Time seemed to slow. I felt my body move, and my chest rise with breath. A strand of hair brushed back over my shoulder. My boots tapped upon the floor as I strode into the throne room. Rune was at my left. In my peripheral vision, I could see the shape of his biceps through his shirt and a vein that ran up the smooth brown skin of his neck. Kyle was on my right. His thin lips were pressed together and his hands were balled into fists. The three of us walked forward together, unified. Would it be enough? The Hussar with the cinnamon braid pushed the doors closed behind us. All that I could hear was the sound of my own heartbeat drumming in my ears, until those oaken doors slammed shut.
A gust of wind shot through, a final connection to the freedom of the passages outside. It touched my back like a sentient watcher, warning me that my chance to turn around had passed.
We walked down a long isle carpeted in gold, silver and black. Isles of empty pews lined up one after the other across the stretch of the room. Polished and clean, the rows of honey wood seating broke away in a semicircle, leaving a wide opening between them and the focal point of the broad chamber. A wooden throne, large enough to sit three people, rose up against the far wall. Pointed metal studs stabbed out from the joints in the carved wood, and the high chair back was cut and carved in the shape of a sun. A complement of Hussars stood on either side of the throne.
Massive chains rotated overhead, pulling heavy hanging lanterns along a track, allowing light and shadow to play games throughout the hall. A great window, filled with far too much ironwork to provide a view, stretched from floor to ceiling. It was backlit in glowing gold light.
The throne room was magnificent. Black iron statues of soldiers stood sentry in alcoves along the walls. Each held a weapon that dripped with crystals. Canvas portraits of finely dressed dancers and sprawling landscapes of Caraway hung in gold frames on the walls. Brightly colored sparrows perched within finely crafted birdcages sending their songs to echo in the arching rafters above.
More beautiful than the birds or portraits were the ladies. They were gathered in clusters at the edges of the room like living ornaments. Their ball gowns were silk and lace with flowing skirts, and bodices that left little to the imagination. Black, silver and gold. Red, orange and yellow. Brown, bronze and copper. The ladies wore only the colors of the throne room itself. They murmured discreetly at the sight of us, and covered their mouths with gloved hands as they spoke.
Beside them, I felt despairingly underdressed, but at least I had a coat. For all of the warmth represented by its colors, the throne room was cold. I had no idea how they weren't shivering. My eyes slipped from one decoration to the next, nearly to the point of distraction.
I reined in my curiosity and allowed my purpose to drive me forward. I didn't look at painting, or birdcage, or lady again.
“What a strange day indeed,” a man's voice rang out down the hall. He sat stiffly atop the wooden throne with a hand propped up on his leg. In such a grand chair, he looked like a doll at a dinner table. “When the children of my enemies come to my very doorstep to break bread.”
I could easily assume by the formal introduction that this was Lord Winton Headly. The man wore a tapered doublet of crimson, and his boots reached over his gold trousers to the knee. As the lights swung over him on their track, I could see that gold rings flashed on every finger, and white had invaded his shortly trimmed brown beard. He seemed sharp and fit for his age, and perfectly at ease controlling our situation. “Noble ladies, I do thank you again for your company, but my newly arrived guests require a private audience.”
The women curtseyed gracefully to the man upon the throne and strolled into the aisle to depart. They looked us over as they passed, some of them gazing a little longer at Rune than I appreciated. Kyle stepped into line behind me to make room for their flowing skirts, but Rune held his place beside me, forcing a few of them to step around him. A tangy trail of perfume lingered in their wake.
I didn't like it. It wasn't that I was jealous– I wasn't that sort of girl– but their presence bothered me. We were here on dire and delicate business– we were escorted to this throne room at this specific time– and Headly didn't think to clear the room of courtiers before we arrived?
“Hold, guests. That is close enough.”
We were halfway across the room. How was this close enough? He was toying with us, reminding us who was in charge. It was frustrating, nearly humiliating, to have come this far and be forced to wait longer. There was a platter of food and wine on a tray at his left. He waved a hand, and one of the Hussars stepped out of the row to pour him a glass of wine. I wondered if that soldier felt as frustrated as I did. He could have poured the drink himself.
“No, not that one– the other. Yes. Now this is a fine vintage. Hmm. I detect... I detect blackberries. Well done. I shall have to fund them for another two seasons.” I wished that his muttering had been drowned out by the singing birds. Then at least I could pretend to believe that he cared that we were here at all.
The door boomed closed, and I was grateful that, at the very least, this pompous Lord had waited for the ladies to depart before giving away any more information about us. If he'd said any more about where we'd come from, Caraway's citizens might overwhelm us before we could make it back to the Flying Fish. With my luck, our killer's name would be etched forever over the door of a bakery with the number three beside it.
My fingertips itched and I wanted to send a bolt of lightning over the man's head, just to get his attention.
No Abilities. I have to control myself.
He set the glass down to study the bottle it had come from. “You've brought a request from Breakwater, have you?” He spoke to us without looking up. “Amnesty and shelter beneath our great and mighty wings. It could be an opportunity to turn the war, or it could be a plot to drive a knife down our throats. What do you think, Deadheart?”
Beside him stood an ebony-skinned man with long, thick strands of braided white hair. He looked the part of an executioner with a craggy, scarred face that was devoid of charm or humor. His brass and black armor had an elaborate, imperial design that set it apart from the others. The breastplate cut away on his left side to reveal a black iron plate embedded directly into his skin over one entire pectoral. Whoever this man was, he stared at us with the predatory body language of a killer. The only other person I'd seen with such obvious malice had been Commander Stakes.
I shuddered and wished that he wasn't looking at me so closely. Even half across the room I could feel the weight of his attention upon me.
“They should be separated and interrogated,” he said in a voice filled with grit and gravel.
There it was. The ghost of a knife stabbed into my heart and I wished we'd never come. We were in trouble. Hussars were lined up beside the two men, holding their spears out at their sides. Thirteen on either side, there were far too many of them for us to face. Outside, there were Empty. One order from Lord Headly would be all that it would take to end us.
“Have them pulled by the limbs? Pluck out their teeth?” Lord Headly chuckled and slapped his knee. “Oh my General, you truly are heartless.”
Deadheart's fearsome gaze slid to his Lord and held fast. Was he hoping that Lord Headly would let him torture us?
Headly waved a hand dismissively. “I must remind you, if they do speak the truth, what kind of diplomacy would we be showing them? The burning end of a hot poker is not how you form bonds of lasting friendship. And yet, this has never happened. There is no clear protocol to follow.”
Lord Headly hadn't invited me to speak, we were still halfway across the room waiting, but I couldn't give this General Deadheart another chance to paint us in a negative light.
You've faced Commanders. You've lied to Margraves. You've even spoken to Prince Raserion, himself. Talking to average people in an elaborately decorated throne room should be a simple thing.
I inhaled and tightened my diaphragm to project my voice. “My name is Katelyn Kestrel. I'm
not a citizen of the West, and aside from being fortunate enough to call Common-Lord Brendon Axton my friend, I have nothing to do with your war. I'm here as a neutral party to plead for Breakwater's protection.”
“What a strange accent you have,” Headly mused. He glanced up at me and spun the bottle in his hands. “I've heard rumor that Cape Hill has fallen to rebellion. They were not the drunken mutterings of fishwives and salvagemen, mind. The Reedy Coast is weakened and you come to tell me that the region is now open for occupation? A man can only receive so many unexpected gifts before raising an eyebrow. Speak plainly. Tell me what it is that you want, and we'll seek out the truth of your words. I promise not to let the good General harm you unless you give us reason.”
General Deadheart lifted his chin and scowled.
“I'm sorry Lord Headly.” My heart began to pound in my chest. “I will not shout matters of life and death across a hall and hope to be understood.”
Rune tapped my arm, warning me to curb my tone.
Headly returned the bottle to the tray without breaking his focus on me. “This distance bothers you, does it? Well, I find I quite like it. Do you see our revered prince in this room? You're lucky I've agreed to meet with you at all. Most of my countrymen would sooner use you as a pincushion to hold their swords than let you walk through our noble keep. Make your case from where you stand, or make none at all.”
Anger flashed hot through my veins. I shouldn't have expected anything less than hostility. He probably thought I was lying about not being involved in the war. It must have sounded flimsy at best. I needed to try harder. He needed to understand.
I took a steadying breath and used my frustration to reinforce my volume. “Breakwater has broken a cardinal law. They have taken their children away from the Dragoons and the military. When Prince Raserion learns about what they've done, he'll destroy the city to make an example of them. Breakwater has a small militia but no other protection. Lord Axton has sent me here in hopes that you'd hear us out. Breakwater offers its territory as ground for Northern outposts if your prince agrees to protect its citizens. They're good people. They just want to live out their lives with their families. Please, help us.”
Headly returned his wine glass to his lips. He sipped at it without draining its contents, and then ran his fingers along the rim. “All these years I've thought that Westerners must surely hate their children to feed them so willingly into Prince Raserion's army. Dragoons,” Lord Headly stroked his beard and snorted. “They're little more than flesh and bone machines, and half as intelligent. If the people of Breakwater see the error in their allegiance, there may be some hope for this war.”
At the edge of my vision, Rune's body tensed. Could he withstand insults from the people he'd spent his entire life fighting? I shouldn't have let him come with us– not that I could have stopped him.
“You have won my interest,” Headly decided. “Approach, and let us discuss this information in more detail.”
I cheered and celebrated on the inside, but made certain my face wasn't showing my relief. He was listening to us. We had a chance! All I needed to do was put one foot in front of the other, and not ruin everything.
General Deadheart unfolded his muscular arms. One of his hands rested upon the pommel of his sheathed sword as he turned sharply to face the lord seated beside him. “This is lunacy. How can these trespassers possibly be outsiders of the war? What do they gain from all of this?”
“Manners, Deadheart,” Headly clucked his tongue. “But please, honored guests, we speak for the prince. Answer my gruff friend.”
Finally reaching the head of the room, I could see Headly and Deadheart much more closely. Headly's clothes were stitched in gold, and watch chains looped over his breast pocket. Though his clothes were resplendent, his narrow brown eyes and pointed smile made him appear more clever than wise. Deadheart was worse. The scarred general would not smile or offer us a single comfort. At such a short distance, I could see that his armor was battered with dents and scratches. He must have worn it for a long, long time, and he was not a young man. Had the years of war made him so cruel? He stared at us with unyielding black eyes.
We came to a halt, and the Hussar with the cinnamon braid strode past us and went to stand on Headly's other side. She must have been behind us all along.
Finally removing himself from my shadow, Kyle cleared his throat and stepped around me. “We're from a place called Haven.” Lamplight rolled over him, making the ringlets of his brown hair shine. His silver-gray eyes were strong and unwavering. “If this war reaches us, we'll lose everything, and so will you.”
Headly stiffened visibly. “Haven?” he breathed. The lights cycled overhead, and he sank away in his chair as though he'd just seen something hideous. “Your eyes– that scar. And you... and you...” he trailed off.
Deadheart’s eyes bulged and his jaw worked as he looked between us. “Sir–”
“Impostors!” Headly bellowed. “Get them out of my throne room! Arrest them, General! Arrest them!”
Chapter 31: Diplomacy at its Finest
My brain caught up too slowly. His throne room? What about the Prince? Why did Headly look so afraid? “Arrest us? Why?” I cried out with alarm.
“We didn't do anything!” Kyle protested.
Rune held his hands up in a show of pacifism. “Sir, if you'd only listen to our case I'm sure you'd find that–”
Deadheart glowered at us as he marched down from the platform beside the throne. “Take them,” he ordered his soldiers.
The Hussars lined at the head of the room were on us in an instant. Rough hands grabbed at my clothes, pulling me away from Rune and Kyle. My mind raced, reliving every step, every word. Things had been going so well, what had changed? A shout escaped me as the cinnamon-haired woman wrenched me painfully aside, and I stumbled when they forced my hands behind my back. Someone kicked me, and I sank down to my knees.
“Hey!” Kyle shouted, but he was jostled away.
My back hurt. Was that where they'd hit me? I met Rune's gaze. First I saw his love and fear for me. Then I saw his rage.
“No.” My voice came out a whisper. It was too late. He'd already snapped.
“Get your hands off of her!” Rune twisted out of the grip of one Hussar, and shouldered another out of the way to get to me. “Let her go!”
Another Hussar stepped in, slamming him in the gut with the butt of his spear. Rune buckled over, coughing, and then lashed out. Gripping the spear with both hands, he kicked the Hussar's legs out from under him. Before the soldier could recover, Rune jammed his weight against the weapon, slamming the end of the spear into the Hussar's jaw.
My ears rang and my heart rose into my throat. “Don't fight!” I shouted, struggling to stand straight. “There's been a misunderstanding. We don't want any trouble!”
Could they not hear me?
Two more soldiers flew at him, gripping him by the arms in effort to restrain him. Tucking his broad shoulders down, he bowled through them, flinging them off. He broke the next arm that made contact with him, gripping the soldier by the forearm, and twisting the joint out of socket. The sound was disgusting, and the soldier staggered away, howling. A black-haired Hussar put his weapons aside and punched Rune in the face. An unmatched brawl erupted before my eyes.
I winced, feeling each strike like it had hit me.
“Don't hurt him,” I begged, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. “He was only protecting me.”
Someone beat Kyle over the back of the head with a spear, and my friend fell face-first to the ground. I twitched with a combination of confusion and fury. The Spark stabbed at my insides, demanding release. I could fight back. I could blast this room into splinters. And then Brendon, the children, and all of those people in Breakwater would die because of our failure. It wasn't over. It couldn't be.
Someone managed to pull up one of Rune's sleeves and an alarm rang out. “Dragoon! He's a Dragoon!”
The Hussars had
been holding back in the fight, but at mention of their mortal enemy, they exchanged murderous glances and attacked Rune in a dizzying flurry of blows with their spears. Rune staggered down to his hands and knees, and blood poured from his nose, soaking into the royal carpet.
I snapped. The Spark pulsed through my muscles, my skin charged, and I shocked the Hussar holding me. The hands that gripped me fell away, and I encouraged my power to grow. In three seconds I'd have the entire room on their backs. I'd get Kyle and Rune, and we'd run. Somehow we'd run. But I didn't have three seconds. The moment one Hussar fell off of me, another was ready to strike. I didn't see it coming. Something hard hit me in the head, probably a spear. My entire body went weak and I buckled. There was a shout. I may have electrocuted the person holding the spear. My vision doubled.
“Don't kill him,” General Deadheart ordered above the chaos. “Not here.”
“We only wanted to talk to your prince,” I babbled. “We needed your help.”
“I'm afraid it's much too late for that, young lady,” Lord Headly said.
The general's face was set in a deep frown, and his ropey strands of white hair hung over his shoulder. “Take them away.”
I tried to get up. I wanted to fight.
Pain exploded in my head, sending sunbursts of white light across my vision. This time it wasn't lightning that clawed out to dampen my senses. The world around me became dim and blurry, and my body was suddenly too heavy for me to hold up. I fought for consciousness, I tried to reach the Spark, but I was already slipping.
The last thing I saw was a pile of seven Hussars descending on Rune and beating him to unconsciousness. They dragged us away, and my ears were filled with the sound of my own boots scraping uselessly across the carpet. As I descended into blackness, two words repeated in my mind over and over again. What happened?
War of the Princes 03: Monarch Page 19
