by Unknown
Apparently determined to reassert her place within House Svanaten, Helena stood and was at the cauldron in a heartbeat, reaching out to accept the bowl in both hands. Shocked by Helena’s breach of protocol, the prester hesitated, fumbling and nearly dropping the bowl. Helena took it and drank, not a ladylike sip but the entire draught, while the temple buzzed with the scandal.
Grandmother stood, her expression serene. When I remained seated, nailed to the pew by nausea, the thanes and court officials and freeholders slipped into the aisle after Grandmother to drink of the cauldron’s brew. Even the Iltheans lined up, though the sneer on Cassia’s face betrayed what she thought of the ceremony.
I sat still, certain the raw wine would be my undoing. In the quiet as everyone else shuffled forward in turn, the clamour from the courtyard was boisterous enough to reach into the sanctuary, a confusion of shouts and screams.
Lips shining with the dregs of her drink, Helena turned back. But before she’d taken a single step, an arrow bloomed from her throat, pinning her smile.
Her gaze locked with mine as one hand instinctively reached up, but her questing fingers never found the arrow’s stem before her knees folded and she sank to the floor. Flavian cried out and pushed forward, stumbling to his knees at her side.
A second arrow took the prester in the eye, pitching him backward, the stem and fletching protruding from his socket.
Someone screamed, setting off a host of echoes which filled the room.
Spinning on her heel Cassia ducked behind Varis, who pushed her down with one hand and turned, seeking the source of the arrows. A bolt slammed into his thigh and he stumbled.
‘Down, child,’ Grandmother shrieked at me, her voice swallowed under the din.
I slipped to my knees as Grandmother turned and summoned the thanes in the hall then rallied the guards.
An arrow took her in the shoulder, slamming her around and down. A second took her in the side, driving up through her ribs.
‘Grandmother!’ I screamed, as her head cracked against the floor.
I tried to stand, but my skirts tripped me. My knee came down hard on the wooden foot of the pew, sending a bolt of pain through my head. An arrow buzzed over me and thunked, quivering, into the back of the pew. The hairs on my nape stood on end, waiting for the flames of my vision to burst into life, or a blade to fall. Screams and cries were cut short by the smack of steel through flesh.
Blood splashed onto the floor in front of me before trickling along the cracks. I was torn between the desire to jump to my feet and run, or huddle into a ball and squeeze my eyes shut.
Glancing behind me, I saw Grandmother’s white hair flashing like a beacon between a tangle of moving legs.
Keep your head down, child. That’s what Grandmother would say. You must be calm, and bold, to think your way through this crisis.
Jolted into action by her voice in my head, I scrabbled between two pews, away from the central aisle. The sanctuary hall would be no safer, but it had more exits, more opportunities for escape. Dust and grime from the floor covered my hands, the wooden pews closing me in on either side. Empty air hung like a threat over my back and I slunk closer to the floor.
At the end of the pews I hesitated, frightened to poke my head out and risk certain death. Screaming and footsteps sounded from everywhere, echoing back and forth from walls and floor and ceiling.
I peeked out. The cloth-merchant Theodor was creeping towards the back wall, his back facing me. There were no soldiers in sight.
Still on my knees, I started into the aisle after Theodor till he froze with a grunt. An arrowhead, running with red, burst out near his spine as he collapsed.
I couldn’t scramble out of the way fast enough. Theodor fell backward, his slack weight catching me halfway out of the pew, pushing me to the cold floor and crushing my ribs. Hot blood slicked down my neck and collar.
My heart clattered, its rhythm racing and stuttering, making my breath short and fast. Panic and the stench of fear stifled what little air I could scrape into my lungs. Hidden by Theodor’s corpse, I dug my fingers into the cracks in the parquetry floor, fighting back my fear and revulsion, deter-minded to stop my feet scrabbling for purchase. I had to lie still and feign I was just another corpse.
A foot nudged my calf. Hidden by Theodor’s torso, I pressed my face to the floor and kept myself limp, trying not to imagine the soldier testing my reflexes with his sword instead of his toe. My trapped breath burned in my throat; my lungs ached with holding them shut. Blackness threatened to swallow my mind. I fought it, for if I succumbed I would drag in a deep, shuddering breath.
After what felt like an eternity I heard the footsteps start to move away.
Unable to hold it any longer I let out my breath and drew a new one, sure that at any moment a sword would shear through the flesh of my back. I waited, counting the moments by the beat of my blood.
FOUR
MY THOUGHTS RACED, seeking answers. To attack now, so close to the gadderen and with no time to court the drightens to the victor’s cause, spoke of power and alliances already in place. Who had dared?
The Somner drightens had no love for my House, but the same could be said of Saschan, or Raethn. House Falkere was an unlikely candidate, given the recent marriage discussions between our houses, and House Vestenn, while not a strong ally, was surely too busy guarding the southern marches. Ambition was a powerful spur, however, and it was possible that the Vestenn counted the loss of the southern lowlands reasonable if it gained them the Turholm, and the throne.
Thoughts of the southern border introduced new possibilities as well. Was the Ilthean empire behind the attack? Would they sacrifice Helena and her kin, if so? And how had they reached deep into the heart of the Turasi nation? Had they slaughtered the Majkan tribe, or bribed them? It seemed incredible, but then, so did everything about an Aestival coup.
Cries and carnage still sounded around me, muffled by Theodor’s body smothering me. But it would be dangerous to wait for total quiet to escape. I had not forgotten the flames of my vision.
With hands made sticky by blood, I shoved at the dead cloth-merchant, but his leaden weight didn’t budge. I held back a sob as the gorge rose in my throat. Then, bracing with my legs, I pushed again. His body heavy and limp, and my arms trembling with the effort, with aching slowness he finally toppled off me, and I scrambled free.
The aisle remained clear, but I didn’t dare raise my head above the pew. On hands and knees I shuffled along the length of the side wall, impeded by my blood-drenched skirts. Blood had splashed the dressed stone, and dark grey lines and chips showed where blades had struck.
At the last pew before the back wall I paused, my bruised knee throbbing and fear making my stomach unruly. Sure there had never before in the known world been an expanse of forehead so broad, I peered out.
The door seemed an interminable crawl away: the length of the pew, the central aisle, another pew and the narrow side aisle. All were scattered with the dead, but empty of soldiers.
I crept forward, expecting an arrow to whistle towards me at any moment.
On reaching the centre aisle I paused to catch my breath, wanting to scuttle past without knowing how close danger lay. Reason was still stronger than fear, however, and I looked towards the altar.
Grandmother lay on her back in a tangle of bodies, her white hair gleaming in the lamplight. Arrows stood out from her body, the clothes where they’d driven home black with blood.
Helena lay nearby, a wan, forever stare on her face. One of the soldiers was pawing her for trinkets, tucking a gold chain into his belt pouch. Mouth dry and limbs shaking with panic, I hurried forward while his attention was distracted, slipping through the temple’s doors and back into the main sanctuary hall.
The hall was a veritable slaughterhouse of blood, bodies and overturned furniture. Turasi had fallen like wheat to the scythes, their attackers’ boots tracking prints through the spilled blood. I kept to my hands and knees, h
oping the blood and darkness already slicking the floor would hide any trail my sodden skirts left.
Orange glimmers from the bonfire in the upper courtyard lit the space between the grand teakwood doors. I crawled along the south wall, scurrying from one spill of darkness to the next. A foot from its end was an alcove, at first glance a niche missing its feature piece. In fact one stone, at waist height, would give slightly beneath a touch, swinging open a concealed door in the back wall. The thralls’ runs formed a network of corridors squirrelled throughout the Turholm, built to allow for efficient but unseen service. If their secrets hadn’t yet been plumbed by the attackers, they might shelter me awhile.
Cautiously, I rose to my knees. I was still in darkness, but I didn’t trust it to cloak me. Scanning the hall and its grisly inhabitants, I fumbled behind me with terror-numbed fingers seeking the catch-stone.
Near the temple doors I’d fled through, a shadow twisted free of the general darkness and resolved into the outline of a soldier, mercifully looking in the other direction.
My fingers found the catch-stone and the alcove door swung open onto a lamp-lit corridor.
The sudden flare of light caught the soldier’s attention and in an instant he was running towards me.
I turned and ducked into the corridor, pressing my foot down on the catch-stone just inside. The snick as the mechanism caught and swung the stone door shut cut off the soldier’s command to stop.
Pulse pounding, I fled wild and blind along the passage, the soles of my shoes slapping against the stone, my hands pushing against the walls for speed and stability. My knee throbbed with every step, threatening to pitch me face-first onto the floor. The lamps blazed in their glass cases like trapped butterflies.
The first turning stopped me. Moments after my speed faltered, my blind rush did too. I sank down, my stomach churning, my eyes blurring beneath tears as the truth of my situation swept over me.
Grandmother, the last of my family and the only parent I could truly remember, was dead. Slaughtered. My stomach convulsed, forcing a thin, sour stream of vomit between my teeth.
And Helena, regained only this afternoon, was lost once more, this time forever.
I was alone.
And, in all probability, rushing towards danger instead of away from it. The attack had been carefully timed to find all the officials of note gathered together, all unarmed, trusting in the Aestival truce. That spoke of a Turasi hand, since only a Turasi would have such an intimate knowledge of my court. Which meant either a Turasi allied with a foreign power, or another House’s attempt to steal my throne.
I shook my head, dizzied by the endless circle of possibilities and suspicions, none of which could be resolved until I knew whom I faced. If the Turholm wasn’t taken already, it was simply a matter of time. Yet here I was, the one they most needed dead, possibly running straight towards them, like a ferret kit too ignorant and ineffectual to protect itself.
I drew a deep breath to try to calm myself. Now I’d stopped, the smell of blood in my hair, and on my hands, face and clothes, was overpowering. And even as I huddled here the soldier who’d seen me escape was probably searching for the catch to open the passage …
I squeezed my eyes shut tight, fighting the urge to let fate overtake me. I needed to gather all my wits and every ounce of courage I had. They had killed Grandmother, and intended to wrest the throne from my House. I could not let them. No, if they thought the threat despatched, then it would be their first mistake.
Gathering my strength, I chose the path away from the sanctuary hall. Slowly this time, I crept forward, straining for any sound from ahead or behind, looking for shadows on the walls that might warn of guards in the corridor. My heart hammered at every turning.
The door at this passage’s other end was also of stone. On the other side lay Grandmother’s private rooms, her study and sitting room and her bedchamber beyond. The suite would not stand unguarded, I knew, but the revolutionary would most likely be in the throne room, hungry for the power and protection it offered.
Though I strained to hear anything, there was no sound. The waiting and conjecture made my heart beat ever harder and faster. Before the panic could overtake me again I stepped on the catch-stone in the floor, triggering the latch. I would not suffocate with panic like a rat in a smoked hole.
The door swung in towards me, admitting a spill of warm firelight and cutting off a murmur of conversation.
Fixing my eyes on the wall opposite me, I stepped out, imagining I was behind Grandmother, my dress newly pressed and floating around my ankles, my hair, heavy and slightly awkward, piled on the crown of my head.
In reality my hair straggled down my back in snarls and my dress, filthy with blood and grime, clung to my thighs and calves, but the fiction gave me poise enough to look around. Only two people occupied the room, and both stared at me in alarm. Their boiled-leather armour marked them as professional soldiers; the lack of insignia hinted at mercenary employment. They were Turasi-born, I was sure of it. Had the Iltheans bought their lord’s allegiance?
Both had hands to their hilts, but neither had actually drawn their blades.
I stopped two steps into the room. Fixing them with my most imperious stare wasn’t difficult. All I had to do was think of everyone I knew, dead in the sanctuary – Grandmother crumpled on the floor, blood in her white hair. Aunt Helena, staring into forever while the sacred wine soaked into the seams of the floor.
The urge to speak bubbled up my throat like flood waters, black and boiling. I wanted to rage at them, I wanted to drop to my knees and plead for my life.
Instead, I glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth and said nothing.
They broke first.
‘My lady,’ the one on the left said. Though his tone held a sneer and he didn’t bother with a bow, he hadn’t moved to strike me down; my veneer of confidence had won me that much.
Doubt and fear squirmed in my stomach as I played the only hand I had left: ‘I presume it’s safe for me to return,’ I said, ‘now we’ve succeeded.’
They were both startled, although the man on the left hid it better. ‘Succeeded, my lady?’
With no insignia, it was hard to judge what rank these men held. But if Grandmother had taught me anything, it was that the flow of information slowed to a trickle as soon as it left the upper echelons. It was clear they did not believe me, but neither could they be sure I was bluffing. All I had to do was keep them uncertain.
‘I doubt there’s a one of them left alive,’ I continued, keeping my voice level and confident. ‘Certainly no one to oppose us. I’d call that success, wouldn’t you?’ I paused for a count of two before adding, ‘Don’t tell me there’ve been no reports back yet. That doesn’t speak of efficiency. Which, I can assure you, will not go unnoticed.’
The man on the right glanced at his counterpart for guidance, making it clear it was the man on the left, with his caution and distrust, I had to worry about. The latter assessed me with a narrow, flat stare, searching for deception.
The blood yammering in my veins, I held his gaze, remembering the hacked and bloodied sanctuary to keep my expression taut. Not furious, not desperate – displeased and impatient.
‘My lady,’ he began, breaking the silence at last, still without the barest hint of deference. ‘The sanctuary has been subdued, but the same cannot be said of the rest of the Turholm – yet.’
‘You can subdue nobles at play, but not a handful of thralls?’
His more nervous companion glowered at my tone, but from the cautious one there was no reaction. Yet every second he did no more than stare at me was another second gained by those pursuing me. A hot itch between my shoulderblades had me fighting to stand still.
‘If you will follow us, my lady, we will escort you to the rooms we’ve secured,’ he said at last.
My heart leapt into my throat. Did he believe me? Or was he simply reluctant to make the decision to kill me himself? Either way, I was at his mercy,
amd where he led me now would decide my fate. Would we go back to the sanctuary for a summary execution, or to the cells, to await a more public death as an example? Hopefully, if my gambit had worked, he would lead me into the nest of my enemy. Whoever that was.
‘Very well,’ I said.
FIVE
FLANKED BY THE soldiers, I examined our route as we walked, my apprehension building with every turning. It was immediately apparent we weren’t headed back to the sanctuary, and gradually I became sure the cells weren’t our destination either. It had to be the throne room, I thought, until my escorts led me instead to the skein of offices tucked behind the public façade.
The place was thick with soldiers. Every single one of them stared at me – some of them sidelong, but most of them openly. Bedraggled and soiled as it was, my finery still marked me as highborn, and a target; no doubt they were startled to see me alive.
It was a dangerous ploy I dared. Under those mercenary eyes, to accept my fate and die at the hands of a military coup seemed suddenly easier than to match wits against those behind tonight’s massacre.
Left outside while my arrival was announced, and still feverishly trying to work out who had attacked, I went back through the details of my vision. I had stood – shrouded, yes, but untouched – in the flames which consumed all else. Death was not my fate. Yet.
Counting flecks on the walls to distract myself from shaking, I was startled when the door cracked open before I reached a hundred. A flick of a soldier’s head ushered me inside.
Mentally preparing myself for whoever I might meet, I did my best to sail regally into the room, making it into the middle before my step faltered.
The man in front of me was a complete stranger. He stood, one hip resting upon the edge of the desk, arms crossed and chin turned towards his right shoulder, watching me aslant. That narrow and knowing glance, coupled with the unrelieved black of his clothing and the pale eyes beneath dark brows and close-cropped dark hair, minded me of a raven.
