When they neared the gleaming city of Valis he could see it was swollen with people. The sun was high and so even from a distance, he could tell. They were filthy all of them, their stink riding on the winds like a swarm of gnats. He had always thought the place too pristine for his tastes, even more so than Lyle or Novak. But now the scales were tipped firmly in the other direction.
The group pushed their way through the crowd, over the eastern marble bridge, which allowed only four men abreast, and into the city proper. The walls were short, only some ten feet in height, on account of the water on all sides creating a strong barrier to entry from an invading army. It made entrance and exit from Valis, and the Iyril Palace at its center, difficult at best.
Martin didn’t know why they had come here, or what they were about. Hake would only say that they needed to take someone down, by any means necessary, and he’d have more information when he needed it. Ciaran and Roald pleaded ignorance, and the others would not talk to him, especially Gorett’s cousin. The giant only glared at him and issued guttural snarls as he pushed past.
They navigated the narrow sandstone streets, with two-story edifices, carved of pale granite, on all sides, and sweaty bodies packed in the middle. Martin saw many Acolytes amongst the crowd, their red paint making them stand out, as they too pushed their way down the streets.
When the group reached the Iyril Palace, its tall towers rising above a central courtyard of green grass and polished stone, Gorett’s cousin put out a hand, and they ducked into a nearby alley, behind a squat building of white, clay bricks. Ahead, two dozen of the Prince’s guardsmen stood arrayed before the spot in which the coronation would commence a half-day hence.
“We wait here,” the giant grumbled, and so they did.
Chapter Twenty-Five
WILLIAM
The Prince of Valis had not shown up for their meeting the day before. He had sent an aging emissary instead, begging forgiveness, and apologizing profusely. The act had angered Byron more than Will had ever seen, and his friend had started demanding of the man answers to questions about his brother and what had transpired before his death. The old man ended up wide-eyed and startled, before Will stepped in and told him to leave. The emissary did say, before going, that the Prince would see Byron a day hence, to preside over his coronation, as custom dictated. Byron had only sneered and said, “He’d better,” before the old man had fled the room.
Now, they all stood in the courtyard before the palace, arrayed on a circular dais, raised two steps, and made of wood painted white. It was large enough for twenty men, but only Byron stood in the center, resplendent in a robe of blue velvet, fringed in white fur, the silver hawk of House Lyle prominent on the back. He wore his gold circlet on his head, which would soon be replaced with the crown of the King of Hyrel. It had traveled with them from Lyle, and now sat in a small wooden box that a man of middling years dressed in orange and purple held, as he stood across from Byron.
The guardsmen of Valis were arrayed in a circle beyond the podium, also in orange and purple, adorned in steel plate and helms, large halberds in hand, holding back the crowds of people who now swarmed the central courtyard in front of the tall towers of the Iyril Palace. Will stood with Byron’s own men, off to the left, but though there were some fifty of them, and they were thankfully armed again, they were dwarfed by the masses.
There were noblemen and their bannermen standing inside the courtyard, House colors and crests of Warren, Hallis, Morrissey, Leveland, and Darre, and many others throughout Myren visible, though the blue gannet on green of House Galde was obviously absent. Notably, as usual, less eastern Houses were seen, especially those belonging to the Earls. The blue wren on black of House Novak was present, but Will had expected to at least see also the white vulture on yellow of House Arbelus. So be it, Will thought, and let them not seek to curry favor when, after this day, Byron is elevated to King.
Outside of the courtyard proper were throngs of men, women, and children, some clean and in neat dress, but most filthy, in torn and tattered roughspun, yelling, shouting, straining for a view. They stood in alleys, and on crates, crowded into arched windows, and perched on low rooftops. They shoved and pushed each other, only stopping when they reached the tips of the guardsmen’s halberds.
Will rested his hand on the pommel of the longsword sheathed at his side. The crowd made him nervous. There were thousands of them, and they were so close to Byron. It occurred to him that if they had a mind to, they could overtake the Prince’s guards, overtake the arrayed forces of the Houses, and put an end to all of them. Perhaps they should, wipe the slate clean, start the realm anew.
Horns sounded then, as a dozen men dressed in orange and purple, stepped out onto palace parapets on high, and blasted long, sharp notes. Then behind the dais the tall, wooden doors of the palace opened, and more of the Prince’s guards marched out, two at a time, their halberds held high.
Will looked to Byron and saw his friend’s head held high, the other man watching in anticipation at the procession that marched forward. The guards kept coming, joining the others around the dais. Byron caught Will looking at him out of the corner of his eyes and gave a slight smile. If ever there was a chance to bring peace and prosperity to the realm, it was in Byron. He must rise to the challenge of leadership, harden his heart some, not so much as Robert perhaps, but a bit more than in his youth. Then the things they could do…
There was a streak of black and then Byron’s smile started to melt. His face sagged, and his eyes rolled one way and then the other. He fell to the dais. At first Will was frozen in place, not knowing how to react. Then shouts, roars, drowned out every thought and he vaulted up to his friend’s side.
Byron lay on the white wood platform, his face ashen. The shaft of an arrow stuck out of his chest, dark fletching moving in the wind. He gasped deeply, and blood started gushing forth from the wound. He coughed up blood. Will moved his hands to the wound to stop the bleeding. “Help!” he yelled. “Help me!”
All around the courtyard people screamed and pushed. The Prince’s guard were doing their best to hold them back, but it was as massive waves crashing against a worn bluff. They would not hold, not for long. The noise of the crowd was beyond deafening. No one could even hear his shouts. Will traced a path up and to the right, opposite where Byron had been standing, from where he’d seen the arrow come. There he saw a two-story building of white clay bricks, and on the rooftop stood a dark, cloaked figure, holding a bow.
Will felt Byron’s chest heaving, and looked down to see his mouth was moving, and so Will leaned in close. “I tried…” Byron breathed, “Will, I wanted to help…” The words turned to silence, and then Byron’s eyes went dull and his breathing stopped.
Will gritted his teeth and screamed, a roar from somewhere deep and primal. Then with all of his strength he shouted, “House Lyle! To me! House Lyle, to me!”
Men in blue and silver, armed and armored, ascended the dais then, forming a circle around the Prince Regent. Will recognized Lars Valken amongst them, long, fair hair tied back behind his head, pale eyes glowering, shield and sword at the ready. Will ran to the man, grabbing him by the shoulders, and let loose his frantic thoughts.
“I am done with running,” he yelled. “I am done with talking. Rally the men and call the banners. Now we bring the fight to the true enemy.”
“Yes!” Lars roared. He banged his sword against his shield and hoisted both into the air, cackling wildly as he did. “Yes!”
“But first things first,” said Will, turning and pointing to the cloaked figure on the rooftop. “We get that assassin.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
MARTIN
The streets were chaos. All about violence had broken out, men and women shoving, guards threatening with their halberds, and soldiers in House colors brandishing spears, and swords, and shields. Martin also saw red-painted Acolytes of Marunda seemingly everywhere. They were well-armed now, hacking into the crowd with long
bronze swords, wide-eyed and roaring. The Durett men had all drawn their daggers and swords and stood in a half-circle with their backs to the wall of the two-story building of white, clay bricks that bordered the palace courtyard.
In their current formation Gorett’s cousin stood in front of him, the back of his neck exposed between his bald scalp and the collar of his tunic. It was loud and there were people coming in and out of every building, down the alley and up, jumping from windows and racing out of doors. Martin went to his waist and slipped his dagger out of its sheath, as he stared at the back of the giant’s neck. I’ll do it now. I will end him. No one will notice amidst this bustle, I’ll feign attack from some other source, and if they do suspect me, so be it, I must rid myself of this beast, rid myself of Hake’s controlling fingers in everything I do, once and for all. In this chaos I can escape, take a ship across the seas, go somewhere else, anywhere.
Martin tightened his grasp on the grip of his dagger, began raising it, poised to strike. But then he stopped. Moments passed, and he lowered the blade, and sheathed it again at his side. I’m done with it, done killing for Hake, killing because of Hake, done with all of it. I’ll go. Disappear, but I’m done.
Gorett’s cousin stepped forward and looked down the alley way. He motioned for the group to follow him between the two-story building and the other behind it, and so they moved deeper down the street, further away from the Iyril Palace.
There will be an opportunity in the confusion soon, no doubt. Then I’ll go. Screw the lot of them, screw everyone in the blasted city. Perhaps Roald and Ciaran will want to come as well, but the rest of them can go to hell.
A figure appeared from the doorway ahead, dressed in a dark cloak, with a bow in hand. The form turned toward them as they approached, the folds of the hood opening enough to reveal a woman’s face framed in short, brown hair. She was not young, but neither was she old.
Gorett’s cousin pointed toward her with two sausage-like fingers. “There. That’s her. Per Hake, we clean up the mess, leave no evidence, and then we’re gone.” The giant then stormed down the alley after the woman, who spun away from them, her cloak swirling in the air, as she took off in the opposite direction. The other Durett men followed in quick pursuit, boots clomping on sandstone bricks.
Martin moved to follow as well but stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Roald Casterlin glaring at him, his dagger in his fist, dark eyes peering from between his mop of yellow hair. Ciaran Smythe stood behind him, his sword drawn as well, tears rimming his eyes. Martin looked back to Roald in confusion and had just enough time to see the back of the other man’s hand come down across his face.
The ground came up hard to meet him as he fell to his back. Martin managed to regain enough of his wits to see Roald advancing on him, Ciaran close on his heels. This is all some tragic mistake, was all he could think, as he tried to get to his feet. But again, a fist met his jaw, and he fell back down.
“Wh-what is going on?” Martin said, his head starting to swim. He lifted himself with his palms and instinctively started to inch backward, away from the two men.
“Why didn’t you listen?” Ciaran said, his face pained. “Why?”
A kick to the stomach from Roald sent Martin doubled over in agony. He fell to his side coughing. “Gr-gregor H-h-h—”
Another kick. Martin wrapped his arms around his stomach protectively. Roald’s voice then. “Gregor Hake sends his regards.” Another punch to the face.
Martin’s vision started to go black around the edges. He could still see Roald over him, Ciaran behind him, but they now seemed so indistinct, so far away. “Gods…” he managed, “please…”
Roald knelt down, got close. Martin could feel his breath as he whispered, “What if there are no gods?”
Martin’s head fell back, and a sound issued from his throat. He vaguely discerned that Roald and Ciaran took a step back, then he started to laugh, to cackle, every heave of his body eliciting a poisoned sort of mirth and sharp pain, all at once. Roald Casterlin leaned back in then and put several inches of sharpened iron into the doomed man’s gut.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
JETHRA
Jethra shouldered through a door to a potter’s shop, feeling the joint dislocate in the process. She ran across the room, pushing past tables and shelves. Cups and bowls in all stages of creation fell and crashed to the ground as she moved through the place. First went the freshly dried, then the fired, and even the glazed in the end, scattering all, into dozens of pieces across the floor. The giant who was chasing her appeared in the far doorway before she got to the door at the opposite end of the shop. Spittle coated his lips and orange mustache. The men who were with him came behind, and then they were all running after her again. The attack looked targeted, no happenstance amidst the chaos. No, these men had been looking for her, had known where to find her. Damn, Marsen Crake. Damn the man.
She kicked the door open at the other end of the shop, having no time to fiddle with the lock, and ran back out into the street, now favoring her shoulder and limping as well. Making her way down the street as fast as she could manage, she moved generally southward, toward the edge of the city. If she could make it to the southern shore perhaps she could hide amongst the rocks, slipping into the water at night, and then out of the city.
But she realized it was of no use. She was moving too slowly, and now the pack was on her again, gaining. Jethra drew her bow and turned to face them. As they ran down the street toward her, she drew arrows from her quiver in quick succession, pulled back her bowstring, and fired. She took the giant in the leg, but he kept coming, so she put another in his side. There were another four men close behind him, and she managed to put an arrow in the head of one, and the upper thigh of another. That stopped those two, but it still left another pair nearly upon her, and the giant was moving again, albeit a bit more slowly this time.
They came at her, swords raised, and she had to duck two near simultaneous slashes. She managed to weave in between the pair, and stabbed one in the side, sending him to the ground, but the other swept in again with his sword, and though she jumped back, it sliced across her stomach. Jethra punched out with her offhand and took the man in the eye, snapping his head back, and sending him to his knees with a yelp. But then the giant was pushing in again between the two other men, and he grabbed her by the neck with the thick fingers of two hands. She managed to slash at his exposed stomach with her dagger, but he ignored the blow, as a bear might ignore a gnat, lifting her off the ground with his paws. Her dagger fell from limp fingers as she resorted to scratching at the iron grasp on her throat.
Things started to grow hazy, her mind growing numb, her eyes slowly closing, and then the explosions came. Loud, shaking the world around them. To east and west behind the beast, she could see massive fireballs of red and orange rise up into the air, high above the white buildings that made up the outskirts of the city. The clockwork devices she had set the night before had run their course, six glass orbs were now broken beneath each of the bridges leading into Valis, a hand of flint struck against iron, spark igniting power and oil. And, if her measurements were correct, they had sent the white stone of the bridges tumbling into the water below.
The commotion had been enough to make the giant man pause, and it gave Jethra the opportunity to pull another dagger from up a sleeve, and plant it fully into his stomach. The blade went in to the hilt, and he emitted a roar, then, without hesitation, Jethra pulled the dagger free and stabbed him again. Over and over she went, in and out of his body, blood coating her hands, the beast of a man releasing his grip on her neck, stumbling backward, and then falling to the ground with a crash of muscle and blood and bone, that kicked up a swell of dust and sand.
As Jethra began to limp again down the street, another rumble of bootsteps sounded from behind. Again, no mistake, no coincidence. They were heading toward her. There was nothing left in her now, so she fell to the street, collapsing as the so
ldiers in blue with silver falcons sewn upon their chests overtook her.
It’s done now, anyway. I’ve done what I was asked. If my love still lives, as our captors have promised, I’ve set her free. I go to join the little ones now, if such a place exists. I’ve never believed in such a thing, but whether it does or does not, I supposed I’ll soon find out.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
ALAINA
It was done. Alaina sat now on the bed in her red stone chamber at the Ridgefort, her hands bound, all pretense of kindness now fled. An hour before she had been dressed in a white gown with silver scrollwork about the bodice and down the arms, with a silver falcon sewn on the breast. She had had a string of white pearls placed around her neck and her auburn hair combed and braided. Then she had been brought to a sunlit room in the center of the keep and placed before the Lord Stans Wallace, the Duke of Casterlin, resplendent in a pale, yellow, velvet coat. The fringe of dark hair that remained around his bald head had been neatly oiled and set, and he had favored her with a grand smile. Blanche and Anne were there as well, and then the pair had been married, and there was nothing she could do about it. She had said the words, she didn’t know why, but she had said them. After all, she had accepted the betrothal from the start, what was she to do, as she was, surrounded by enemies? She didn’t know any longer. She couldn’t think.
So now she sat in her room, and behind her Erielle sat also bound, a leather strap about her wrists which was then tied to a bed post. The other woman had caused an uproar when the guards first came to get Alaina, yelling and clinging to her, and so they had bound Erielle’s hands and brought her to quiet with the tip of a dagger. They sat there now, both of them, in silence, saying not a word. They were both exhausted, defeated, of a like mind by all appearances, without a need for words to be exchanged between them.
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