a suicide mission. They’re preparing to go in there and die. And they don’t even know if they can get to Marcus.’
Cyprian immediately stiffened. ‘They don’t have another choice.’
‘What if they did?’ said Will.
The shadowy light in the alcove emphasised a quality he had of nighttime beauty, his pale skin and dark hair made for the evening. Will hadn’t spoken while the others had clashed heatedly in the Hall. Now he was talking in a quiet voice, in a space hidden from the Stewards.
‘What do you mean?’ She felt her heartbeat speed up.
‘What if there was another way to get inside Simon’s estate?’ said Will. ‘Not an attack, with Stewards trying to fight against magic. The three of us slip in secretly. I could manoeuvre us past any guards. Violet could break any locks or chains. And Cyprian – Marcus is your brother. If he’s still himself, he’ll trust you enough to come with us.’
Violet felt the possibility stir in her, a way to avoid the bloodshed, the carnage of a full-frontal attack.
‘And if he’s turning?’ Cyprian didn’t flinch as he said it, his handsome face steady. ‘You heard them. If he’s turning, I’m not strong enough to fight him.’
‘You and Violet are, together,’ said Will. ‘And you can help him hold on. He’ll fight the shadow inside him harder for you. You’re his brother.’
Violet was shaking her head. ‘There’s no secret way in. James said that getting to Marcus would take a full-frontal assault. He can’t lie under compulsion. Can he?’
‘He can’t lie,’ said Will. ‘But he doesn’t know everything.’
His face in the dim light was full of delicate planes, all cheekbones and dark eyes. He was still too thin, though he no longer looked underfed, and he was animated by the bright spark of a new idea.
‘I know someone who can get us inside,’ said Will.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
KATHERINE STEPPED OUT into the garden at dusk. She had told Mrs Dupont that she enjoyed the brisk air, and she told herself that as well. It was proper, she thought, for a young lady to take a constitutional. There was nothing remarkable about it. She drew her shawl around her shoulders against the chill. And so she had found herself out here each night, waiting until the light faded.
The garden was comprised of three paths, which only a few weeks before had been quite yellow with fallen elm leaves. The bordering flowers in early winter were quiet shrubs of dark green. Ivy covered the cast-iron fencing, and garden benches nestled under trees that had a bare, wintry look to them, one or two sharp frosts having stripped them of the last of their leaves.
She took the eastern path, feeling the cold air chill her cheeks, and she stay
ed outside until night fell, until it was dark and she had to go back. She told herself that she didn’t feel foolish, because she had no expectations.
And then she saw the jacket, folded and resting under one of the bare trees, and felt her heart begin racing.
He was here.
She could feel it, like a change in the air. It had been three days since he had dressed in the stables, then disappeared out into the night. Three long days, marked by her aunt’s sharp comments. Katherine! Stop mooning about at that window and return to your needlework!
It was a thrill that turned her days and nights of waiting into a single, pleasurable build to this moment.
‘You came,’ she said to the garden.
‘I made a promise.’ His voice was closer than she had expected – the warm tone of it – behind her—
‘It’s dangerous,’ she said. ‘The servants—’
‘I’m not afraid of them,’ Will said, and she turned to look at him.
He was standing under the night-green branches of a tree. His dark hair was a tumble over his forehead. His eyes, always intense, were fixed on her, as hers were on him.
‘You should be.’ The shock of seeing him again felt physical and came with a cascade of remembered moments: her fingers on his bare skin as she tied his neckcloth. The moment when she’d seen him in her fiancé’s clothes. ‘Mrs Dupont likes to come out and check on me.’
‘I know the risks,’ said Will.
He wasn’t wearing Lord Crenshaw’s clothes now. He was dressed in strangely old-fashioned garments, a thigh-length tunic with a star emblem that nevertheless seemed to suit him, as though he’d just stepped out of an ancient court.
‘I came to ask for your help.’
His voice was serious. He sounded like he was in need, even in danger, like he wouldn’t have come to her if he had any other choice.
‘My help?’
She thought he looked like Lancelot in those clothes. She liked the idea of herself as Guinevere, the two of them acting out the myth, meeting in a garden where no one else could see or hear. She even liked the idea that he needed her help for some urgent business.
