“I should go first,” the count said, his horse shoving Storm aside. “De la Tour troops will only follow a member of the family.”
“Certainly,” Trystan said, doing his best to hide a smile. The count was making this much too easy.
The alleyway wasn’t wide enough for two horses to stand abreast, so it took a bit of jostling for the count to move into the forward position. As he squeezed past, Trystan clicked his tongue, and Storm, already in a bad temper at being shoved, butted his head into the flank of the count’s horse.
“Hey!” the count said, raising his riding crop. “Get out of the way.”
“Sorry,” Trystan said, letting Storm push harder while he pulled out his sword.
Squeezed against the wall, the count fumbled for a weapon with some difficulty, but he was much too slow. Thanks to the warmth of the day, he’d also removed much of his armor, making Trystan’s job much easier.
Trystan slashed his sword at the count’s face, and he jerked back, cracking his head against the wall. Trystan only had to drag the sword back the other way, across Michel’s throat.
It was over quickly, the count slumping forward across his saddle, falling off as Storm stepped away, giving the other horse room to move. Trystan hesitated, though he was just about certain the count was dead.
He decided it never hurt to have a few more weapons, so he jumped down, rescuing a pistol belt from a growing pool of blood on the ground, and grabbing another sword from a scabbard on the horse’s saddle before slapping it on the rear so it trotted out of the alley.
Now he had to hurry. He’d considered taking Michel hostage, but worried it might not do much good, with two more of the duke’s children alive in Tourane.
Trystan wanted to return to the duke as quickly as possible, but had one more task. He urged Storm out of the alleyway and onto a narrow street, which led to a small square. He found the duke’s remaining troops stopped here, their officers milling around in confusion.
“There you are, Your Grace,” a captain said, clearly relieved. “We heard of trouble at the king’s palace and wondered if we should go there instead.”
“Of course not,” Trystan said. “That’s a distraction. Duke Philipe sent me to tell you to head for the temple. The Maxima is in trouble. The king’s forces are assaulting her guards. She needs all the help she can get. Go that way, it’s faster.” Trystan pointed at a street, which he knew led away from both palace and temple, praying that the officers were unfamiliar with the city.
The captain motioned at the other officers and shouted a few orders. Then he turned to Trystan. “Are you coming with us?”
Trystan shook his head, even as he turned Storm away. “I’m taking back alleyways to get back to the duke faster. He can hold out if he knows you’re coming.”
Before the officer questioned any of that, Trystan and Storm galloped out of the square and back up a quiet street. He knew a short way to King Gauvain’s palace and hoped it would be clear.
It seemed the citizenry had realized trouble was afoot. There was no traffic, in spite of it being midday, all doors and window shutters closed up tight.
Trystan pulled out a pistol as Storm pounded down the street, apparently eager to join the action. Within moments, he heard the pop of musketfire and the shouts and screams of battle.
Praying he wasn’t too late, Trystan urged Storm on, then pulled him up as he bore down on the rear of Duke Philipe’s undersized force.
They hadn’t even reached the king’s palace before being ambushed, with Gauvain’s troops positioned on all of the rooftops along every possible route. The duke was smart though, choosing a narrow street to make his stand, rather than taking his chances in the large square in front of the palace. He’d organized his troops into tight ranks, blocking the street, even as his musketeers picked off the king’s soldiers on the rooftop.
No one had seen Trystan yet, so he scanned the area, looking for the carriage. He saw no sign of it, but was certain he had to be close. He moved quietly up the street, pushing at every tall door set into a wall. This sector of Allaux held the mansions of the nobility, each of them built around a large courtyard with at least one door facing the street.
The first few doors were locked, and Trystan had to bite his tongue to keep from swearing in frustration. How would he ever find the carriage if it was shut inside one of these? He walked Storm along the street as quietly as he could, though it was hard to make out anything over the sounds of battle up ahead.
He stopped in front of another door—a tall green one—and rattled at it. Also locked. Trystan swore and turned Storm around.
“Let me go! I hate you! I want to see my papa.”
That was the shriek of a young child and Trystan turned back, his heart pounding, certain it was Joslyn’s voice.
He laid his ear against the door, still holding the pistol. A lower voice, sharp and female, not loud enough to make out the words, sounds of a struggle and a child screaming.
He had to get in there. Backing Storm up, Trystan took aim at the lock on the door. The ball splintered the heavy wood around it and Trystan prayed that would be enough.
Storm reared up, kicking at the door. The weakened wood gave way enough for the lock to come loose, and the door swung open.
Grabbing another pistol, Trystan charged through the door and into the courtyard.
Monique de la Tour stood outside the carriage, a crying Joslyn held tight against her. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted. Put down the pistol or she dies,” she said, her eyes wild. She held an ornate Cesiane dagger against Joslyn’s throat, a ruby in the hilt winking in the afternoon sunshine.
“All right,” Trystan said. “I’ll put it down.”
Gwynneth
The summons to Edric’s study came early in the morning. Gwynneth struggled into a crumpled dress and hurried to him, hoping he hadn’t received bad news.
She dropped into a chair across from him. “What is it?”
“A great deal of news has caught up to you.” Edric passed her a thick packet of letters. “But I thought you’d want to see this first.” He handed her a long sheet of paper.
Gwynneth gasped. Printed cheaply, it proclaimed that Princess Maryna, the real ruler of Terragand, lived and would reclaim her kingdom.
“Where did this come from?” she asked.
“A temple in Lantura.” Edric smiled. “They got it from a priest traveling from Fromenberg. Maryna stopped at Saarbrunnen for a while on her way out of Tirovor.”
“Thank the gods.” Gwynneth struggled to hold the tears back. It was one thing to hear her daughter lived from Lennart, it was another to see her words in writing.
“Perhaps you'll find a letter from her,” Edric said, looking watery himself. “I want to know where she is, with things in Isenwald and Oltena so unstable.”
“You don’t think they came through Isenwald?”
“I hope not. Surely word of Teodora taking charge would have reached them already.”
“Gods, I hope so.” Pressing the letters close, Gwynneth rose. “Thank you for letting me know. I’d better start reading.”
She settled into a quiet corner in the library and shuffled through the letters, looking for Maryna’s hand. She found one and opened it with trembling hands. It was dated weeks ago, and the paper bore the crest of Princess Keylinda of Fromenberg.
“Oh, bless that silly goose,” Gwynneth murmured. Once things settled down she’d have to send the princess something nice from the best Heidenhof jeweler.
Maryna wrote a long account, but Gwynneth barely got through it as her eyes watered. At some point she’d accepted that she might never see her daughter again.
“I’ll kill Natalya,” she murmured, as she read a tale of pirates, frightening Cesiane guards, and a rather evil yet romantic Maladene nobleman—though Maryna’s narrative around him was breathless and incomplete. Gwynneth hoped he hadn’t harmed her. “I’ll kill Count Vega,” she muttered, and turned the page, gratified
to learn that Trystan had already done just that.
When she reached the end, she folded it and put it into her pocket, resolving to read it again when she felt less emotional. She’d have to write to Natalya, but it would be wise to do that when she was less angry. There was no excuse for taking a young, innocent girl into such peril.
Gwynneth’s breath caught, remembering her other two children still in Galladium. She looked through the other letters until she found one from Gauvain. He assured her that he'd retrieved Andres and Renata from his hunting lodge and they were staying with him at his palace in Allaux. He would return them to her as soon as she sent word it was safe.
Gwynneth wiped at her eyes. She hated herself for leaving them behind, yet was glad she had gone. Otherwise, Braeden might have died in Isenwald along with Kendryk, and she wouldn’t be here now with Edric Maximus and Lennart.
Still, it had been an awful price to pay. Gwynneth swore once she had all of her children back with her, she’d never leave any of them, or let them go anywhere without her. They belonged here in Terragand, and no one would dislodge them ever again.
The library door opened behind her and Gwynneth hurriedly wiped her eyes again. Before she could turn, Queen Raysa had glided into a seat across from her. It was rather unfair how lovely she was, and how young. Still, her marriage to Lennart seemed to be a success, and Gwynneth didn’t mind taking a little credit for that.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you.” Raysa held a letter in her hand. “But Lennart received this from a Captain Kronek today. It seems he’s escorting your daughter?” She handed over the letter, which Gwynneth grabbed with rather unseemly haste.
“I just read a letter from her, but that was dated a while ago and they were still in Fromenberg.”
“This came from Isenwald, is all I know,” Raysa said. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“No, stay,” Gwynneth said. “If you don’t mind.” She wasn’t sure why she asked, but Raysa’s presence was calming. Nothing remained of the terrified girl she’d first met in Sanova.
Raysa smiled and settled back into her chair, staying silent while Gwynneth read.
This one was far more recent, written in Anton’s untidy scrawl, and also more unsettling. They’d traveled up the river through Isenwald, intending to pass quietly, but Elektra needed their help.
Gwynneth’s heart stayed in her mouth while she read, even as she prayed that Anton had somehow brought Elektra away from there. She was needed here if Lennart was to carry out his plans.
Unfortunately, things had gone wrong. Anton and Maryna had escaped and somehow acquired an army of some size, though Anton didn’t always offer the clearest explanations and his handwriting was difficult to read.
“Oh dear,” Gwynneth said as she finished.
“What’s happened?” Raysa asked. “Lennart said a few bad words, then said you had to read it.”
“We don’t know what’s become of Elektra.” Gwynneth shook her head. “Anton—Captain Kronek—had to make a fast decision between her and Maryna. He left Elektra behind after killing the Maximus in Kronfels.”
Raysa gasped, raising a hand to her mouth. “Is Elektra still alive?”
“She was, the last time Anton saw her.” Gwynneth shook her head, then leaned forward to take Raysa’s other hand. “But he’s not at all sure she’s still on our side. It’s possible she betrayed him and Maryna.”
“I don’t believe it.” Raysa’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t. She’s a good person. She’d never betray us.”
“I think you’re right,” Gwynneth said, “but we need to make our plans without her.”
Elektra
“I’m afraid I can’t give you a big wedding as befits your rank,” Mattila said.
She and Elektra were back in the general’s tent making everything official.
You can’t even give me a husband as befits my rank, Elektra thought, as she signed a document, digging the quill in so deeply she tore the paper. At least this one made her a general, with a rather generous salary, on top of a downright dazzling bonus, payable the day after her wedding. Marrying Jozef still seemed a steep price to pay.
“We need to move out as quickly as possible.” Mattila watched Elektra sign one paper and shoved another toward her. “My scouts have reported that Lennart has defeated Balduin at Heidenhof. Leyf Lofbrok pulled out of Oltena and is hurrying toward Terragand for all he’s worth. He even left his heavier artillery behind.”
Elektra looked up. “He’s not going through Isenwald, is he?”
“Maybe the eastern edge. He might as well, since Princess Viviane is unlikely to lift a finger to stop him.”
“She might,” Elektra said, pulling the next document forward. It was a marriage contract. She shuddered and signed it anyway. Jozef—fortunately not present—had already provided an illiterate-looking scrawl. She’d be surprised if he’d ever picked up a book in his life. Elektra passed it back, then said, “She’ll have the army she ordered from Floradias by now.”
“Eight thousand, you said?” Mattila shook her head. “Lofbrok will have more than twice that many. He’ll go where he pleases.”
“Is that why you failed to stop him here?” Elektra asked innocently.
“I could have, if I’d wanted to.” Mattila sounded calm, but two red spots flared up on her cheeks. “But it seemed better to devastate Oltena before moving on. The population will be less likely to fight back when I take over.”
“Really? They’re fighting back well enough right now.” Elektra decided that if she was to be Mattila’s daughter-in-law then she’d treat the general like a family member.
“Your bad attitude won’t make this any easier,” Mattila said.
“It’s making me feel a little better.” Elektra wasn’t too worried about the general retaliating in any meaningful way. She still wanted an archduchess as a daughter-in-law.
“I can’t imagine why you aren’t thrilled about this. Jozef is one of the most eligible young men in the empire.”
“If you say so.” Elektra rolled her eyes. “I suppose he’s all right if you don’t require intelligent conversation, and many women don’t, I’ve heard. Or significant rank. I can’t imagine what my mother will think when she hears—”
“That will be enough.” Mattila gritted her teeth. “Now go back to your tent and get ready. I want this done by nightfall.”
Kyra waited in the tent with another dress, even finer than the one she’d worn for the feast. Now that she wasn’t in front of Mattila, Elektra's resolve faltered.
“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Kyra asked as she buttoned up Elektra’s dress. This one was a pale green, laden with lace, while tiny pearls embroidered the bodice, perhaps even more flattering than the yellow had been.
Elektra was sure Mattila wanted her prettied up so Jozef wouldn’t complain too much. Though he seemed easygoing enough, she doubted he’d like being tied down. She wondered if he’d confided in Aksel.
Next, a maid came in. She belonged to a general’s wife and knew the latest hairstyles, so by the time she was done, Elektra hardly recognized herself. She looked so grown up and sophisticated.
Her hair fell to her shoulders in ringlets, with the rest wound into a knot on the back of her head, held in place with a pearl-studded net. At least she could take comfort in the fact that Aksel would see her at her best. Perhaps he’d feel a bit of regret after all.
The wedding took place under the trees, beside the long tables, heavily laden again. With a few days’ notice, there was time for a roasted pig, though Elektra doubted she’d eat anything. A makeshift altar holding a shabby icon of Vica stood to one side, attended by a disreputable-looking priest.
Elektra couldn’t believe this was happening. An archduchess should marry a prince or king, and do it in one of Atlona’s finest temples in front of a Maxima.
She knew Aksel was somewhere in the gathered crowd, but she held her head high, staring straight ahead so she wouldn’t risk seeing him.
Jozef was already there beside the priest, wearing a ridiculously ornate dark red suit, smiling pleasantly.
Elektra didn’t bother returning it. He had to realize she was doing this for convenience only.
The priest read the words out of a little book, and Elektra repeated the parts she was supposed to without looking at Jozef. Since this was not a Quadrene ceremony it didn’t count, at least not to her.
At one point, Jozef took her hand and pulled her around to face him.
“I forgot to ask,” he said, “whose name are we taking?”
“Mine of course,” Elektra said, raising her eyebrows, surprised he’d even ask the question. Except for a few unusual cases, the lower-ranking spouse always took the name of the higher.
“Jozef Inferrara,” he said. “I like that.”
She didn’t.
Trystan
“This is pointless,” Trystan said as he put his pistol in its holster. “Your husband is defeated and the king’s soldiers will be here in a moment. If you harm this child more than you already have, the king will show no mercy.”
“He won’t show it anyway.” Monique tossed her head, fixing her brilliant eyes on Trystan. “I would rather die than surrender.”
“Have it your way.” Trystan smiled, shooting her with the pistol he’d held in his left hand, concealed under the sash. The ball went straight through her forehead, and Monique fell back against the carriage, then slid to the ground.
Joslyn screamed and ran across the courtyard, away from Trystan.
“Hey,” he said, dismounting. He paused and took a few steps back, closing the courtyard door as best he could. He’d prefer not to have company right now. “It’s all right.” He walked slowly toward Joslyn.
She’d dashed to a far wall, trying to hide behind a small peach tree in a pot.
Fall of the Titan (The Desolate Empire Book 5) Page 29
