by Cat Marsters
“But—”
Thud.
“I don’t want him to die,” Kett said. She looked at the face of the man who’d once been so kind to her. “He saved my leg but tried to sacrifice my life. Well, I’m sparing his life but sacrificing his leg. I think you’ll find that’s a better deal.”
Five minutes passed with little sound except the steady thud of the battering ram. The concubine, sobbing uselessly, tried ineffectually to bandage the Maharaja’s leg. Kett, irritated beyond belief, shoved her aside and did it herself, trying not to think about the irony.
Ten minutes went by and the door remained unbreached. The ram continued to batter it.
Fifteen minutes. The door began to splinter. A footstool, then a small chest, then a table toppled from the barricade. Bael readied his sword and with his free hand reached for Kett, twining his fingers wordlessly with hers.
They faced the doors in silence.
A shout came from outside, then another, and then the noise swelled to a deafening pitch. Men yelled orders to fire. To advance. To defend.
“They’re here,” Lya said.
The door burst open.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Flying splinters of wood shot toward the group in the throne room, and they all ducked. To her credit, the concubine covered the Maharaja’s body with her own.
Kett spun quickly, pressed the briefest of kisses on Bael’s lips, then her hand left his and grabbed the nearest piece of wood. She hurled it at the breached door. It was a token gesture, but it stopped one man in his tracks.
Behind the rushing onslaught of soldiers, a battle raged. Darson’s battalion had gotten here in time.
The trick now would be escaping.
Soldiers surged forward like the tide into a suddenly wide channel. Spilling through the door they charged, swords raised, toward the short line of two big cats, three humans and a kelf.
The first men reached the six defenders and the tide broke with a clash. Var and Véan leapt forward, roaring in a spray of blood. Dark swung his sword in a high arc, bringing it down and then sideways to take out two men at once. Lya ducked, getting in close and using her shorter blades with the confidence of someone whose skin couldn’t be cut.
Kett leapt forward, relishing the fierce rush of battle, but even as she moved, her body taking over automatically, she became aware of the man beside her.
Bael fought like a dervish.
A blade in each hand, he whirled and spun, slicing out low to cut down a soldier with one hand then swinging the other over to take out another. The momentum of the first cut took his sword around and up, into a third man. As a fourth swung his blade at chest height, Bael dipped backward, graceful as a dancer, and plunged his sword into the man’s chest.
He took down four men in as many seconds.
He moved in a never-ending ballet of death, the swords in his hands like extensions of his own body, fluid as water, and Kett’s heart picked that moment to tell her she was in love.
She heartily concurred.
Swinging away, fresh determination singing in her veins, she cut and swung and slashed, taking few hits and delivering many. All the time, the six of them moved backward, toward the throne where the Maharaja lay cradled in the arms of his concubine. She cowered away from the fighting, tears staining her beautiful face.
Kett ignored her and shoved her sword into the belly of an oncoming soldier. He twisted as he fell, taking her sword with him. Another man rushed at Kett and she ducked, deflecting him but losing her chance to regain her blade. Left with only her knife, she cut and slashed three more men to create a space before crouching and leaping into the air, spinning over and over as she changed her shape.
Lion’s paws, eagle’s beak and claws, one of her favorite shapes for fighting.
The sight of a gryphon where a woman had previously been startled several soldiers, gaining Kett the seconds she’d lost in changing her shape. She went into a dive, slashing with her front claws and swinging her head around, her beak cutting through the carotid artery of one man while her back foot kicked out, ripping the face off another.
Leaping, flying, twirling, Kett danced in the air the way Bael danced on the ground. Var, still tiger-shaped, rolled and leapt, his huge paws tipped with claws that could kill with a single blow.
They passed the throne. The small door was in sight. Kett knew timing was critical. If she opened it too early, someone could come through from the other side or get around behind them. Too late, and they’d be backed into a corner.
Fifteen feet away. Twelve. Nine.
At six feet, Kett soared through the air, grabbed the wooden barricade and yanked it free with her back paws. Dark, man and beast, was closest, and both his forms rushed through it. Lya darted after him. In the corridor ahead, someone screamed. On the far side of the room, Darson’s red-coated men flooded in, the tide rapidly turning in their favor.
They were winning. They’d won.
“Bael!” Kett yelled to her mate, who was about ten feet away, but it came out as an eagle’s screech.
Bael spun, one sword high and one low, taking out three men at the same time, then swung both swords in front of him in flashing circles, clearing his path to her. His eyes gleamed.
“Fun, huh?” he said—and then froze, doubled over in sudden pain.
No one had touched him. His head snapped around to where a soldier was yanking his sword free of Var’s flank. The tiger roared, trapped against the throne, and another sword slashed into him.
Kett stared, her elation quickly souring into dread.
Bael turned and ran to Var, whose ears were flattened to his head, one foreleg hanging limply. Bael moved as if suddenly each limb weighed a hundred pounds.
Kett swooped down on the men attacking Var and slashed open the throat of one before turning to the other. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the concubine, her silk sari drenched with blood, clutching the Maharaja’s arm in one hand and a length of splintered wood in the other.
As she turned, the girl raised her arm. The shard she held was sharp and bloody. Kett twisted back, but not fast enough. The slashing point came down on her.
And something thudded into her, knocking her into the ground.
It was Bael, the piece of wood embedded in his chest.
His breath came in jerks. His mouth gaped. Blood fountained from his chest. A few feet away, Var rolled heavy against the throne, his great body heaving, blood pouring from a dozen wounds.
An invisible circle suddenly swept out from the throne, culling all the Maharaja’s men with an unseen power, throwing the concubine into the air and letting her body fall onto the upturned sword of a dying man.
But Kett barely noticed, her entire world condensed into the space by the throne where Bael’s arm stretched desperately to touch the bloodied fur of his twin. Gulping in horrible, terrifying panic, Kett wriggled from under him and grabbed his arm with her beak to yank it closer.
Bael’s human fingers touched Var’s tiger fur, and both their eyes closed.
Kett screamed, and the sound wasn’t the cry of an eagle but the wail of a soul in pain. As she watched, winded, Var and Bael began to merge until there was just a man lying there, his body torn and bleeding in a dozen places. The shard of wood stuck out of a bloody, revolting gash on his chest.
He was barely breathing.
She needed to get him out of here. Desperately Kett roused herself, grasping Bael’s shoulders in her claws and rising ponderously into the air. The fight was all but over now, the throne room eerily silent as she flapped urgently toward the high doors.
Her eagle eyes took in flashes of detail. Darson’s men fighting the Maharaja’s legions, and winning. Pradeshi soldiers huddled in small defensive groups, hiding. Kelfs tending to the injured. Women and children fleeing into the desert’s all-consuming clouds of dust.
Kett flew on, away from the palace, her wings finally failing her a few hundred yards away. The clash of steel on steel rang in t
he air as she eased Bael’s body down on the sparse, sandy grass of a small hill.
He was breathing, but only just. His clothes were saturated with blood. Kett turned herself human again to rip his shirt open and check his wounds, trying to find the worst so she could stop it, but her eyes were blurry with tears and her hands shook.
“Bael,” she whispered. “Please don’t die. I love you. Please don’t die.”
His eyelids fluttered.
“Can you hear me?”
“No,” said a man’s voice behind her. “He’s dying.”
It was Striker, his eyes alight with bloodlust. Behind him, the Maharaja’s palace burned.
“Do something!” Kett begged, appalled to hear her own voice breaking.
Striker shrugged. “Any one of these wounds could kill him. He has dozens—”
“So do them one by one! The worst first. Like a…a…a triage or something.”
“By the time I’ve cured one mortal wound, pet, another will have killed him. You can’t delay that sort of thing.”
“You,” Kett said, leaping up and launching herself at him. “You came with us to fight, you came and you did nothing, and if it wasn’t for you, he—”
“He’d have died there in that throne room,” Striker said calmly, holding her back as if she were no bigger or scarier than a kitten. “But I cleared it for you to get out, pet. Thank me for that, at least.”
She stared at him, eyes burning with dust and tears that blurred her vision.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve a whole swarm of soldiers to kill in interesting ways.” He chucked her under the chin. “Have fun, kids.”
“No,” Kett bellowed. “Striker, please!”
But he was already gone, vanished into the dust and the smoke, and Kett was left standing there with blood all over her and no hope left.
She stared out at the fires erupting all over the palace, no doubt Striker’s handiwork. Behind her, Bael was dying and there was nothing she could do.
She’d never felt so angry in her life. Angry because she was helpless, and she hated it.
She fell to her knees by Bael, took his hand in hers, wiped the blood and sweat from his face with her palm. If only she had more time, if she could get him to Chance or even Nuala—
Wait.
Delay.
“Bael!” She grasped his hand. “Can you hear me?”
His lips moved a tiny fraction. His head lolled. Sweat trickled down his face, mingling with the blood there.
Kett grabbed his other hand and put her mouth close to his ear. “Bael, listen to me. If you die, I’ll bloody kill you, you hear?”
The faintest smile touched his lips.
“Listen. When I was hurt, you got me to Nuala. Crossed the Wall. How did you do it? I was nearly dead.”
“Little bit of magic,” he mumbled.
“Magic? Healing magic?”
Bael made an indistinct sound. His breathing was harsh, shallow. Kett felt panic rising higher inside her and could barely keep it down. Tears burned her eyes, stung her cheeks.
“You were hurt too. Your wings. Your ribs. How did you fly?”
Bael licked his lips. “Postponed them,” he mumbled. “Had more important things to do.”
Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would break her chest right open.
“You delayed them?” He nodded. “Well, do it now! Until I can get you back to the camp, at least. Until I can persuade Striker to help you. Use those shiny new Mage powers of yours for something besides showing off, would you?” She gripped his hand tighter, her voice ragged. “Bael, do this for me. Please!”
His fingers squeezed hers faintly. “For you,” he whispered—and the blood from the wound in his chest stopped flowing.
Kett prayed to every god she could think of, invented a couple more and rose into the air on desperate wings.
* * * * *
Six months later
“A dress,” Kett said in disgust. “Another fucking dress.”
“Kett,” Nuala protested mildly.
“I’m sorry. Another fucking gown.”
Her stepmother smiled despite herself. “You look beautiful, Kett.”
“No, I don’t. I never look beautiful. I ain’t beautiful.”
“Don’t be silly, of course you are. Now, will you be all right if I leave you for a while? Since your father fired his valet, he can’t even fasten a cravat by himself.”
“He fired his valet? Why?”
Nuala sighed, but there was a smile behind it. “Because he’s a Real Man, and Real Men don’t have Poncy Valets.”
Kett covered her mouth.
“I know,” Nuala giggled. “I think this whole thing has done him a world of good. Now, you’re not going to sneak away to see Bael, are you?”
“He’s not even here yet.”
“Well, he’d better be soon. Do you have your bouquet? Good.” She sighed. “You do look so lovely, you know.” A tear gleamed in her eye. “I never thought I’d see this day.”
Kett scowled. “Don’t you have cravats to tie?”
Nuala nodded, beaming, and took her leave, which meant Kett was alone with her reflection.
Ugh. This creation even had bows. There were frills and lace and things. Served her right, she supposed glumly, for letting Nuala and her sisters have free rein.
Poking at the elaborate knots Nuala’s maid had twirled her hair into, she looked around the room for something to do that wouldn’t involve crushing her dress. Or The Dress, as Eithne had taken to calling it. But there was nothing in the room apart from her old, comfortable clothes and weapons.
Outside, a bell tolled. The royal temple, telling everyone who didn’t know that something important was about to go down. Kett didn’t know who in Elvyrn could possibly be unaware. Even blind, deaf mutes knew there was a royal wedding going on.
She sighed, poked at her hair again and tried to avoid her reflection. It was no good; the mirror Nuala had brought in was far too big and had sort of wings that folded around to reflect her from different angles.
She really had to get out.
Striding down the corridor, she ducked into a doorway as a couple of Eithne’s irritating friends giggled their way past. From inside a room, she heard a woman wail, “I look so fat!”
It was Chance, who to Kett’s knowledge had never worn a spare pound in her life.
“You’re not fat,” Dark said, his voice a soothing rumble. “You’re pregnant.”
“But I look fat! Everyone will think I’m fat. And I have a reputation, you know! I used to be a Lady of the Association!”
“Yes, I know,” Dark said patiently, “but you’re not any—”
“I could have lost rank over this!”
“By becoming pregnant?”
“Yes! No! Daa-ark, look at me, I’m a whale!”
“You’re not a whale. You’re still the most beautiful woman in the Realm. You’ll even outshine the bride.”
Kett rolled her eyes and moved on. She began to duck again when she heard footsteps coming closer but paused when she recognized the tread.
King Talis of Peneggan rounded the corner and stopped dead when he saw her.
“Oh my,” he said, taking in her dress.
“Don’t,” Kett warned.
“I don’t think I’ve seen so much decoration since…well, I’ve never seen so much decoration.”
“Blame your sister,” Kett told him, “and nieces.”
“Oh, I fully do,” he said. He brushed lint from his embroidered velvet doublet, which would have looked ridiculous in any other company, but compared to her crenellated dress looked positively restrained.
“Oh, and by the way,” he said, before passing her, “next time you attack a head of state, Kett, could you do it without a battalion of my army in tow?”
“Hey, he sold me down the river,” Kett said.
“Be that as it may, you could at least have gotten them to march under other colors.” Talis winced.
“I’m spending a fortune in Order fees, hiring the best diplomats to smooth things over.”
“Do they know he intended to send the king’s step-niece to her death?” Kett asked mulishly, because that was the only thing she could think of that might help.
“That’s the angle we’re taking.” He shook his head. “Did you really hamstring him?”
“Poetic justice,” Kett said.
“Yes.” He glanced at his watch, very nearly smiling. “Look, I need to get to the temple. Promised Nuala I’d get your father there on time.”
“Good luck,” Kett said, because punctuality had never been Tyrnan’s strong point.
“I’ll need it. You know, I’m sure this sort of thing isn’t usually required of kings.”
“Maybe it is when they’re the uncle of the bride.”
“Maybe.” He started past her, tossing over his shoulder, “By the way, love the dress.”
Kett made an obscene gesture that could on some counts be construed as treasonous. The king just laughed.
She continued toward the stairs, hoping to find her brother or maybe Jalen or someone else who wasn’t expecting her to enjoy being dressed in frills and ruffles, but then a familiar scent came to her.
She broke into a smile and started running, picking up her skirts and flying down the stairs, into a drawing room that had been redecorated so recently she had no idea what it was supposed to be called.
“Bael!”
His face lit up and he grabbed her as she crashed into him, kissing her soundly before breaking away.
“Whoa, am I smudging important makeup?”
“Don’t care,” Kett said, going back for more.
“Kett.” He held her at arm’s length and looked down at her dress. A slow smile began. “Kett, Kett, Kett.”
“Watch it,” she warned.
“You look…”
“Don’t.”
“It’s crenellated.”
She folded her arms and glared at him.
Bael grinned. “You look like my gorgeous girl in a fucking ridiculous dress. Nuala’s handiwork?”
Disarmed, Kett nodded. “Apparently taste just goes out of the window where weddings are concerned.”
