“It’s not…” His hands came forward of their own accord. “It wasn’t intentional. I just—I found it caught in the cuff of my boot, and I didn’t—” He shook his head. “I had no place to dispose of it. Nothing seemed right, then…” He had no excuse for why he’d not done away with it since.
She was quiet as she stared back at him, expression unreadable.
“Miri,” he said. Please, he wanted to beg. Say something.
She swallowed, giving a small, single shake of her head, as if dislodging a thought. “Of course.” Of course. She waved a hand as if the whole thing were nothing then picked up the masks. “Final touches,” she told the room. “And we’re off to the ball.”
Cass had never felt more unsettled by Miri’s silence. As they walked toward the palace, she said nothing at all. Kingsmen watched at every turn. The myriad of masked figures trailing the corridors and walkways was an evident nightmare to anyone whose duty was to guard. Cass adjusted the fine sword at his hip as he did his best to keep their pace and maintain a good distance from the flock of bodies, but soon they were corralled into lines with the other guests, and stringed instruments conducted their way past candelabras, lush flowers, and gratuitous decorations. The crowd became thicker, and Miri offered Cass her hand. He took it, sliding his other across her back to guide her through the celebration and into the great hall.
Long tables filled one half of the room, and the other was an open space for dancing, while milling patricians lined the walls. Voices rose to a vaulted ceiling that was grand and meant to impress. The food was lavish, revoltingly so, given the tax the king demanded of the citizens of the kingdom, and dark drapes hung above low windows that looked out over the mountain. It was breathtaking, even for him, because it had been so long since the harbormaster’s spy had been anything else—more so because it was a sharp reminder of times before.
Miri’s hand tightened in his, and he let his gaze travel to hers. His mask—a wolf that covered his face from brow to nose—had been the least vision restrictive, but he wanted to tear it free regardless and have back an unhindered view. She stared up at him, the dark around her eyes seeming to draw them farther into the shadows of her mask.
“Dancing first?” he offered.
She managed a partial nod beneath the bulk of her costume. The pouch at her waist held a delicate carton, inside of which waited a deadly spider. To place it in the king’s chair, she would have to approach his table while he danced, land it perfectly into his seat, and appear to only be greeting his guests and sampling his food. “Easy,” she’d said before. He wondered if she was still so convinced.
Cass led her to the floor, through couples that were a dazzling display of fabric and excess, and found a spot that was less stifling than the rest. He bowed low before her, his hand beneath hers, and Miri followed with a curtsy. Gods, he’d no idea how they’d gotten there, why a princess of Stormskeep was bending a knee to him. He straightened then inclined his head as they began their dance.
It was much later when the king finally graced the festivities, his dark hair loose and his mask only a sliver of jeweled material, and longer still when Miri finally took her chance. She’d pointedly avoided looking at the king since he’d been present, but as soon as he made his way from the high table, she sauntered toward it, where the king’s chair waited, empty as he paraded for his guests. Myrina of Stormskeep had years of practice engaging with nobility, and it seemed the time as Bean had done nothing to diminish her skill. She was in her element, and her practiced ease distracted each of the men and ladies from the skilled maneuver she performed beneath their very noses. Beyond the king’s table stood a row of kingsmen, their gazes on the crowd. Cass watched closely, but none so much as flinched.
She tipped her head, raising her glass in toast, and turned from the table to trail slowly from their notice as if she’d never been there at all.
Cass shifted toward the window, his chest finally easing to draw a full breath. Her arm brushed his as she joined him, her hand steady as she set the goblet onto the window’s ledge, its rim dripping honey. She’d done it. She’d returned.
“Shall we go?” she asked.
He slid an arm across the small of her back, his gaze over her shoulder at the kingsmen blocking the door.
“What are they doing?” Miri asked once she’d followed his indication. Her brow was pinched, but the floor was still filled with dancing royals, and fine music still floated through the air.
“There will be a display soon,” Cass said. “Whispers of a surprise.”
“They don’t want to ruin it,” she said, though she did not sound entirely convinced. “Well enough. Let us dance again.”
Cass smiled, certain his feet would be raw from his boots, and spun Miri to face him before the window. “Then let us dance.”
They relaxed into the music and the steps, sated with the knowledge that Miri’s task was done, and buoyed by sweet ciders and wine. Cass could sense the tension drain from her as her moves returned to the easy grace he’d come to know so well. She’d done it. She’d killed two kings already, a third would be overtaken by illness in a month’s time, and the fourth would soon meet his end.
Her smile came easily, her relief palpable, as if she finally believed she might be able to pull the entire thing off. The mountain breeze was cool on Cass’s skin as it whispered through the tall windows and was scented of pine and moss and something sweet. Miri leaned her head back, mask to the ceiling, as if the breeze could somehow reach the skin of her neck beneath all that silk. She seemed to float around him, a whirl of rich fabrics, her fingers light in his.
Then the candelabras were unexpectedly snuffed, and the ballroom fell dim with a suddenness that elicited sharp gasps. Cass’s hand slid to the sword at his hip, his other stilled in Miri’s grip. In the darkness outside, a strange orange glow rose past the window, and the echoing gasps shifted into delighted intakes of breath.
Miri stepped closer to Cass, her movement causing him to turn and forcing his gaze from the line of kingsmen against the far wall. “Lanterns,” she whispered. “In honor of the maiden.”
Half a dozen more rose into view, followed by too many to count. Tinted paper, lifted by a small flame within that cast a glow into the night sky, dotting the view outside with color. Cass had known they’d been imported from Stormskeep, but it had been impossible to imagine how ethereal the scene would be.
Miri laughed, her breath brushing his skin. He found her watching him and was captured by the change in her mood.
“You’ve got honey on your lip,” she said. Her hand rose as if automatically to his face, which was bare below the mask. His mouth was sweet with drink. Hers would be, too, and it was all he could think of when her finger brushed his lip. She froze, staring up at him, her lips parting in a whisper of breath. He wanted nothing more than to taste them, and gods help him, he’d somehow leaned nearer. Her gaze danced between his eyes, and Cass had the strangest sensation that she was convincing herself it wasn’t real and she could break the rules behind that mask and her lips could touch him just like her hand.
Cass didn’t want to pretend. His fingers itched to tug free the ribbon that held her mask. He wanted to see Miri when she kissed him. He wanted it to be real.
They both startled when a voice slithered between them. Cass’s gaze snapped to the reveler. His thin jeweled mask was nothing of a disguise. A spear of ice pierced Cass’s chest.
The king smiled indulgently. “A dance, my lady?” he repeated, proffering his hand.
Miri had gone still. Cass’s fingers tightened in hers, and her throat bobbed. “I couldn’t—I’m not fit for the honor, Your Majesty.” She had known Peter when she was a child and he was only a lord. She’d forgotten to curtsy.
“Nonsense.” Peter reached forward and snatched Miri’s hand.
Her other hand went loose in Cass’s. He held her still, willing her to not attack the man in a room that held a hundred kingsmen. Peter’s smile curve
d into something sly. The men at his back wore no expressions at all. They were not Peter’s friends or members of his court. They were kingsmen as well, decked in fancy dress. Keenly aware of the gentle breeze behind their backs, a drop to certain death their only escape, Cass pressed his thumb harder to Miri’s wrist, wanting to signal that they were in far more trouble than it seemed and that she should hold her tongue.
But Peter’s words slid liquidly over the warning, shattering any hope they might have had left. “In fact,” he purred, “why don’t you come to sit in my chair?”
Miri did not jerk from the king but instead feigned surprise. “I could not,” she started, but Peter drew her closer.
“My dear, I insist.” His voice was low and friendly, as if he were playing a game of seduction with a lady of his court. He gestured to the men behind him. “You see, my men saw you admiring it earlier, and I do so hate to disappoint. Especially at a party.” He pulled Miri to his side, squeezing her too tight and out of Cass’s reach. Cass shifted his hand to his side, nearer his sword in case he had a chance to draw it, but felt the presence of at least two more kingsmen behind him.
The king glanced up at Cass, and a soft laugh escaped as his gaze took in Cass’s understanding that he was well trapped. Peter wet his lips as he ran a finger up Miri’s arm. Her body was pressed to him in a grip he might use on a lover. Miri craned her neck away from the man as his finger trailed higher, but she couldn’t truly escape his grasp. The king’s fingers came across her shoulder and up the high collar of her gown, and he leaned in, as if he meant to brush a soft kiss to her jaw. “It is so lovely for you to have come,” Peter murmured against her ear. “When I heard the news, I expected to have to wait.”
Miri’s chest rose in a shallow breath, but she didn’t speak.
Peter did not seem to mind. He brushed his nose against her hair, keeping his eyes on Cass. The moment he moved, blood would be spilled. The threat was clear. “Talk had already reached us, of course, of the assassination of Edwin.” He chuckled. “As if we would believe the fool was taken down by a plot spurred by his mistress, while the sorcerers of Ironwood held her blood.” His finger brushed slowly across the base of Miri’s chin before returning to the other side. “Then, lo and behold, news arrived that the king of Kirkwall had succumbed to an illness, taken by a sudden, inexplicable decline in his health.”
Miri did tense then. Simon’s death had come far too soon. The fool must have drowned himself in the doctored tonic the moment he’d first felt unwell.
“Yes,” Peter purred at Miri’s reaction. “Just as I thought. And what sort of lady, I asked, would we be looking for?” The movement of his finger across Miri’s jaw was torturously slow, his lips nearly brushing her flesh as his grip tangled in the silk that hung from mask to neck. “A wound, they explained. A knife point just here...”
Peter ripped the silk free, his mouth suddenly hard. The kingsmen’s hands were on Cass before he had a moment to move. A blade was pressed to his ribs, harder than mere threat.
The king shoved Miri toward another kingsman and said, his voice thick with disgust, “Take them to the tower.”
Cass was shoved forward and only caught a glimpse of Miri’s eyes behind her mask. The tower! the look seemed to scream. The sorcerers. But she was jerked from his view by another pair of kingsmen as they escorted Cass and Miri across the room. The sorcerers would use Miri’s blood to destroy her, draining her of life to summon dark magic for use for the kings.
It might have been best to throw themselves out the window instead of being taken, to end it quickly, but they’d not had the chance for even that. Behind them, the king clapped. His words were muffled by the crowd as revelers gasped and whispered at the pair being hauled through the ball. Peter played the incident off as little need for concern, and his jests were followed by an easy laugh.
When Cass was a boy, he had thought of the lords who’d stolen everything from him a great deal. There was an order to how badly he’d wished them all dead. Peter had been second on that list.
The kingsman at one arm shoved Cass forward roughly, spitting onto the path at his feet. Another held Cass’s other arm, and footfalls indicated at least six kingsmen behind them, plus two more with Miri. He could take maybe five of the men and not the big ones, but he had no way to stop them before they decided to run a blade through her side in retaliation. They didn’t know who Miri truly was. But it was only a matter of time before they did.
When they exited the ballroom, the kingsmen were joined by four more men, a lead group to clear any trouble crossing the grounds. They would traverse the corridors, cross a high bridge, then start their ascent of the tower, where Miri and Cass could be split from each other, where he might never see Miri again. His mind ran through a dozen scenarios, none of them good. He needed to get free before they reached the bridge, and he needed to do it without getting Miri killed.
Cass drew steady breaths, tracking the footfalls of the men behind him. The bridge was in the distance, its railing lit by lanterns, and the faint outline of the king’s banners snapped in the wind. He would have poor footing on the bridge and no room to fight on the stairs. If Cass meant to do anything, it had to happen before they reached the next turn. His foot raised in a step as Cass prepared to move in a swift series of strikes, and a solid piece of blunt metal slammed into the base of his neck.
He felt himself thrown forward, stars bursting in his vision, while his arms were still held by the other men. His head lolled forward, his ears rang, and he was unable to keep his eyes open. Snatches of recognition broke through as he was shifted and lifted. His arms were useless as they hung limp beneath him over the shoulder of a massive kingsman.
Chapter 27
Cass woke to the sound of trickling water and flashes of memory of a darkened stairwell, the clank of metal and scrape of stone, and footfalls of the kingsmen as they’d dropped him to the ground and walked away. His head throbbed, his eyes were dry, and thoughts and senses were somehow far away. His hands felt tight and swollen, and when he tried to shift them, they didn’t move. He winced as he pulled his eyes open to find a stone floor, his arms draped before him, and his wrists bound.
Then his attention snapped back, alarm roaring through him. He was strapped to a wooden structure and had a rope around his torso, latching him to a bar like some sort of makeshift pillory. But his head was free. He lifted it, wincing at the stiffness and pain, and found the eyes of a sorcerer on him.
Dread rose though Cass, more real since he was fully awake. The man’s gaze left Cass as he calmly went back to his work, entirely at odds with the terror and rage coursing through Cass. They were in a tower room, the sorcerer’s workspace. Cass had never seen one in person—the queensguard were kept as far from them as possible—but there was no mistaking the implements of the man’s craft. Bottles and jars filled the shelves that lined each wall. The space was only broken by tall, narrow windows and alcoves. Tables and contraptions were in the center of the room, and a large fire pit was near an outer wall.
The sorcerer’s robe was draped over a rack. His uniform was a tight-fitting, high-collared jacket. He would not need access to his own skin that day, not when he had bodies from which to draw. The sorcerer shifted to set a tool on the table behind him, and Miri came into view.
Cass’s throat went thick. She was draped over a rack not unlike his, her head hanging limply over a basin, her body still. Cass’s mind supplied a reminder of the sharp metal tools in the sorcerer’s grip, an image of just how perfectly the blood would drip from her neck into the basin below. They would empty her of blood.
Cass’s gaze went wildly through the room, but there was only one sorcerer present, not a single kingsman or another soul. No one was worried that he and Miri might break free. Assassination attempts had been frequent in the years since the queen’s murder. They’d no idea who Cass and Miri truly were. He didn’t know if that made it any easier.
Unsure if it was the best path, Cass o
pened his mouth to speak. He didn’t want to give the man information or for the man to realize who Miri and Cass were, but he needed to stop him from draining her before it was too late. His voice was a broken croak. “Don’t—” He stopped to clear his throat, but the sorcerer glanced at him.
“Not to worry,” the man said mildly. “I’ve no need for your blood.”
Cass swallowed, letting his confusion show.
The sorcerer wiped a cloth over a long, narrow blade. “I prefer the girl’s. Hers will be enough. We’re well stocked, to tell the truth.” He set the blade beside the others, absently straightening each as if running through the procedure in his mind, to be certain everything was prepared.
“What will you do with—” Cass coughed and realized it was not merely a dry throat. Something of a fume hung in the air. A bitter sharpness was on his tongue and through his nose.
The sorcerer waved a hand and said, tone unconcerned, “You’ll both be burned, by order of the king.” He held a glass vial to the light. “Fortunately, he has no interest in interrupting his celebration with a public display, so he’ll never know this one was bled first.” He chuckled, glancing sidelong at Cass. “I’ve a feeling Peter would not approve of the assassin’s blood being used to procure his demands.”
Cass worked his throat and slid his tongue over his teeth. The king did not want Miri’s blood stolen. It was why they were in the tower alone—no witnesses and no reason for concern that a bound girl could escape, not when dark magic was so close at hand.
The sorcerer crossed to the window before opening its shutters wide. Cass glanced down again at the stone ring that surrounded his feet and circled the rack he was tied to. They would be burned upon those racks, sorcerer’s fire tearing over them the moment Miri was drained.
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