Jumping atop the bed, Quinn pushed off the footboard and leaped high, twisting around Wyck’s wild swing. As she flew over his head, she wrapped her arm under his chin and pulled him with her. He stumbled backward, tripped over the copper tub, and fell into it as Quinn landed in a crouch. The man’s sword clanked to the tiles and slid across the floor while a wave of water splashed from the tub. Without hesitating, Quinn tore Wyck’s helmet off and hit him with it. A loud clang rang in the room and vibrated her hands with the impact. The man sat up and held his arm to protect his head as she swung the helmet again, this time striking his bracer. She stepped forward to take another swing, but her bare foot slipped on the wet marble floor and she fell, the helmet tumbling from her hand and rolling away.
Wyck climbed from the tub, water pouring from him, blood running down his face from a gash above his brow. Quinn scrambled to her feet and moved toward the sitting area rug for better footing. The man was bigger and stronger than Quinn, and he had the protection of his mail chain armor. Speed was her advantage, but if she ran, Varius was dead.
When Wyck drew close, she decided to attack. With a leap, she pushed off the back of the sofa and kicked toward his head. Wyck was ready and was faster than anticipated. He grabbed her leg, spun, and launched her across the room. Quinn hurled past the tub and landed hard on the marble floor before colliding with the bed. Her head struck something hard, the thud rattling her teeth as everything went black.
Pain. Quinn tried to breathe and knives of pain pierced her ribs and ran down her shoulder. The throbbing in her head was in time with her pulse. She opened her eyes, lifted her head, and blinked at the blue glowstone powder on the floor, streaked with blood. Through bleary eyes, she saw Wyck walking toward Varius, his bloody face grim. On the floor beside her, Quinn spotted a bronze disk – the false makeup case. Hope sparked inside her, weak but present.
She moved, gritting her teeth at the pain as she wiped a finger across the glowstone powder. On the back of her other hand, she traced a Chaos rune. Wyck stopped and bent to pick up his sword, the metal tip scraping across the tile with a streak of sparks. Quinn grabbed the makeup case, squeezed the release on the bottom, and pressed the trigger. The short metal rod popped out and hope’s trickle became a stream. With ragged breath accompanied by searing pain in her ribs and blackness encircling her vision, she pressed the rod against the rune drawn on her hand. A burning sensation made her cry out and drop the case as the rune began to glow. It pulsed and faded.
Raw energy arose inside her, and white spots invaded the black tunnel that had been compressing her vision. Quinn slowly began to rise. The pain slipped away, replaced by the familiar vigor of a Power augmentation, but much less powerful than what she had experienced in the past. She turned toward Wyck. The man’s back was facing her as he lifted his blade over his head. Quinn lunged and kicked him in the back. The man launched forward and smashed against the wall with a grunt. He turned toward her, staggering, angry, and bloody. Bending, Quinn picked up the broken bedpost and prepared to face him.
Wyck advanced past the prone form of Varius, who was beginning to stir. He swung his sword and Quinn dodged it. She jabbed with the bedpost and struck his midriff. The man bent over with an oof, stumbling backward. Snarling, he came toward her again, swinging his sword left and right like a scythe, forcing Quinn backward. She then leaped on the bed, ran across it, and off the far side. Wyck turned toward her as Quinn stood beyond Varius with the bedpost extended toward him. When he advanced, Quinn lifted the post like a spear, and she launched it at him, forcing him to duck beneath it. Before he could recover, Quinn burst toward him, leaped, and drove both her bare feet into his chest before falling to the floor. The big man launched backward, flew six feet before he struck the corner of the bed, and stopped with a sudden lurch. His eyes bulged, his mouth hanging open as he coughed blood. The splintered end of the broken bedpost stuck through his chest, pushing his mail and tabard up like a tent. Crimson drops stained the white cloth. Blood began to drip from his ribcage, down the footboard, and onto the floor. A gurgle came from Wyck as his hand fumbled for the post sticking through him, his other arm dangling limply to the side. More blood oozed from his mouth. His hand fell away, his head dropped to the side, and he stilled.
Quinn rose to her feet, turned toward Varius, and found the woman awake, blinking as she attempted to sit up.
“Glynnis? You stopped him?”
Quinn ignored the question, “You’re hurt, Meryl. Where can I find the nearest healer?”
34
Sense of Dread
From the comfort of his own chamber, Broland laughed heartily at Kony’s animated retelling of the previous night’s events.
“The look Stigg gave you when you tossed that last throw…” Kony shook his head as he moved a game piece on the Ratio Bellicus board. “Needing three winning tosses in a row, you nailed all three and the crowd went wild. Stigg, however, looked like he wanted to stick a knife in you. A gold piece is a lot to lose for someone like him.”
“That’s why I snuck him two silvers and bought him a drink afterward,” Broland sat back in his chair. “I don’t need anyone hating me, especially if they figure out who I am.”
“Good idea, as it was for you to purchase a round. But when you grabbed the barmaid and kissed her, you surprised even me. The way she shoved you back into your chair and glared at you…I figured she would surely deck you. Then, she climbed atop you and gave it back to you tenfold.” Kony laughed and slapped his leg.
Broland laughed with him. “After weeks of dreaming about it, I took a chance. I felt lucky after winning that throw. Somehow…it seemed right.” Broland grinned at the memory. “I’ll admit I don’t have much experience with girls, but that was one I won’t soon forget.”
Leaning forward, Broland moved an archer into position and shook three dice.
“What happened when she pulled you into the back room?” Kony’s shake was a losing one and he was forced to remove an infantry piece.
“Let’s just say that she was very appreciative of the extra silver I had given her when I bought that round of drinks earlier.” The grin on Broland’s face was so wide, his cheeks hurt.
“You dog…”
A knock at the door interrupted Kony. Broland turned toward it and called out.
“Come in.”
The door opened and Nels stepped inside. “Sorry to interrupt, Prince Broland. There is a courier here for Master Kearns.”
Broland glanced toward the window and found it dark outside. “At this hour?”
“It is odd, but he says it’s urgent,” Nels replied. “This young man calls himself a purser, whatever that is. He has a message bearing the Duke of Wayport’s seal, along with a package for Kony. He is waiting downstairs.”
With a furrowed brow, Kony stood and approached the door. “I’ll be right back.”
The guard shut the door, leaving Broland alone. He gazed down at the game board and counted the pieces, finding him up by one piece. After months of playing the game together, Kony had improved his skill and now won almost as often as he lost. As a counterpoint, Broland had similarly improved in the sparring chamber. Before Kony first arrived, Broland had considered himself good. However, facing a highly skilled opponent every day had raised the bar and Broland’s skill with it. Having a competent sparring partner was certainly a benefit of Kony staying at the castle, but Broland now found it among the least important benefits.
As the weeks passed, Broland had come to value Kony’s company, and he had discovered what it was like to have a true friend. They were together every day, spending hours inside the castle in addition to evening adventures in the city. Over the course of their shared experiences, an unexpected bond had formed. A cavity had been filled with Kony’s friendship – one that Broland hadn’t realized existed until life occupied the dead space. Now that he had this connection, he found it to be like a drug – an addiction that fed portions of his soul that had gone hungry for far
too long.
The door opened, drawing Broland’s attention. Kony stepped into the room, but his eyes were downcast, refusing to meet Broland’s gaze.
“What’s wrong?” Broland asked, sensing the change in his friend.
“I…received news…bad news. My adopted father, Baron Rhone, has fallen ill. I must go see him.”
Broland stood, concerned for his friend, but also fearing how this might affect their friendship. “When will you leave? How long will you be gone?”
Kony closed his eyes, in obvious pain. “I must leave tomorrow. I…don’t know when I might return.”
“I could come with you,” Broland offered.
Kony looked up and Broland saw something in his eyes. Shock? Pain? Sadness?
“I could not ask you to come with me, Broland. You are the heir prince and you must remain here.”
“If you are concerned for my safety, I can request a retinue of guards to accompany us. My father does so whenever he travels to Fallbrandt.”
Kony’s face clouded over. “No, Broland.” He shook his head. “Leave it be. I must go alone.”
Startled by the response, Broland blinked and softened his tone. “All right. You do what you must.” He gestured toward the game board. “Come. Let’s finish our game.”
The cloud drifted from Kony’s face as he stared at the game board, the anger lifting to reveal a sadness. “I…cannot. I am no longer in the mood, and I must prepare for my trip.” He stepped back with his hand on the doorknob. “Goodnight.”
With a gasp, Broland opened his eyes and sat upright. He found himself panting as if he had run for miles rather than just waking. His room was dark, the starlight coming through his window providing just enough light to see the furniture within. A sense of dread lingered from his dream and bumps dotted his arms while another chill ran down his spine. Something felt off – a wrongness in the very air. He fumbled for the cup on his nightstand, found it, and took a long drink of water. After setting the cup down, he stood and padded to the door.
Unlocking it, he eased the door open and pale blue light bled into the room. He peeked out, glancing to his left, and then to his right. Other than the glowlamps mounted to the walls in both directions, he saw nothing. His brow furrowed. Where are the guards?
He stepped out and walked down the hallway, careful to remain quiet although he couldn’t explain why. The other doors were closed – Brandt’s room, Cassie’s room, Kony’s room – save for the door to General Budakis’ room, which stood slightly ajar.
Broland knocked softly and held his ear to the door. Hearing no response, he eased it open and was met by darkness.
“Gunther?” he said in a hushed voice.
When there was no response, he fumbled for the glowlamp beside the door and removed the cloth. The sight before him caused him to gasp, his chills returning in full force.
Burke lay on the floor, his throat sliced from ear to ear with blood pooled around his head. The guard’s sword lay beside him, glinting in the light of the lamp. Beyond Burke, Gunther lay in his bed with a pillow over his face. When General Budakis was younger, he was strong, viral – a man to be feared. Since his poisoning years earlier – an assassination attempt that had almost taken his life – Gunther’s ability to function had greatly diminished, taking his strength with it. Whoever killed him knew this.
Gathering his wits, Broland picked up Burke’s sword and turned toward the door. He peeked out again and found the corridor quiet. Crossing the hallway, he tested the knob to Kony’s room. It was unlocked. With his lips pressed firmly together, Broland swung the door open and jumped back. The room was dark…quiet. The glowlamp on the wall behind him offered just enough light for Broland to see that Kony’s bed was empty. The fear simmering inside him instantly boiled over to panic.
Broland turned toward the stairwell and sprinted up to the next level. At the top, he found Lorna on the floor, her head bent in an unnatural manner, her eyes staring into nothingness. He knelt with his hand on her head, his eyes closed while he found Order at his center. He extended his awareness toward her, but her body was an empty shell, her life force expended. Broland stood, stepped over her, and tested the door to his parent’s room. The knob turned in his hand, unlocked. This time, he opened it quickly and dove inside, rolling to a crouch beside the desk. He tore the cloth off the glowlamp his father kept there, and the darkness fled to the corners of the room, revealing an intruder at the room’s midpoint, standing beside an open balcony door.
Kony turned toward him with a dagger in hand. When Broland saw a horrible sadness in his friend’s eyes, he felt his heart wrench, and he staggered with his hand to his chest.
Shocked, Broland blurted, “Kony…how could you do this? Why would you do this?”
Kony looked toward the floor, and he shook his head. “You don’t understand, Broland.”
“What are you doing in here?” Brock’s voice came from the far end of the suite as he climbed out of bed, his hair a mess.
Like Broland, his father was dressed in nothing but his smallclothes. The king’s athletic physique remained in impressive condition, despite his being twenty years older than Broland. The man shifted toward the corner near the bed, and he grabbed his metal-reinforced quarterstaff.
Grimacing, Kony glanced from Broland to Brock and lifted his dagger up, the tip still dripping blood.
“I’m putting my blade down,” Kony said. He slowly knelt and put the knife on the floor before sliding the pack off his shoulder. “I’m going to open this pack. I have something to show you. It will…explain everything.”
Broland eased closer while his mother wrapped a robe about herself. When Kony’s hand emerged from the pack, he held a jar with a bronze dial on the top. Stepping even closer, Broland kept his sword ready while Kony placed the jar on the floor. Brock and Ashland shifted forward with Brock standing in front of her, his staff ready, his eyes narrowed as he watched the intruder.
Kony turned the dial and stood as it began to tick. He looked Broland in the eyes and said, “I am truly sorry. Goodbye.”
He turned, darted across the balcony, and grabbed a rope tied to the railing. When he climbed over and began to lower himself, Broland moved to follow.
“No!” Brock bellowed. “Get out! Now!”
Brock grabbed Ashland’s hand and sped past Broland, toward the door. Confused, but alarmed, Broland ran after them. His parents darted out the doorway with Broland three strides behind. A flash of bright green blazed around Broland as a thunderous boom deafened his ears. Heat seared his body when a massive thump from behind launched him through the door and drove him into the corridor wall. Empty blackness followed, swallowing him entirely.
35
Redemption
Gritting her teeth at the pain, Quinn lifted her hand and knocked. A moment later, a familiar voice called out.
“You may come in.”
She opened the door and found Varius sitting at her desk. The woman appeared quite well and showed no ill effects from the assassination attempt the night prior. Without looking up, Varius finished writing a note and then placed her pen back in the ink well. The archon sat back and stared at Quinn for a long moment.
“Come closer, please.”
Quinn did as she was asked, wincing at the pain from her bruised knee.
“Didn’t Numi heal you?”
“No,” Quinn replied. “I refused it. Sometimes there is value in living with pain. It can be a reminder of sorts.”
“A reminder that you saved the Archon? That you are some grand hero?”
Quinn shook her head.
“What then?”
“A reminder that I was forced to take someone’s life.”
Varius narrowed her eyes, her glare measuring Quinn.
“You lied to me,” the woman said.
The statement carried weight, tension accompanying the accusation. Quinn could not deny it, so she responded with the truth.
“Yes.”
“C
ome here.”
As commanded, Quinn circled the desk as the woman stood. She placed a hand on Quinn’s forehead and closed her eyes. Is she going to heal me? Quinn wondered. When the woman opened her eyes and Quinn’s pain remained, she found herself confused.
“How did you learn to fight? I saw you in the garden the other day…and what you did last night.”
Quinn had considered the question, expecting she needed a plausible tale to explain herself. The truth, or a version of it, seemed the best route. “I was a cadet at the military academy in Fallbrandt.”
“I see. Why are you now a handmaid?”
“I…I was removed from the school after two fellow students died and two more went missing.”
“Did you kill them?”
Quinn shook her head. “No.”
“Yet, you took the blame?”
She gave a non-committal shrug. “When I returned to Hurnsdom, I needed work. My uncle secured a handmaid position for me, and that has been my job ever since.”
Varius moved away, walking slowly with her hands clasped behind her back. “Do you know what I did when I placed my hand on your forehead?”
“No, Archon.”
“It is called Divining. It is an ecclesiast ability that enables me to determine your natural abilities.” She turned and looked at Quinn. “Although you have a rune that marks you as a server, your primary trait is that of a warrior – Custos.”
Quinn did not react. She had never considered the woman discovering something about her in this manner.
“I assume you were marked with a Famulus rune for a reason, although it is your third strongest trait.” Varius walked toward Quinn, staring her in the eye. “How good are you, Cadet?”
The Arcane Ward Page 25
