“Yes, sir.”
Noren heaved a deep, dissatisfied breath. “The Paladin Grand Cordon expected you a week ago.” He beckoned to four paladins. “Take him to the Paladin Grand Cordon at once,” he said to his men.
They surrounded him and led him through the camp like a prisoner. He straightened, tensed, but there was no use. If the Paladin Grand Cordon wanted to throw him in a cell, then that’s exactly what would happen.
On the way, perfect order functioned around him. He’d always loved the structure of the Order, the clarity that came with knowing exactly what to do, when to do it, and how.
But he didn’t miss it anymore. His future would be gloriously chaotic, and its existence depended entirely on what the Paladin Grand Cordon had to say.
Sweat coated his palms and his limbs tingled, but he tried to ignore both. Soon he’d have an answer, whether for good or ill.
His paladin escort took him to the great hall, which had been repurposed as a war room. Among a small cadre of paladin grand officers and high priests stood Paladin Grand Cordon Raphaël Guérin, a broad-shouldered and sable-haired man in his late forties, in his highly polished, intricately detailed arcanir. Holding a black ribbon, he moved markers on a map, assessing it with intelligent eyes.
The paladin escort saluted, and so did Jon. “Sir Jonathan Ver, eighth rank, Monas Ver First Company, sent by High Priest Derric Lazare of Monas Ver regarding my discharge.”
Paladin Grand Cordon Guérin set down the ribbon and approached with slow, heavy steps.
Then he bowed his head, saluted, and dropped to a knee.
Every priest and paladin in the room followed suit.
“Your Majesty, you have arrived.”
Jon whirled around to look at the new king, but behind him, the paladin escort detail had bent the knee, too.
His mouth fell open. Terra have mercy, they couldn’t possibly—
The head of the Order was on a knee before him. Blessed Terra. “Paladin Grand Cordon, sir, please rise. I’m not—”
“You are King Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle,” said a voice from the side of the room. Derric.
How? It couldn’t possibly be—but he was—
There was no way. No possible way. “What?”
With his shaved head and kind eyes, standing there in his white robes, it was unmistakably the man who had raised him. He’d straighten this out, tell everyone the truth, fix this.
“Derric.” He went to embrace him before he remembered himself.
“It’s true, son.” Derric’s expression was grave, even if a smile shone in his honey-brown eyes. “You are the son of Queen Alexandrie and the king’s younger brother, Prince James, Duke of Guillory.”
His commoner mother had abandoned him at the monastery; that was what he’d known all his life. A bastard, but never—
“King Marcus discovered their affair,” Derric said, “but allowed her to bear the child in secret at Monas Ver, as long as she relinquished him to the custody of the priests, keeping him out of the line of succession and the public’s eye. That child is you. I was present at your birth.” Derric held up some parchment. “Queen Alexandrie and Prince James defied the king and signed a legitimization in secret, witnessed by me, placing you seventh in the line of succession.”
Derric approached and handed him the parchment. “It’s why you were discharged right after the coup. But telling you the reason would have endangered you.”
His head swam. He stared down at its aged seals and signatures. Slants and curls and lines. My parents’ seals and signatures. My parents.
Derric picked up the black ribbon. “A wren bearing this ribbon came from Trèstellan Palace. At your birth, your parents warned me that, if you were ever in danger, I would receive this. Unless any higher-ranking heir remains alive within the palace, you are king.” Derric gave it to him.
His parents had kept this. For his sake.
His heart pounded a battle march. This was madness. A royal love affair and lines of succession and kingship? It was incredibly convenient for the Order of Terra if one of its own were king.
He’d be no one’s pawn. “That’s a fine tale, but it doesn’t prove this king is me.”
Not a single kneeling man in the room moved.
Derric’s calm didn’t waver. “I raised you from infancy, taught you all the subjects a prince should learn, saw you squired to a noble who could teach you what I couldn’t. I know who you are. But if you doubt my word, read near the bottom.”
Shaking his head, he peered at the document once more. “Straight hairline, attached earlobes, cleft chin”—he read the description, pressure building in his chest—“no facial markings. Birthmarks on the left hand above the fifth knuckle, on the right outer elbow, on the right inner ankle—” He didn’t need to read a single word more.
This was why he’d been left in Rielle’s charge. “This is—”
“You.” Derric fixed him with a confident stare, then he, too, dropped to a knee. “Your Majesty.”
Your Majesty.
The son of Queen Alexandrie and Prince James.
Prince James. Prince James had stayed at Vercourt from time to time and would come to Monas Ver and tour the grounds, talk with the priests and paladins—
Talk with him.
One summer day, sparring with Stefan, his first squire, Jon—all of twenty years old—had hit him with the flat of his blade, and while Stefan had followed the sword with his eyes, Jon had swept a leg low to knock him to the ground.
“Eyes on the man, not the weapon,” he’d said, “and don’t let your opponent put you on the defensive if you can avoid it.” While Stefan rose, rubbing his backside, Jon had moved back into ready stance. “Again.” Jon batted aside a lunge from Stefan.
“Perhaps you are the weapon, Sir Paladin,” a stranger’s voice had interrupted from behind.
The fourteen-year-old’s mouth fell open, and he dropped his sword. Irked, Jon tapped Stefan with the flat of his blade. When the boy didn’t move, Jon sighed and turned, finding himself face to face with a tall, fit man in his late thirties, clad in finery befitting a king. The man had a neatly trimmed dark-brown beard, shoulder-length hair, sea-blue eyes, and a tall and well-muscled, but not bulky, physique—a duelist’s body. Prince James.
Jon planted his sword in the ground and dropped to a knee. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I didn’t see you.”
The prince had visited the monastery before and spoken with priests and other paladins; although His Highness had watched him before, Jon had never heard him speak. Hadn’t recognized his voice.
Prince James rested a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You’d make a poor master if you didn’t keep eyes on your student, now wouldn’t you? Rise, son.”
Swallowing, he rose. When the prince watched him expectantly, he turned to Stefan and motioned for him to take his sword. Stefan hurried to do so, bowing profusely as he made his exit.
Prince James gestured to the practice yard, and Jon joined him, walking the outskirts and watching paladins, squires, and pages spar.
“How long have you been a paladin, son?”
He exhaled slowly. “Two years, Your Highness.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” When the prince gave him an exasperated look, Jon scrambled for words. “It’s all I’ve ever known. I was raised at the monastery, among the priests and paladins. They helped people, enjoyed their lives and their calling, and I... I felt called to do the same.”
“To help people?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Prince James stopped and leaned against a wooden-post fence, watching two pages spar clumsily. “But does it make you happy?”
He took a deep breath. “I have the privilege of serving Most Holy Terra, dispensing justice, and helping Her faithful, Your Highness”—when the prince pursed his lips, Jon grinned—“but I also get to travel the country, meet new people, listen to their stories, advise them... And when I return here,
I trade tales with Derric and my brothers. Train with them. Celebrate with them. I learn. I read. I’ve taken a squire under my wing, and teach him the sword, the Code, and how to be a man. Watching him learn has been a great amusement and joy.”
Prince James, looking out at the practice yard, slowly smiled. “You mentioned Derric?”
It was Jon’s turn to smile. “He raised me, Your Highness.” Was the amusement and joy he felt teaching Stefan anything like what Derric had felt raising him? Considering the sheer volume of pranks Jon had played on him, probably not. “Derric’s the closest thing I have to a father.”
Prince James scanned the horizon then, but his eyes could have been a world away. “So you’re an orphan?”
He nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Prince James turned to him then and extended his arm. Jon accepted it, and the prince shook his hand.
“You do this land a great service. Seeing the man you are now, your parents would have been very proud of you. I know it.” Prince James gave him an encouraging nod and released his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”
“It has been my pleasure, Your Highness.” It had been the first time he’d ever spoken to Prince James—or any member of the royal family.
The prince had returned from time to time while traveling on business, and although he spent most of his time in Derric’s company, sometimes he spoke with the priests and paladins, Jon among them.
But Prince James hadn’t just come to see Derric and enjoy the serenity of Monas Ver.
He’d come to see his son.
My father. Jon looked around the room, at all his brothers, Derric, and the Paladin Grand Cordon himself bending the knee.
Chapter 60
Night had fallen by the time Brennan reached the edge of the oak trees outside the city walls with Rielle and Leigh, but the darkness suited his needs. He crept among the dark-green cork and kermes oaks to the hobbled downy oaks, nestled among their fall russet-brown leaves as he scanned the wall. To open the northeastern gate, he would scale the wall in man-beast form, dispatch several guards in silence, and single-handedly lower the drawbridge over the city ditch, then draw up the outer and inner portcullis.
Just a few yards from open land, Rielle and Leigh stood in obscurity while he attempted to string together a believable lie as to how he would realistically accomplish all that. It was all too much for a mere man, but perhaps the wild mage accompanying her would overlook mystery in favor of advantage.
“No light,” Brennan murmured. “We don’t want to alert the guards.”
Leigh nodded, despite the dark. “How will we know when to approach?”
“Watch the gate tower. When it’s clear, I’ll extinguish its torches and open the gate.” The gate tower going dark would be the signal for the Black Rose to initiate the diversion at the southeastern gate.
“And why must you go alone?” Leigh inquired, eyeing him peripherally.
Rielle stiffened.
So much for overlooking mystery. “I’ll have help—a turncoat I’ve paid off—and if he sees anyone but me, he might panic. You’ll just have to trust me.”
Maybe the ex-magister knew better than to question a gift: the city walls were coated in a priceless arcanir solution, and the ground beneath them soaked in it. Nothing short of war machines and flashy, indirect magic would penetrate the capital’s defenses if stealth failed.
Brennan took a deep breath. “Stay here and wait for my signal.”
Rielle grabbed his arm. “Try not to die.”
He smiled, a pointless act in the dark. “You’d miss me too much.” He pulled away and stalked to the trees.
At the edge, he undressed and, neither hearing nor scenting anyone nearby, shifted to full wolf and dropped to all fours. He gathered his leather overcoat, trousers, and boots between his teeth in an unwieldy bundle and skittered across the open plain, swift and low.
The city ditch quickly approaching, he vaulted over it with all the force he could muster, shifting mid-air to man-beast and digging his claws into the wall.
Above him on the ramparts, a lone guard stirred, his footfalls nearing the battlements.
Brennan kept still, clinging close to the stone.
Whether the guard looked through the machicolation or over the parapet would determine the success of this stealth plan. Midway between a bastion and the gate tower, both heavily guarded, he had planned to escape notice.
Up between the two nearest corbels, the guard’s breath puffed softly over the parapet above, between the battlement’s merlons.
Then disappeared.
Departing footsteps.
If not for the mouthful of leather, he could have grinned. The laziness of not wanting to look through the machicolation had just cost that guard his life and the lives of his comrades.
He pulled his claws free, only to dig them in a little higher. He scaled the wall up to the supporting corbels of the battlement and then around.
No more claws. The sound of them cleaving into the masonry would give him away. Still in man-beast form, he eyed his hand, willing his claws to retract. He’d use his fingers for a hold on the crenel above without a sound.
Placing his hand on it, he listened for a change in the guard’s heart rate. None.
He retracted the claws on his other hand to follow suit. Jaw clenched, he dragged himself up and onto the crenel, crouching low, hidden between the merlons. A guard looked out over the plain just a few feet away. A few feet away from his end.
Brennan took the clothes out of his mouth and noiselessly placed them on the crenel next to him, extending his razor-sharp claws anew. An easy kill.
He listened for any nearby guards. None on the wall. Only far-off voices in the gate tower and in the bastion on the opposite end.
A quick loosening of his shoulder muscles, and he leaped. The whites of the guard’s eyes flashed. Brennan swept his claws across the man’s throat, silencing a scream into a quiet gurgle.
The smell of blood thick in the air, he dragged the body against the battlement and threw it over the parapet, far enough to avoid the city ditch and its telling splash. He sidled against the edge, darting toward the cover of the gate tower.
He eased open the door. Two hearts beat within.
Quick work. He exhaled a preparatory breath and dove for the nearest guard, ripping his throat out in a flourish of claws. He flickered to the man on the opposite side, closing his gaping maw over the guard’s face. The cover drowned a shriek as he shredded flesh and crushed bone between his teeth.
A flurry of steps and racing hearts—
Four guards upstairs stirred in varying stages of alertness. There would be little time before they rang the alarm. Spinning, he launched himself onto the stairs, gouging the stone steps as he scrambled up.
A guard on the nearest landing.
Before he could draw his sword, Brennan lunged for him. He plunged his claws through the man’s leather armor to seize his spine and crunch it in an instant.
Another guard charged down the stairs, short sword drawn. A slash—evaded—and Brennan surged upward, snapping the man’s neck between his jaws.
A flash in his periphery—the glint of the alarm bell. He turned on the guard about to sound it and threw himself at him, scratching, ripping, shredding, leaving no larynx with which to scream—
Sharp, shooting pain bloomed in his side—a blade between the ribs—and his breath shallowed.
He tore out the heart of the man beneath him with a wet tatter, then angled his massive wolf head around at the man holding the sword.
He kicked out with his clawed back leg, sending the man flying against the wall with his sword yanked free—dazed.
Laboring through the burn of the sword wound, he turned and sprang onto the dazed man before he could react. Slower, but fast enough. Buried his claws in the man’s mouth, pierced through his tongue and into the back of his throat. He seized an arm between his jaws and thrashed his head until it rent
free.
Hope you miss it in the Lone, bastard.
The last tower guard dead, Brennan breathed heavily, clutching the wound at his side even as it began to heal. It was bad, enough to kill a mortal man, and although he would soon heal, his injury slowed his pace. He crept down the tower’s steps, bracing himself against the wall, extinguishing all the torches, and then he staggered onto the battlements to fetch his clothes. The tower going dark would not only signal Rielle and Leigh to approach the gate but also Nicolette and her diversionary force.
The battle had officially begun.
He re-entered the gate tower, shifted back to his human form, and descended the flight of stairs to the lower level, pausing only to throw on his trousers, overcoat, and boots. The leather stung against his open wound, but he steeled himself.
He made his way to the winches for the drawbridge, outer and inner portcullises, seized the hand crank of the first winch, unwound it until the bridge lowered. Then he drew up the outer and the inner portcullises.
Finally. He exited the gate tower on the ground floor and peered around the corner. Two figures traversed the plain in the consuming darkness. He waited until he could discern Rielle’s face before leaning against the tower.
He applied pressure to his wound. It would take much more than that to kill him, but this night would no doubt test those boundaries.
Chapter 61
Rielle cast a stoneskin spell on herself. A dull gray layer of geomancy hardened over every inch of her skin. Sustained spells were costly, but being killed by an unnoticed arrow before completing the mission was costlier. And stoneskin, at least, wasn’t as visible as her instinctive flame cloak—nothing said look over here like a walking human torch. She would still have enough power left to penetrate the citadel, cross the Azalée District, and fight through Trèstellan Palace—hopefully.
Leigh followed suit with a repulsion shield.
Ahead of them, the drawbridge had been lowered over the city ditch. Brennan had succeeded. They crossed the drawbridge and darted past the two portcullis gates, the threat of the meurtrière overhead dormant but not forgotten, the hole in the gatehouse passageway ceiling opportune for spilling tar or boiling oil. A fond farewell to avoid on their exit.
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