by K. C. May
The warrant tag had been his for years. There was no reason it would simply lose its Gavin-ness and then find it again, a few hours later. He had to be moving into dead zones where her gift couldn’t reach—perhaps another realm. He was the Wayfarer, after all, though she didn’t truly understand what that meant. She only knew he occasionally walked right into thin air, disappearing from view, and returned later with stories to tell. Was Daia also in this dead zone?
He didn’t often go anywhere without his champion, as if he needed a skirt to hide behind. Granted, Daia didn’t wear skirts—she was too manly for that. Gavin seemed not to mind her lack of femininity, which reminded Feanna of her first husband, Henrik, who’d barely touched her during the six years of their marriage. Henrik preferred those young men he hired to help tend the fields. She pushed the memory away with the hope that Henrik was in the depths of hell, screaming in pain for dying and saddling her with so much debt.
Fate had a strange way of turning her life completely around. She’d met Gavin, a fairly handsome man, despite his scars, with a kind of boorish charm, who’d turned out to be far wealthier—and randier—than she’d ever hoped for in a husband. Daia was never far from his side, except for the evenings they used to spend in the family room with the children and nights in their bedchamber. Feanna wondered whether Gavin, with his hearty sexual appetite, required things of his champion beyond protection. There was no way to know unless she had an item that belonged to Daia. If she did, she would know what Daia felt. She ran her thumb absently across the wolf’s head etched into the leather warrant tag. She could do more than feel Daia’s emotions. The notion of pushing her own feelings into Gavin’s champion made her giggle. What kind of chaos would ensue?
Could I make her hate him so much that she kills him?
She didn’t know, but it was worth trying. She could push her feelings into both of them at the same time. The future king was growing in her belly. What further need had she for its father, anyway? The problem was that Daia had few possessions, and what she had, she took with her. If Feanna could sneak into Daia’s room, perhaps she would find something small that wouldn’t be missed.
Someone knocked on the door. Feanna tucked the warrant tag back into her corset, making sure it was completely hidden by her bosom. “Come in,” she said with a sigh.
The lock rattled, and the door opened. Eriska swept in carrying a large silver tray. Gavin’s manservant, Quint, followed her with another. “We brought your dinner, Your Majesty. The cook prepared your favorite this afternoon: roast lamb with squash pudding. He thought it might lift your spirits.”
Feanna waved dismissively and turned back to the view from her window. “Put it down. I’ll eat when I get hungry.”
“May I pour you a glass of wine, Your Majesty?” Quint asked.
She turned back to him. “Yes, that would be lovely.” But he didn’t pour the red wine into a crystal goblet; instead, he filled a pewter one.
“I’m supposed to drink wine from this?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, my queen,” he said. “No glass. Jophet’s orders.”
She felt a hot streak burn red across her vision. Her lips curled and her fingers followed suit, turning into claws. “Get out! Get the hell out of my sight. You make me sick. Nothing but pathetic excuses for human beings. A waste of flesh and clean air.” The two servants, faces comically contorted into shocked submission, bobbed and ducked, apologizing softly as they backed out.
Feanna knew she should try harder to put on a different face for her captors if she wanted to convince them that Gavin had grossly exaggerated his claims of her so-called illness. Ragetha wasn’t at her door to give her a signal, and apparently she hadn’t instructed her relief guard before leaving her post. Stupid whore.
“Wait,” she said, stopping the guard as she was closing the door behind her. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Norna,” the woman replied in a voice almost as deep as Cirang’s. “I guard your door at night.”
“Who are you guarding, me or everyone else in the palace?”
“You, of course, my queen.” Norna inclined her head slightly.
“Then you won’t mind walking with me for a bit. My joints are sore from all the sitting.” When Feanna leaned forward to stand up, she remembered the thing growing in her belly and knew that everyone who was loyal to Gavin would do whatever they must to ensure his son’s well-being. “The baby needs me to walk.”
“Um,” Norna said, casting a glance away. She scratched her temple. “I’ll have to clear it with Jophet first. He’d have my hide if I didn’t.”
“Yes, because the Supreme Councilor of the Militia has authority over the queen. Never mind, traitor. I’ll just pace the length of my apartment. Go on. Get out. Get out!”
“I-I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” Norna closed the door quietly and locked it.
Feanna picked up the goblet of wine Quint had poured for her and hurled it at the door. It struck the wood with a thud, spraying red wine everywhere, then clanged on the marble floor before rolling to a stop. She screamed through clenched teeth, unable to manage her frustration any other way. The queen was supposed to be given whatever the hell she wanted, but these imbeciles refused her everything she asked for.
Perhaps she should’ve drunk that wine before hurling the goblet. Now she’d have to tell Norna to bring Quint back.
Then she noticed the servant’s door on the other side of the room. It was designed to blend inconspicuously into the wall, and while she’d known Eriska to use the passageways in the past, her handmaiden hadn’t used the door since they’d returned from Ambryce. She went to it and touched the nails that secured it shut. Nails that might, with patience, be worked free.
Feanna searched through a drawer in her dressing table for a hairpin that looked strong enough to pry the nails out. Nothing in her drawer looked sturdy or stiff enough. She went to her closet, a room larger than the bedchamber in her old farmhouse in Saliria, and dug through her collection of shoes to find her least favorite. First, she removed the laces and opened the upper wide. Out came the insole, which seemed to be stitched loosely to the sole beneath, for it came up with only a bit of tugging and a ripping sound. Under that was another thin layer of leather, which she managed to pull up enough to get to the metal shank beneath. She had known these ugly shoes would come in handy someday.
She worked the edge of the shank under the first nail head, carefully so as not to damage the plaster on the wall. It wouldn’t do to have her guard notice chipped plaster or gaping holes from an overzealous and sloppy attempt to escape. If she did this right and replaced the nails, her captors would never be the wiser. Summoning every last bit of her patience, she continued working on the nails, pulling them out a bit at a time with the shank and wiggling them loose with her fingers.
After another knock on the door, the key rattled in the lock. Feanna scurried to the table where her meal tray had been set, and sat in the chair, sliding the shank under her arse.
It was Eriska. “I was coming to— oh. You haven’t touched your lamb, my queen. Is it too bland? Shall I have the cook make you something else?”
Feanna looked at the food in surprise. She’d been so absorbed in her escape that she had forgotten to eat, but now, with the plate in front of her, her stomach rumbled and protested. It would be more edible heated up, but she wanted to be left alone to keep working on her escape. “I’ve no appetite this evening.” She plucked the bread from the tray with one hand and made a shooing motion with the other. “This might settle my stomach, but you can take the rest. I’ll turn in early. Perhaps a good night’s sleep will do me well.”
“Shall I help you dress for bed, then?”
Feanna looked down at herself, considering the laces in the back and the hidden warrant tag in the front. “Yes, help me out of this dress.” She set the bread down and picked up the shank before standing, hiding it in her hand.
Eriska tugged and pulled on the laces, loosening the
gown’s bodice, and then slipped it off over Feanna’s head. Feanna grabbed the warrant tag in her free hand before it fell to the floor and quickly wound the leather thong into a ball. While Eriska hung up the gown, Feanna tucked the shank and warrant tag under the cushion of the chair by the window.
She stood still while her hand maiden removed the farthingale, leaving her in only the corset and drawers. Since the corset laced in the front, she could finish undressing herself. “That’s all, Eriska. I can manage the rest.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Eriska bobbed and hung the farthingale on a hook inside the closet. “Did you still want the bread? For your stomach?” Feanna snatched it and shooed the tray away. Eriska picked up the tray and balanced it on her shoulder and then signaled to the guard with a knock to let her out. “Sleep well, Your Majesty.”
Feanna nodded, taking a slow bite of the bread. As soon as the door was locked once more, she crammed half the bread into her mouth, left the rest on the table, and returned to the servants’ door.
It was painstaking work, and her hands ached after nearly two hours prying the nails out, but when the last one came free, she gathered them into a small pile and hid them in the corner behind the curtain. With her ear pressed to the main door of her room, she held her breath and listened but heard only the steady breathing of her guard. Had the wench drifted to sleep? The notion of it infuriated her. Although part of her wanted to pound on the door to feign an emergency and wake the battler up, she knew it was better this way.
From the closet, beneath a half dozen other gowns, Feanna pulled out a simple dress whose length didn’t rely on her wearing a farthingale. It was somber and plain, but it suited her purposes. She pulled it on and tried in vain to smooth the wrinkles.
Slowly, so as not to elicit a creak from the hinges, she opened the servants’ door and waited for the sound of the key in the lock or Norna’s voice calling out in alarm. Only silence answered. With a candle in hand, she stepped carefully down a few short stairs. She must have been in the ceiling of the ground floor. Ahead was a narrow corridor, barely wide enough to walk without having to skirt sideways, and only tall enough for her to walk stooped over. The walls and floor of the corridor were wood, and quite drafty. The only light came from the flame of her candle, which she held by her side to avoid staring into the light and blinding herself. Mice skittered around her outside the flame’s glow.
The first T intersection she came upon confused her. She knew her way around the palace well, but she’d never seen it from within the floors and ceilings. She imagined which direction she must have traveled from her room and figured this to be the west corridor. To the right were Liera’s and her sons’ rooms. To the left, her adopted children’s. Where was the exit? How would she get out of these passageways and into the main corridor?
She mapped out the palace in her mind, but she didn’t know whether the passageways accessed every room or only certain rooms. In the morning, she would ask for paper and pens and begin to map the palace. For now, she placed one of her slippers on the floor pointing to her bedchamber before forging ahead, eager to explore. Eager to find her way to the bedchamber used by Gavin’s precious champion.
Chapter 21
It was past sunset when Gavin and his companions arrived back in Ambryce, each wearing a disguise he’d put up for them when they reached the bridge over the Flint River. Every time he crossed that bridge, he was reminded of the fateful day a few months earlier when he heard the cry of a woman drowning. He might never have met Daia had it not been for Arlet Stronghammer’s accident. In fact, he might not have accepted his place on the throne, either, and would still be wandering the land as a warrant knight, battling beyonders and accepting valor-gild for his services.
Though he was eager to try the essence-swapping procedure to get one of his First Royals back, Daia urged him to sleep first.
“It’s not something you want to try for the first time when you’re tired, right?” she asked.
He reluctantly agreed, and they paid for two rooms at the Princess Inn. He slept soundly, unburdened by the disturbing dream of kho-bent people ravaging the city, a sign that he was on the right path.
After breaking their fast the next morning, they made their way through the busy streets to the lordover’s property. As they usually did when Gavin was disguised, the guards barred his entrance. If the captain had been there, he’d have leaned in and said, “It’s me,” but the youthful men frowning at him from behind their glaives were strangers. He had to explain that he was the king, that he traveled in disguise so as to not be hindered by throngs of citizens wanting to shake his hand, argue about unfair taxation, or beg for a job. They didn’t believe him, even when he showed them his signet ring, and so he told them to watch carefully and then dropped his disguise for a short moment.
Both men snapped immediately to attention and saluted.
“No,” he said. “You don’t salute a warrant knight.” He glanced around to see if anyone noticed, but people simply went about their business. “Next time, the ring’ll be proof enough o’my true identity.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” they said in unison, stepping aside to let Gavin and his companions through the gate.
“So sorry, Sire. We won’t make that mistake again,” said the shorter of the two.
“Awright. I’m here to get a couple o’prisoners, if the lordover asks. We’ll be back in a few minutes, probably disguised the same way.”
They rode to the gaol and dismounted. The warden came out as they were tying the reins to the hitching post, and Gavin let their disguises drop.
“Oh! Your Majesty,” he said. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“Yeh, I’m here to get one o’my battlers. I got an idea about how to fix their essence.”
“Their what?”
“Their disposition,” Daia offered. “You know, after drinking the fouled water?”
“Oh. Oh! Very well, Sire. We’ve got plenty of prisoners to choose from.” He opened the door and gestured for them to enter.
The front room served as both an office and a supply closet. Shackles and ropes and cloth gags hung from pegs on the wall, dented and rusty pails were stacked in one corner and a mountain of hastily folded blankets took up another. The warden unlocked a thick iron door with a barred window at eye level to most men, neck level to Gavin.
The corridor was wide, lit by candles in iron wall fixtures mounted between the cell doors. Prisoners began to stir, their faces appearing in the small windows set into each door. Some faces replaced others as the prisoners shoved each other out of the way to see what was going on. Their complaints and demands echoed, growing louder with every passing moment.
“Quiet!” the warden shouted. He carried a baton with him and began to drag it along the walls, letting it thud onto the doors at window height so that the prisoners had to lean back to avoid being hit in the face.
Gavin tugged his arm down. “Stop. That noise is worse than their talking.”
“Kinshield?” a man said. “That you? I heard you was the king and you took your mistress for your champion.”
Gavin paused. He recognized the face—a swindler, murderer, and rapist. The name came to him more slowly.
“Come here, sweetheart,” the prisoner said, flicking his tongue out. “I’ll give you some o’this.”
Daia drew her dagger and approached the cell door, holding the weapon in a reverse grip. “Stick it out farther, sweetheart.” When he closed his mouth and leaned away, she said, “Didn’t think so.”
“Izack Slopsmeller,” Gavin said. “I thought you’d be dead by now.”
“It’s Slokswelter, you ugly bastard. You disrespect my name, you disrespect my papa and my grandpapa.”
Gavin snorted. “How many brands do you have now?”
“He had two when he was brought in,” the warden said. “He’s due to be executed in another week, but the lordover’s behind in signing the attainders. We’re already late with two others
.”
“Which ones?” Gavin asked. Hopefully one of them would suit his purposes.
The warden pointed further down the hall. “Hapstone and Wibbon, both natural born killers. Not a shred of decency between them.”
“What’ve they done?” Gavin asked.
“Hapstone murdered a school full o’children in Keyes to get revenge on the father o’one. Raped the nurse who tended him in the hospital too.”
“Awright, he’ll do. Where’s Hennah?”
“You’re going to try it on Hennah first?” Daia said.
“Yeh, why not?”
“She’s a good battler.”
“If it works, I’ll be glad to have her back beside me.”
“And if it doesn’t?” she asked.
She’d be dead. “Well, I can’t test it on any o’the citizens. I’m obligated to protect them, not sacrifice them.”
She hesitated, as reluctant as he was to name the first person to die should Gavin fail.
“Me,” Cirang said quietly. “If it works, then you can execute me as promised. If it doesn’t, then I’ll have saved you the trouble.”
“No,” he said. “Not you. You can’t repay your debt by dying.”
“Adro then,” Daia said. “He’s committed the worst offense against the crown. If any of our battlers must die in the effort to set things right, he should be the first.”
Gavin hesitated to agree for fear his personal bias was tempting him, but it had been her idea, not his. If he hadn’t been king, and if Adro had tried to seduce the queen, he wouldn’t be wrestling with this decision. What Adro did was wrong, no matter who was king. “Awright,” he said to the warden. “Bring Adro Fiendsbane.” This had better work. Adro was a decent buck before he drank from the Well of the Damned.
While the warden was getting Adro from his cell, Gavin examined the hazes of the three malefactors who were due to be executed. Hapstone’s and Slokswelter’s were dark and turbulent, like Cirang’s had been before she drank the tainted wellspring water. Either would do, but Hapstone was late for his execution. If the procedure worked, Gavin could do the lordover the favor of slaying the man with Adro’s fouled essence. If it failed, he’d die anyway.
