Allies & Assassins

by Justin Somper

  “No,” Hal said.

  “Well then,” Axel said. Reaching forward, he took the sword in his hand, slicing through the air at an invisible adversary.

  Hal waited for Axel to still the sword, then continued. “I’m confused,” he said.

  “Confused?” Axel raised his left eyebrow.

  “Was Anders’s death part of the plan?”

  Axel thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, of course, Anders’s death was always part of the plan. First Anders, then Jared. You know how it goes. We prune the unwanted branches of the Wynyard tree. Nothing like a good bit of pollarding.” He paused. “You’re looking more confused than ever, Hal.”

  “I am,” Hal confessed. “We had a plan. And now I’m not sure exactly what you’re telling me.”

  Axel smiled again. “Ask me another question. Be specific!”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No,” Axel said.

  “Did you instruct someone to kill him?”

  A pause. Another smile. Then, “No, I didn’t. Well, of course, I did. I instructed you. But, as must now be as clear to you as it is to me, someone beat us to it.”

  “I see,” Hal said.

  “It’s quite amusing, don’t you think?” Axel said. “And undoubtedly useful.”

  Hal’s head was spinning. “Do you know who killed him?”

  Axel shook his head. “Not yet. But, as I assured Prince Jared earlier, I have all my best investigators working on the case. It shouldn’t be long before we weed out the culprit. And then…” He lifted the sword once more but did not complete the sentence.

  “And then what?” Hal asked. “Do we resume Plan A at that point?”

  “Plan A?” Now it was Axel who seemed puzzled.

  “I mean,” Hal said—before Axel could instruct him once more to be specific—“do you want me to proceed with the murder of Prince Jared?”

  Axel looked utterly horrified at the thought. “No!” he said. “Murder Prince Jared? What a monstrous thing to say!” He couldn’t hold back the smile pushing at the corners of his mouth. “No, we mustn’t let anything happen to Cousin Jared. At least not until he has made me his Edling. And until we’ve discovered who else is in this game.”

  “And then?” Hal persisted.

  Axel dropped the sword to his side. He stepped closer to Hal and rested his hand on the bodyguard’s shoulder. “One step at a time, eh? A happy coincidence has saved us from having sully our hands. Now we need to see how this situation plays out.”

  Hal shook his head. “This is all a game to you, isn’t it?”

  Axel’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no,” he said, darkly. “This isn’t a game. It’s the most important thing in the world.”

  After another long pause, during which Axel seemed lost in thought, Hal cleared his throat. “What should I do now?” Hal asked him.

  “You’re the Prince’s Bodyguard,” Axel said, coming to and squeezing Hal’s shoulder amiably. “Do your duty. Guard and protect him. Don’t let him out of your sight for so much as a second. If the Prince goes for a piss, I want you there, watching his back. Nothing must happen to Jared, you hear me? Not so much as a scratch across that milky white face of his. Certainly not until he has named me as his Edling. You understand, Hal?”

  “Yes, Axel,” Hal said, nodding. “I understand.”

  “That’s good,” Axel said, withdrawing his hand from Hal’s shoulder. “I’m glad I was able to clear up your confusion. Now you’d better be going. Who knows what dangers could befall the Prince of Archenfield while you and I stand here, gossiping like scullery maids. We have an assassin to catch.”

  SIX

  The Queen’s Quarters, the Palace

  A MUSCLED, SCAR-FACED MEMBER OF THE HOUSEhold guard was stationed at the door to his mother’s chamber, sword at the ready. Jared got the message, loud and clear: the Captain of the Guard was doing everything in his power to demonstrate he had palace security under control and there was no further risk of attack. But Jared also knew that Axel could position a guard at the door of each and every royal chamber if he chose to—assuming he had enough foot soldiers to deploy in this way—but that such a show of force didn’t for one second take away from the fact that someone had infiltrated the fortress and gotten close enough to Prince Anders to assassinate him. And that someone might still be within the inner sanctum, getting ready for the next attack. Although, as Jared thought about it, it seemed far more likely that just as the assassin had effortlessly penetrated the innermost reaches of Archenfield, so too had he or she now slipped away. Prince Anders was dead. Mission accomplished. Game over.

  These dark thoughts running through Jared’s head prompted him to gruffly bark at the guard. “Let me through!”

  The hulking guard stepped briskly aside and, bowing low, began offering up words of consolation. He found himself voicing them to Logan Wilde, however, as Jared had pushed past into the chamber, where he was confronted by a vivid tableau of grief.

  His brother’s young widow, Silva, sat at the foot of his mother’s four-poster bed, trembling. Elin, Jared’s mother, sat on Silva’s left side, while on her right was perched Jared’s fourteen-year-old brother, Edvin. Jared had no reason to doubt that his mother and brother had been doing their utmost to comfort Silva. It was equally clear that they were failing in this mission.

  He could see the obvious relief in his mother’s and brother’s faces that he had come to find them. Perhaps they thought he might rescue them from the impossible task of comforting Silva. He noticed that Silva had not raised her eyes to see who had come in: her gaze remained fixed on the intricately woven carpet on which her stockinged feet rested. It occurred to Jared that he had not seen his sister-in-law’s feet bared like this before. Usually she was clad in the most elaborate shoes in court, but he saw that these had been removed, or discarded. Feeling somewhat uneasy, as if he shouldn’t be witness to such a sight, his eyes lingered on her feet. They seemed tiny—like those of a child or of one of the dolls that Cousin Koel used to devotedly carry around with her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jared said, cautiously moving a step further into the room.

  Now, at last, Silva glanced up. Her face had always been pale, but that morning it was as white as the bark of birch trees and rain-slick with tears. Seeing Jared, she shuddered. What state must she be in that just the sight of her dead husband’s younger brother made her start? But, to Jared’s surprise, Silva’s initial shock rapidly faded and a smile broke across her sharp cheekbones. Slipping her hands free from Elin’s and Edvin’s grasp, she rose to her feet. Something in the way she did so reminded Jared of one of Nova Chastain’s birds about to take off into flight. There was, undeniably, something avian about Silva, though she was surely more akin to a dove or a nightingale than the more predatory falcon.

  Before he knew what was happening, she had thrown herself at him and wrapped him within her arms. Trapped there, Jared retained the image of Silva as a bird, imagining himself caught within the span of her delicate yet powerful wings. Silva clung to him as though he were the only piece of rock preventing her from falling from a very great height, her slender fingers digging into the flesh of his biceps. It was painful but he did not try to wrest himself free. Instead, he glanced down at her face, finding it now strangely serene.

  “You came back!” he heard her say, with wonder. “You came back for us!”

  Jared smiled tenderly at Silva, mainly because he was unsure what else to do. But then he heard his mother’s strident voice, growing in volume, and spiraling through the room like smoke.

  “She thinks he is Anders! See how her grief tips into madness?”

  Silva had buried her face in his chest and Jared was able to look over the honey-gold crown of her head into his mother’s and brother’s troubled expressions.

  “Jared looks nothing like Anders.” Elin continued, “He never has. Jared takes after my family, the Blaxland line. Why, you might take him and Axel for brothers.” Now, she turned to E
dvin. “Not you though. You have the Wynyard coloring and build. You, your father and Anders—all hewn from the same ancient rock. Not Jared though. Why would she mistake Jared for Anders and not you?”

  “I don’t know!” Edvin shook his head, frowning at his mother. “What does it matter anyway? She’s clearly deeply distressed. It’s natural enough. I just wish there was more we could do to help.”

  What you can do is help pry this poor girl off me, Jared thought but did not say. Silva’s fingers were still pinching his flesh, but it wasn’t that so much as the weight of her that disconcerted him. Not her physical weight, of course, but the weight of her need, which seemed just as tangible. Surely she didn’t genuinely believe him to be Anders, come back from the dead?

  Her face burrowed farther into his chest, as though she were journeying ever more deeply into the delusion.

  “Come now.” It was Logan’s soft voice that Jared heard next. The Poet had come to Silva’s side and was reaching out his elegant, almost feminine hands to her shoulders. “Come, Silva. This is not Prince Anders, it’s his brother Prince Jared.”

  The Poet’s words were as gentle as his touch but now Silva shuddered once more and withdrew her grip, staggering backward in horror and the renewal of her grief. It seemed for a moment as if she might fall. Edvin surged forward, ready to catch his fragile sister-in-law.

  “You’re Jared,” Silva said, observing him anew. Her voice was discordant, like that of an infant still unfamiliar with the proper cadence of language. “You’re not Anders.”

  Jared knew that many others would repeat those three words in the days and weeks to come: even if they did not speak them, they would certainly think them. He might be the Prince—he might wear the crown of Archenfield—but he was not his brother. Already he knew that every time he heard or observed the sentiment, he would be brought back to this chamber and to the disappointment in Silva Lindeberg Wynyard’s painfully beautiful eyes. He realized that he had already failed on some level—simply by not being his brother.

  As Edvin and Logan settled Silva back onto the bed, Jared found that he was now trembling. He was unsure if it was his own grief for his brother, beginning to express itself physically, or if Silva had left the imprint of her feelings upon him.

  He was relieved to find his mother approaching. She reached out her arms, her dark sleeves enfolding him like night, and he stepped gratefully into the circle she made. But, even as she embraced him, it was clear that she was biting back her own grief and expected him to do the same. There was nothing soft or nurturing in his mother’s embrace. Nor had there ever been. He and Edvin had joked on more than one occasion that they might as well hug one of the trees in the forest for all the human comfort they could derive from their mother.

  Now Elin drew back and, placing her hands on his shoulders, signaled her retreat from personal matters, in favor of those pertaining to the Princedom.

  “There is much to be done,” she said, her voice familiar in its steeliness. “We must all be strong.”

  Jared found himself nodding and matching the strength of his mother’s tone. “Yes, I agree. We must do everything we can to understand what happened to Anders—and how such a thing could happen, deep within the heart of Archenfield. We must act swiftly to eliminate any further danger to the court.”

  His mother nodded encouragingly. “There is to be a meeting of the Twelve upon the hour. We must both be there. Edvin, too.”

  “That’s not strictly necessary,” Logan said. Evidently he had consigned Silva to Edvin’s care and had now joined the others in the center of the chamber.

  Jared turned to the Poet. “What do you mean? Not strictly necessary?”

  Logan’s tone was reassuring. “One of the purposes of The Twelve is to take care of the running of the Princedom at a time like this,” he said. “There are protocols, even for such horrific and unprecedented circumstances as these.” His head turned to include Edvin in his next comment but Logan’s bright eyes soon returned to Elin and Jared. “You are a family and you have suffered a terrible loss. You should take whatever time you need to help begin to close the wound.” His voice dropped to little more than a whisper—still it retained its force. “Silva’s grief is rather more evident but I know you must all be feeling the same sense of loss at Prince Anders’s passing. The Princedom will wait while you mourn.”

  Jared was persuaded by the Poet’s words but it seemed his mother was not. “The Princedom will not wait,” she said. “When you are in our position, it’s the mourning that must wait.” Jared realized uncomfortably that her words were primarily directed at him, not Logan. “Archenfield and its citizens have expectations that must be met. It’s the price we pay for the privilege of power.” She glanced back to Logan. “Be assured we will be at the meeting.”

  Jared found himself drawing strength from his mother’s iron resolve. She was wise, he realized, in ways he himself had yet to learn.

  The four chimes of the Woodsman’s Bell struck.

  “Time has moved on more swiftly than we anticipated. The meeting is about to commence and we must be there.” Elin turned to Jared. “You should change out of your hunting clothes but be quick.”

  Jared glanced down at the commingled traces of stag’s blood and vomit on his boots. He suspected that was what his mother was referring to, though she hadn’t said so in so many words.

  “Come, let’s find you some robes of state. You are Prince of Archenfield now. Anders lives on in you.”

  “No,” said a small but nonetheless potent voice behind them.

  They turned to find that Silva had risen to her feet once more and now stood facing them, her eyes suddenly bright.

  “What’s that you say, child?” Elin inquired of her.

  Silva’s eyes had a new determination about them. “Anders lives on in me.”

  “What exactly do you mean?”

  Silva smiled sweetly but she did not answer with words. Instead, she simply raised a delicate hand and placed it upon her belly.

  SEVEN

  The Council Chamber, the Palace

  LOGAN WILDE HAD POSITIONED HIMSELF SEVERAL paces ahead of the royal party as they entered the council chamber. Jared followed him in—flanked on one side by Edvin and, on the other, by their mother. The others were already there—the eleven remaining members of the Council of The Twelve were gathered around the imposing table of state.

  The meeting, Jared observed, already appeared to be well under way. This fact had not escaped Logan Wilde’s notice either. As voices swiftly hushed and all eyes turned toward the new arrivals, Logan addressed Axel Blaxland, who was standing in prime position at the head of the table.

  “So you’ve chosen, once again, to break with protocol?” Logan remarked. “Starting a meeting of the Twelve without the Prince and his Edling.”

  Axel’s thick hands tightly gripped the top rail of the chair in front of him. “I wonder, Logan, is that what’s really bothering you? Or are you in a lather because we started without you?”

  “I am responsible for handling crises,” Logan said now, steel in his voice and fire in his eyes.

  “We are all responsible for handling crises,” Axel countered. “As the Poet, your specific role is to find the right words to convey what we decide here to the people and the world outside.”

  Jared knew that it was neither the beginning nor the end of this particular argument, though he hadn’t noticed such obvious friction between Logan and Axel before. He wondered—had it always been the case, but he had never troubled to notice? Now that the Twelve reported to him, he would need to pay much better attention.

  Once again, he was grateful to hear his mother take command of the situation, addressing her nephew Axel with vinegarish acerbity.

  “It’s a matter of debate whether you should have begun this meeting without the Poet.” She stepped forward to the foot of the table so that she was standing at one end and Axel at the other, all eyes were on her. “But it’s a matter of de
corum that you should have waited for the new Prince to take his chair.”

  At these words, there were nods and sighs along both sides of the table.

  “She’s right, of course,” Jared heard the Priest Father Simeon say.

  “We were just doing what we are required to do,” protested Emelie Sands, the Beekeeper. “Addressing the situation.”

  The Beekeeper was the youngest of the Twelve. Jared knew that she often kept her counsel but, when she did proffer an opinion, it frequently arrived with a sting.

  “By situation,” Elin snapped back, “you mean the assassination of my son, your Prince?” As Emelie’s face flushed red, Elin turned to address the table as a whole. “Yes, well, if you had all been managing things as you should have in the first place, we wouldn’t be faced with this ‘situation’ now.” Her furious eyes settled upon Axel. “I’d have thought you’d have been only too grateful for my help.”

  Axel nodded, smiling—with little trace of warmth—at his imperious aunt. “We are always grateful for your help, Queen Elin. You have so much… experience to bring to the table.” As Elin’s eyes narrowed at the ill-disguised insult, Axel forged ahead. “And now perhaps you and Cousin Edvin would like to take your seats?” He gestured toward the dais where his own father, mother and sister were already in position.

  “Certainly,” Elin said, adding before she moved, “and perhaps you would like to claim your own seat so Prince Jared can take the Prince’s chair?” As her own barb found its mark, Elin took Edvin’s hand and they approached the dais.

  Attention in the room was now divided between Axel and Jared. Jared found himself hesitating at the foot of the table. More than any other object within the palace, the table of state symbolized the Princedom and how it was run. The vast table had been hewn, centuries ago, from the sturdiest of Archenfield oaks and its age and solidity testified to the strength of Archenfield’s government throughout the long and often turbulent history of the nation.