‘Because, Captain Wentzl, I believe this man wore the king’s cloak when he rode out of the Stoneheart bailey.’
‘As you can see, your highness, this is not who you seek,’ he said, ignoring the point Cyricus was making.
‘Tyle?’
‘Yes,’ he answered unhappily.
‘Have your men draw arms.’
‘Your high—’
‘Do it, Tyle, or I’ll have your neck swinging from the palace gallows faster than you can stammer out an apology.’
The Ciprean guard murmured as one, many reaching for weapons, but Wentzl put a hand up. ‘Cipreans, stay your hands. Remember, we are guests in Morgravia and our king is here. Ranker?’
‘Sir?’ the man stood to attention.
‘As her highness demands, man,’ Wentzl said, not taking his gaze from Darcelle. It glittered defiantly and Cyricus couldn’t fail to be impressed by the man.
Ranker stepped forward, knelt, and bowed his head before Darcelle.
‘Cyricus, my lord,’ Aphra finally murmured, ‘this would not be a wise move.’
‘Do not presume to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, Aphra!’ he growled, knowing almost one hundred men were watching Darcelle, holding a collective breath.
‘It’s just, if you —’
‘Quiet!’ he roared privately at his acolyte. He regarded the lieutenant. ‘Tyle,’ he said aloud in Darcelle’s voice, ‘draw your weapon.’
The Morgravian’s expression told Cyricus that he knew it was hopeless to object any longer or further. Tyle drew his weapon and the ring of the metal resonated around the camp, which was quiet enough that Cyricus could hear a lone bird chirruping nearby. A moment later, though, that sound was drowned by the jarring ring of thirty-five other swords being drawn. The Morgravian men stood ready and armed. But on Wentzl’s order not a single Ciprean drew his weapon.
‘Did the king ask you to deliberately trick me?’ Cyricus asked.
Wentzl shook his head. ‘I don’t know what this man is doing with the king’s cloak, to be honest, your highness.’ Cyricus — and probably every other Ciprean, he assumed — knew that Wentzl was lying.
‘Let’s ask him, shall we?’ Darcelle offered, her words polite, but her tone as acid as lemon juice on a wound. ‘Ranker, explain to us why you are wearing the cloak of King Tamas? Please don’t deny its ownership. I know it is his, because he wore it only this morning when I was with him. It is far too distinctive to be any other cloak than his.’
Ranker did not change his position or raise his head. ‘I do not deny it, your highness. King Tamas asked me to carry it for him as he no longer required it.’
‘Really?’
The man said nothing.
‘Why would he do that, Ranker?’
‘Your highness, I am a simple soldier. When the king of my country bids me carry something, I do it without question.’
‘You did not think it curious?’ Cyricus pressed, his fury at being tricked intensifying. He needed to take his rage out on someone.
‘I do not think much at all, your highness,’ he said, and even though it was a humble response, Cyricus felt it like a slap of sarcasm.
‘I know you are lying, Ranker. I suspect your captain is lying too. But here, let me give you something that you, he and your whole company can think about …’ Without pausing for breath, Cyricus reached out Darcelle’s arm and snatched the sword that Lieutenant Tyle held unhappily at his side. With the inordinate strength that Cyricus piled behind the action, the sword was raised in the hands of the princess and with a hammering, double-handed blow it was brought down on Ranker’s unprotected, bowed head.
It split like a soft, vasha melon but first made the noise of a nut cracking. A sound like the distant roar of a wave moved through the Ciprean Guard but Wentzl had raised his hand again and they obediently followed his silent order to do nothing.
Ranker had looked up, wearing an expression of total confusion, before his body slowly toppled, crumpling to Darcelle’s left as blood spumed from the mighty blow. His body writhed while his heart caught up with what his brain already knew. And then Ranker began to convulse but Cyricus was already moving Darcelle’s attention away from the spasms of the dying soldier to focus on Wentzl.
‘Your sword, Tyle,’ she said, without glancing his way as she held out the bloodied blade to her offsider, needing both arms to do so. Cyricus knew every man present was wondering how a woman of Darcelle’s stature could wield a blade of that size. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about a single one of them or what they thought — he would gladly kill them and enjoy watching each suffer his death throes … if he’d had the time. But he had a king and queen to catch, for it seemed someone, somehow, had informed both that their young princess was not all that she seemed.
‘Fetch me a horse,’ Cyricus snapped.
‘Would you not prefer to take a —’
‘You surely aren’t deaf, captain Wentzl, and I’m surely not so stupid that I can’t make my own decisions. I will return to Pearlis and I will find King Tamas on my own. You and your men had better weigh anchor as soon as you reach the port at Ramon. I am sending Lieutenant Tyle and twenty-five of our men to ensure your departure.’
‘We cannot leave without —’
‘Without Tamas? Fret not, Captain. I will provide a ship for the king, should he require it. Either you leave Morgravian soil or our countries will be at war. I can have ten times the number of men hunting down your small force within hours. Leave, captain, and leave by nightfall or I promise you, more Ciprean blood will be spilled.’
Wentzl’s face twitched in anger. ‘As you wish, your highness,’ and still Cyricus knew he lied. Wentzl would not leave Morgravia until he had his king safely on his ship. So be it, Cyricus thought. He had a new idea forming.
‘Tyle, ten of your soldiers may ride back with me. The rest will escort the Cipreans to the docks and see them onto their ship — every last man. If anyone defies my order, you have my authority to kill him and I demand you do just that. Wentzl, you’ve heard my orders. Do not defy me.’
‘Your highness, with respect, I take my orders from the Ciprean sovereign alone. However, I respect your wishes and will leave peaceably with my men. May we take Ranker’s body?’
Cyricus looked over at the still-twitching man. ‘No, there’s life in him yet. I think he can travel back with us.’ He’d made his point and yet still his rage wasn’t sated. ‘Tyle, tie him to my horse’s backside,’ he said, with as much scorn as he could load into Darcelle’s tone. Then he gave a cruel laugh as a fresh idea occurred. ‘Oh, and Wentzl …’
The captain’s gaze slid angrily to the princess from where it had been fixed watching Morgravian men hauling the almost-dead Ranker toward the waiting horse. ‘Your highness?’ he said and Cyricus imagined how he must be gritting his teeth to remain as polite as he sounded.
‘Approach,’ the princess said, beckoning.
He frowned, cast a quick glance at Tyle, who Cyricus knew was likely giving a surreptitious shrug in response, before stepping forward.
‘I’d like to give you something to remember not only Morgravia by, but especially me,’ Cyricus said, and without giving the man a chance to say anything, Darcelle pulled him forward and kissed him on each cheek before shocking him with a kiss on his mouth.
Captain Wentzl pulled away, blinking, could hear his men murmuring softly behind them. They were confused; Cyricus understood this. He’d felt Wentzl’s surprise, as much as his fear, when Cyricus had arrived into his body and caused the man’s spirit to flee to Shar. Wentzl was dead, but his body stood and gazed around in a well-disguised sense of smugness.
‘I have a better idea, your highness,’ Cyricus said, in the mild voice of Wentzl. Resisting the urge to wipe his lips, he inclined his head politely. ‘Why don’t I return with your party and help to find King Tamas?’
He waited. Princess Darcelle looked momentarily baffled and Cyricus knew Aphra hesitated as she considered wha
t he required of her.
‘This is something I would want to do for you,’ he pressed, needing Aphra to understand.
‘Thank you, Captain Wentzl,’ Darcelle finally said for everyone to hear. ‘That would be permissible. Tyle, I’ve changed my mind. Release that man and give his body back to the Ciprean Guard. They can cast him to the seas when they hit Ciprean waters.’
Cyricus watched Tyle look at the princess as though she really was out of her mind. The Morgravian lieutenant threw Wentzl a look of exasperation as much as sympathy.
‘Your men can take him,’ Tyle said to Wentzl.
‘Thank you,’ Cyricus said, uncaring, but he went through the motions of looking over his shoulder to nod permission at the man standing nearest. ‘Accord Ranker a burial that is fitting. I am returning with Princess Darcelle to Pearlis and I will accompany our king back to Cipres when he is ready. You are to board our ship and return to Cipres as instructed. Is that clear?’ He wanted to be rid of all Tamas’s loyal supporters.
The men murmured as one. A man stepped forward and Cyricus had to assume this was the next officer in line to him.
‘Captain, is this wise? I thought you said we had direct orders from our king for all of us to leave as instructed.’
‘I am not leaving King Tamas to this madwoman,’ he whispered. ‘Do as I say. We are outnumbered, we cannot win any fight with the Morgravians. We will have to use diplomacy to extricate King Tamas if he becomes trapped. And diplomacy is best without weapons. Go now.’
The man frowned, then nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ He turned and began barking orders to the Ciprean Guard.
‘Your highness, shall we?’ Wentzl was seen to say to Princess Darcelle, but only Cyricus saw the gleam of amusement in Darcelle’s gaze.
Now he could walk in a man’s body again; a not unreasonable one. Wentzl was in good shape. Most importantly, King Tamas would trust Wentzl when he appeared.
Cyricus was now of the opinion that the champion — Cassien was his name — who had kept such a close watch on the queen at Stoneheart when she and Tamas had come rushing to Darcelle’s aid — was far more than he appeared. He, and the boy, were now marked men in the mind of Cyricus.
In case they were overheard he adopted a formal approach. ‘Do you remember that man who accompanied Queen Florentyna to King Tamas’s rooms, your highness?’ he asked Darcelle as he accompanied her to her horse.
‘Yes, the quiet one in dark clothes.’
‘Did he strike you as in any way special?’ he whispered.
Aphra shook the princess’s pretty head. ‘No,’ she said, barely taking time to think. Cyricus accepted this. Aphra was servile but she was sharp and he trusted her insights. He nodded Wentzl’s head and helped the princess onto her horse. ‘One thing, perhaps,’ Aphra added as though it was barely worth mentioning. ‘He reminded me strongly of Gabe …’ She shrugged. ‘Something in his manner maybe. Perhaps I’m being fanciful,’ she corrected.
‘Ready, Princess Darcelle?’ her own man asked.
‘Lead the way,’ she said, casting a glance at Wentzl standing by her horse. ‘Captain Wentzl?’
But Cyricus wasn’t paying attention. He was thinking about how glad he was now that he’d taken the precaution of setting a spy up in the palace.
‘What are you doing?’ Ham said, from where Tamas had instructed him to remain, flat on his belly, overlooking the shallow valley where their attention had been fixed. He watched now as Tamas reached for the bow he had strapped to his horse. Ham hadn’t paid much attention to it earlier because they had been in such a hurry to leave Pearlis, but now he frowned, unsure.
‘We haven’t had much time together, have we, Ham? But if we had, you’d have learned that there isn’t an archer in Cipres who can outshoot Barbary here.’
‘Barbary?’
Tamas threw him a grin, but there was no humour in it. Ham sensed anger, and fear, but not directed at him.
‘I was given this bow by my eldest brother. It was carved for him by a master bow maker called Barbaran, a man whose work most Cipreans revere and who is long dead, but his legend lives on. Both of my brothers were hopeless at archery and yet I showed a rare affinity for this weapon,’ he said, stroking the shaft of one arrow. ‘No-one in Cipres could match my range or accuracy.’ He shrugged as though embarrassed to be caught talking in this way about himself. ‘The bow is made of kisten — flexible and stronger than ten men. The arrow is from the matten branch; it flies straighter than anything the empire has, I’ll wager.’ Ham touched the fletched tip. ‘Pingara feathers,’ Tamas said reverently. He gave a wink that reassured Ham somewhat.
He was worried about Tamas, but how much could a boy say to a king before it became inappropriate and insubordinate? He wasn’t sure, although they were friends and they were both running for their lives. Ham could see Tamas intended to use his skills as an archer and his precious bow and it worried him.
‘King Tamas, we are a long way from what I believe is your intended target.’
‘And you’re frightened I’ll only alert people to where we are, I know,’ Tamas finished what Ham hadn’t wanted to say.
‘Not just that. There is a light breeze and undulating terrain and bushes. Have you ever shot to kill before?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Ham’s expression tensed. ‘I mean a person. Have you ever killed a person in this way?’
Tamas grinned and once again it was mirthless. ‘Man, beast … what does it matter?’
‘It matters.’
‘Hush now, Ham. Soon you’ll see why we’re so far away. Now let me focus.’
Ham obeyed, feeling his chest constrict with the tension of what he now understood King Tamas was about to attempt. He heard Tamas begin to mutter instructions to himself, perhaps unaware that he was saying them aloud.
‘Allow for the wind, up … no, a bit higher, Tamas … picture it in your mind, imagine it soaring, hitting the target,’ the king muttered. Ham was straining to hear as the gentlest of gully breezes shifted his hair.
He looked down below and held his breath.
On the plain outside Hynton, Cyricus, in his new guise, was feeling released from the increasing sense of entrapment he’d begun experiencing as Darcelle. It was a pity. He had wanted to be a Morgravian royal, had anticipated its many benefits, but the reality was that travelling as a woman had too many pitfalls … and travelling as only the second-most-important woman in the land was not good enough. He needed to be Florentyna … although Tamas would do, if he could catch him.
When he found Tamas — and he would — he knew the king would trust his closest military advisor, and Cyricus would then give Cipres a monarch to be proud of … especially when he married Darcelle and set about annexing Morgravia.
‘Captain Wentzl, are you coming with us?’ Darcelle repeated to him. She was seated on her horse with a lovely straight back and her head upturned to the sun. ‘Shar, but it’s a glorious day. It should be a pleasant ride.’ Aphra said this in a tone that probably only he understood was filled with the smugness of their new bodies and her anticipation of the coupling that would surely take place as soon as they could be left alone.
She laughed, raising her head and enjoying their private amusement.
‘Yes, your high—’ He didn’t finish his sentence.
Like an avenging storm, it seemed to come out of nowhere and with no warning. No-one heard it, not one of them suspected anything untoward … least of all Darcelle.
It dropped from the sky in a precisely calculated arc. One moment Cyricus was thinking about how hard he was going to work Princess Darcelle’s body tonight, admiring the coquettish laugh that Aphra was giving him, the next he was staring, impossibly, at an arrow embedded in her eye, passing easily through the middle of her head with its flinty point puncturing the soft tissue at the back of her neck.
Darcelle tried to say something, but a word or two of nonsense was all that issued forth before she toppled ungraciously from her mount and
slammed to the ground like a sack of potatoes, one foot still trapped in the stirrup. The horse took fright and bolted, dragging the body of the Princess of Morgravia alongside it, doing to her what had been intended for the Ciprean soldier, Ranker.
Inside Wentzl, Cyricus felt blood rage. He knew he must show none of his fury or despair as he watched Darcelle’s body, with Aphra dead no doubt before her host hit the ground, bouncing behind the horse like a rag doll.
The Ciprean guard watched with shock — albeit tinged with a collective and helpless glee — that the woman who had treated them with such disdain had just been seen off in a wholly appropriate manner. One among them, an older man called Fyffe, turned to his neighbour with a frown and whispered: ‘Unless my eyes deceive me, that was the king’s arrow.’
‘What?’ his companion said, startled.
Fyffe shrugged. ‘No-one has striped Pingara fletching like that except King Tamas.’
‘I didn’t notice,’ his neighbour admitted. ‘I was just glad to see the bitch die.’
‘Hush,’ Fyffe warned. All the men in the Ciprean Guard had sensibly drawn their weapons to discourage the Morgravians from retaliating. One of the senior officers was assuring Wentzl and the Morgravian officer that every Ciprean was accounted for. The shot had to have been made by a Morgravian with a grudge, he reasoned.
Nothing was so much as breathed by a Ciprean about the fletching on the arrow.
Far away, well out of sight, Tamas took a long, slow breath. It would have taken another archer of his stature to know which direction the arrow had come from.
‘That’s the end of the demon and his minion,’ he growled. ‘Mount up, Ham. Let’s go find Florentyna before a pack of her soldiers have our hides drying out in the sun. They’ll want blood.’
Ham could only peek over the top of the mound that he had been hiding behind, open-mouthed. It had been an impossible shot, surely, and yet his eyes had told him only the truth. He had watched Tamas stand and take the deepest of breaths, which he then held tightly; he had seen the king close his eyes briefly and focus his thoughts before he’d suddenly snapped them open, pulled back the string of his bow; Ham had heard the soft creak of the kisten, the wheezing strain of the hemp becoming taut; Tamas had raised the bow, the arrow menacing as it had waited to be released into the air. In that heartbeat, as Tamas had paused in that position, becoming so still he looked to be part of the landscape, Ham had imagined the arrow as a living creature, eager to be let loose to fly. It only had one flight in its life, Ham had thought, and it wanted to be the best it could be. It wanted to fly faster than any before it; smoother and straighter than all the arrows that had been shot from this same bow. It wanted to land more accurately and with more force than its predecessors had ever been able to on their targets, so the king and his fletcher could be proud of it. It wanted to be known as the arrow that had killed a Morgravian royal.
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