A Trial of Sparks & Kindling (Fall of the Mantle Book 2)

by Yolandie Horak

  She frowned, but her heart rattled her ribs. “Who?”

  “Your friend Du Pont. He’s wanted for murder. If you saw him, you have to tell me.”

  Cara shook her head. “Nobody was here.”

  Nic’s mouth flattened into a pale-yellow line. “We have to tell Frank.”

  Dammit.

  ***

  The slight handle Cara maintained on her emotions and expressions barely held in the face of Frank’s anger.

  No, not Frank. The king. He glared at Nic from one of the mismatched chairs at the edge of the large, square table in his council room.

  The walls were covered with tapestries, and not a stone in the floor peeked out between the overlapping hides, carpets, and reed mats. The glowing fireplace smothered her. Or maybe Cara struggled to breathe because Malak hovered behind her, hands planted on the back of the old chair Nic had pulled for her.

  At least the council wasn’t in session. Only Frank, Nic, Malak, and Cara were in the room.

  Nic’s jaw was set, skin strained to white, his eyes filled with unconcealed fury. “Frank, I didn’t plan it. We walked around a bit, then she stumbled. I went into the castle to bring her tea.” He gestured at the cup in question, set on the table. “When I got there, she was asleep on the bench, and Du Pont had disappeared into the shadows.”

  “You left her in the cold.” Frank drummed his fingers on the table. “In her current state.”

  “I didn’t think about that, all right? I just wanted to get some tea or something. She looked pale, and I didn’t know if she’d make it all the way back to her room.”

  Frank’s expression softened the slightest bit when he glanced at Cara. “Is this true?”

  “Yes. Nic was good to me.” Cara trembled, and made no move to conceal the fact. Long enough had passed since her last dose that her withdrawal would be expected—a blessing, since she didn’t have it in her to be still.

  Frank toyed with something in his pocket. He lifted it, then let it drop, lifted, dropped. A corner of a piece of paper became visible.

  She’d toyed with that piece of paper in a similar way so many times that she’d know it anywhere. The letter Cara had written to Sera from the slums. The one Magnus had brought back from Roicester. That letter belonged to Cara, and Frank had no right to keep it. She struggled to push down the fire blazing through her head.

  Sera always knew Frank couldn’t be trusted.

  Cara blinked hard. How could she have missed that?

  Sera had been more than reluctant to tell Frank they had a secret sister. For years Cara had begged and pleaded to be introduced to him, but Sera had always found excuses to put off such a meeting. She’d never said outright that she hadn’t trusted him, she’d always phrased it as ‘Frank has his own life,’ or ‘Frank is so busy,’ but sometimes, while Cara had gushed about the brother she’d only known from afar, Sera had seemed quietly wary of him. Eventually, Cara had worn her down enough to trust him with the secret. But what if Sera’s instincts had been right? What if she’d known all along they’d find no true ally in Frank?

  Salamander’s spit, Carabelle Lenoir, you’re an idiot.

  “—why, then, did Du Pont meet with her?” Frank was saying. He leaned back and raised both hands.

  “You know, this is the kind of accusation that could cost a man his best and most loyal friend.” Nic held his head high, his every muscle locked. “Do you think I’d have told you if I’d orchestrated the whole thing?”

  “I need proof, Nic.”

  “I have only my word, majesty.” Nic snorted.

  “Watch your tone. I am your king.”

  “Of course, majesty.”

  Frank grimaced. “Cara, what did Du Pont want?”

  Lie, Cara. “I… I didn’t see anyone.” She shook her head, frowning. “I was tired and—”

  “What did he want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did he want, Cara?” A vein in the king’s forehead bulged.

  “You’re being a bit harsh,” Nic said. “If you need a scapegoat for your ridiculous temper tantrum, pick someone who’s feeling well enough to fight back.”

  “For once I agree. This isn’t the way, Frank.” Malak massaged Cara’s shoulders.

  “You know I can’t drop this. He killed three of my people, one inside the castle.” Frank sighed, and something familiar, something soft, came into the cast of his eyes. “I need you to think hard, Mouse. What did Pointy want from you, hmm?”

  Whatever happened, Cara had to protect Pointy. If Celestine found him, he was dead. The end. Would Frank be different? Maybe Pointy could get out of the murder charges if he could prove those he had committed had been self-defence, but if Frank knew what Pointy had said, if he knew the treason that had been spoken, the king in him would kill Pointy without a second thought.

  Sera had taught Cara the game, so many years before, but she remembered the basics. Lesson one: use any weakness against your enemy. She’d never imagined Frank would be that enemy, but if it had to be him, she knew him well enough to defeat his defences. Hurt him.

  Frank wasn’t capable of handling displays of emotion, especially not from his sisters. The king might be able to ignore it, but there was only one way to find out.

  Besides, in that same letter in Frank’s pocket, Sera had also said Cara could be a queen. Maybe it was time she believed in herself a bit more.

  She stopped holding back her tears, let them rush down her cheeks. “I don’t know what he wanted. I don’t know, because I didn’t see him. Sometimes, I can’t even remember what he looks like. I’m so confused, Frank. I feel sick. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I don’t remember things, and I’m always tired. I don’t want food and… I just want to go to my room. I’m so tired. So, very tired.”

  Just like the previous day, a hundred flavours of pain flashed across Frank’s face. He sighed as he stood and opened his arms to her. “I’m sorry, Mouse. Come here.”

  Malak gave Cara a little push.

  Cara went, slowly, timid as a mouse. If he wanted to believe that’s all she was, she’d help him along. Maybe there was more to her. Pointy saw more.

  Frank hugged her, then held her at arm’s length and looked down at her. “You can go to your room now. Get some sleep. I love you.”

  If she could just reach into his pocket, and take back her letter. “Love you, too.” She half-smiled.

  Malak hooked her arm through Cara’s and led her to the door.

  “I want search parties set out for Du Pont,” Frank said from behind. “He’s to be taken into custody immediately. I want him alive—I have a few questions.”

  “Fine,” Nic said as he stomped past Cara and Malak.

  No matter what else happened, Frank may have ruined a friendship. Maybe Frank’s ruined friendship could be one gained for Cara.

  Chapter 26

  In his hurry to get away, the wound at Pointy’s thigh had opened again. He’d had to suture it himself, since Marcell had been too squeamish and Amber had already left.

  Without something to deaden the area around the wound, self-suturing had been no small feat. He shuddered.

  Instead of resting—as he was supposed to—he hugged the shadows of the camp and limped towards the keep as silently as he could. The pain would have to wait; he’d have time to heal later. With the confirmation that one of those blasted tunnels led to the queen’s suite, and the threat of Celestine going to torment Carabelle, there was no way in hell he’d stay put in the Dvaran camp.

  Any moment now, the painkiller would kick in. Any moment now.

  Sweat dripped down his forehead and mixed with the rain to burn his eyes. He wiped away what he could, then took a breath. His leg shook and protested under his weight. This was stupid.

  He should have sent Marcell, but how could he?

  He hobbled along.

  The hour was late enough that he’d likely avoid attention, even if he walked along the cobbled pathways betwe
en the tents. The soft drizzle did its part to lower visibility, but some things were ingrained. When one hailed from a family of spies, one did not prance along the path if there were perfectly good shadows in which to hide.

  The wet and cold caused his wound to stiffen, and his vision pulsed with the pain. Come tomorrow, he’d fight inflammation. The last thing he needed was an infection. This was stupid.

  Any moment now, painkiller.

  He had to get Carabelle out of there before Celestine visited her. If he knew the old spider—and he’d made it his business to know everything about her—she’d move in on Carabelle soon. Frank and the others were fooled by the comatose act, but Celestine sure as steam wouldn’t be. Ethirin was her weapon of choice, and she knew its workings better than anyone else.

  Pointy gritted his teeth and continued.

  Apparently, he did nothing but stupid in the service of his queen.

  Along the last row of tents, a group of soldiers patrolled. They searched the shadows and conducted spot checks in random tents. Here and there people protested, but they were silenced, and the guards went on.

  So. They were still looking for him.

  How had De la Fontaine known Pointy was there? He’d been so careful. Carabelle had played her part so well. Perhaps one of the onlookers had been close enough to hear the conversation? Or had one of the people noticed Carabelle’s moving lips?

  Pointy slipped into the shadows of the cottages and swallowed a sigh. If she’d been able to see him, others would have been able to do the same. No use in fretting about it. As for the art of stealth, he’d practise with the recruits as soon as Carabelle was safely back in Roicester. Back to basic training with his girls. Madeleine would never let him live it down, and she’d be right to remind him constantly. Creator knew, he needed to sharpen his reflexes.

  The lamps around the keep wall created a dilemma. He’d been attacked not far from here and wouldn’t come off with as few injuries if Frank’s people caught him again.

  The pistol at his hip offered a welcome weight. He had two choices. Shoot out the lamp and risk someone hearing the shot and subsequent shattering of glass, or cross the cobbles, right under the lamps.

  Either way, he could be spotted.

  He gave a step into the light. The round silver bullets were precious, he had only six. All were reserved for Celestine Chastain’s skull. He should’ve brought his garotte. Old Clarity deserved to suffer a little at the end, for all she’d done. He moved as fast as the limp allowed and nestled into the dark like a homecoming.

  Pointy didn’t stop. If someone had seen him, he had to be gone before they arrived. He kept to the side of the wall until he reached the back of the castle. More patrols criss-crossed the open spaces around the castle. They were expecting him.

  No matter. He’d deal with that once he returned with the queen.

  After a glance to either side of him, he detached from the wall and sprinted to the side of the castle as fast as his injury allowed. The painkiller had dulled the ache to a whine, but fresh blood darkened his trousers. Shit, he’d pulled another suture. Jeanita would have a thing or two to say, once she and Nathaniel came back.

  Pointy kept a hand against the castle’s stone wall and sneaked onward. He reached a corner and inched forward to peer at the other side. Three groups of patrols surveyed the area, and there was no way for him to pass. Yet the only outside entrance was just behind the last patrol.

  Salamander’s spit, he’d have to go around.

  Painfully slow, he backtracked and made his way around the castle. Wet snowflakes replaced the rain, and a vicious wind bared its fangs.

  His skin and clothing were soaked through, and he’d freeze if he continued this way.

  What else could he do? There was but one entrance and exit to the passages outside of the castle. If he couldn’t get to it, he’d have to enter the passages from inside the castle. How many staff members would still be awake? Enough—and that was the problem. A gamble, for sure, but it was either enter the castle and risk capture, or wait. With Celestine on the loose, likely preparing to spin her web larger, could he leave Carabelle within Celestine’s reach for another night?

  No.

  Still, he had to blend in. Servant’s livery would be too difficult to reach, and staff members in castles like these tended to know each other well enough that they’d instantly spot an impostor. Guards and soldiers, however, came and went with the war.

  One of the soldiers who’d gone to the outpost with Nathaniel lived in the cottages between the keep wall and castle, and was a reserve guard when not on missions. Hopefully, he’d have left one of his guard jerkins.

  Pointy slinked all the way back to the cottages, found the one he wanted, and picked the lock. Three hours left until dawn. He stole a set of dry clothes—a close enough fit—then rummaged around for medical supplies. The place was bare of even the simplest of medicines, but a half-full bottle of rum would ease Pointy’s mind, if not lessen his pain. He found a lone pillowcase in the bottom drawer, which he ripped into strips and tied around his thigh. The wound would leave one hell of a scar, but two deep gulps of rum fixed that worry.

  He discarded his wet clothing in the same well where he’d dumped the corpses of the Intelligence agents who’d attacked him. Now that they knew about this spot, they’d hopefully believe he wouldn’t use it as a dumping ground again. Too obvious. Or it’ll be the first place they look.

  With a deep breath, he tucked his ponytail under the guard cap and strode into the castle as though he belonged. But like the first time he’d entered this place, he was certain he didn’t. The grey stone walls and floors looked much different in real life than they did on a drawn map. Larger, three-dimensional, and oozing danger.

  The barracks was in the basement. The nearest entrance to the passages from his current location—that he knew of with all the changes—was in a room two doors from the kitchen. About ten metres in. Not that far, but ages away.

  Only every second hallway lamp was lit at this hour, and though the dimness was pivotal to his cause, the hair on his nape rose. Was the spider watching him? Did she know he’d entered her lair?

  The odd servant yawned as they passed him, but none of them spared him more than a vague nod, and the halls were otherwise deserted.

  At last, he reached his destination. He ducked into the room and exhaled through his nose when he found the tapestry that would get him into the passages. The makeshift bandages held, and no new blood had seeped through his stolen trousers. The wound was now numb, and his focus had returned.

  Pointy squared his shoulders and opened the way into the passages. Pitch-black met him on the other side, and a cold that dwarfed the snow and wind outside. His teeth chattered, but he locked his jaw and took the first step as soon as his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. Thank goodness all new recruits trained in shadowy passageways to prepare for this kind of thing, or he might have been too scared to walk in a sightless world. How had Carabelle managed this? The woman was a marvel.

  Faint echoes sounded in the passages—he wasn’t alone. Of course not. If Frank had patrols on the grounds, Celestine would have patrols in her domain. Especially since they already suspected Marcell of coming here. A trap, a trap, this was a bloody trap.

  If only Carabelle had succeeded and had found a way out.

  But this wasn’t the time for if only, and he was a Du Pont. One old woman wasn’t going to outplay him, not when his queen was involved. He needed a way up.

  At a pace just faster than a crawl, Pointy made his way to an intersection that would take him to the first floor. The echoes grew louder as he progressed, and he had no other choice than to risk increasing his speed. If they caught him here, it would equal death, and he’d so pompously promised Carabelle he wouldn’t let them kill him. Just to see her smile for a change.

  Ashes, he was an idiot.

  His heart thundered, but there was no time for a calming exercise. The air stirred around him�
�time to hide.

  Pointy ducked into the first tunnel he crossed and made himself small against the wall. He shuddered, and fresh sweat beaded on his nose.

  Soft steps came closer in the passage he’d just left, closer, and closer still, and a chorus of quiet echoes ghosted along the ceiling.

  Pointy held his breath.

  The steps passed and grew distant.

  He released the breath as slowly and soundlessly as he could, then rolled his neck and continued along the route to the next intersection that went up.

  A small sound was his only warning. Everything went white and he was blinded. A lantern? He shut his eyes, but it didn’t help. The thin skin of his eyelids glowed in bright red.

  He retreated a step, into a body. A blow landed in his side, right in the kidney, and knocked the soothing effect of the painkiller right out of him.

  Pointy groaned as he stumbled.

  Hands yanked him upright from behind, pulled his arms behind his back and held them together in an unforgiving grip. He struggled, but the weight of his pistol disappeared, before the cold barrel of his own weapon froze his temple.

  Slag and bloody shit.

  His captor forced him forward, then everything faded to black as the light went out.

  A low cackle reverberated in the passage. “Well, well. Looks like we caught ourselves a rat. Bring him.”

  Celestine Chastain.

  A trap.

  Something bit his neck, and everything dissolved around him.

  ***

  Pointy blinked back into existence.

  Where the hell was he? And why did everything hurt?

  His surroundings twisted, and his bowels jolted in protest. He shut his eyes again.

  Creator, his head was on fire, and his leg was stiff. The more awareness he gained, the worse the pain. The queen was in danger.

  So was he. Open your eyes, idiot.

  Pointy was flat on a metal slab. A table? His hands were shackled above his head, feet spread and chained below him. This position would prove interesting to get out of. His shirt was a bundle on the floor, but at least he didn’t seem to be injured anywhere, aside from the bruises along his arms where the thug had held him. The wound at his leg held.