by Cara Witter
“Or I will have failed in my sworn duty to my true liege,” Buras spat back. “And my honor is worth more than anything you could threaten.”
The two men glared at each other for a moment longer, and then Kenton strode off, with Sayvil hurrying after him.
Daniella hoped with all that was left of her heart that they would make it in time. But she couldn’t worry about Jaeme now, or be furious at him, or grieve the loss of a future that had never really been hers.
Erich was somewhere in the city, and he was coming for her, like he always promised he would. Which meant she needed to find a way out. And when she did, she was going to run far—so far that none of them would ever find her to use her again.
Fifty-five
The knights behind his uncle stepped forward to advance on Jaeme, but Greghor lifted a hand, indicating for them to stay back. His uncle no doubt knew the stone was real, knew that Jaeme was actually the bearer of Kotali. He would have no way to know what Jaeme could do with the stone. He didn’t dare advance on him without further reinforcements.
Reinforcements that were, undoubtedly, already on the way.
Jaeme stared at his uncle, still holding Kotali in his hand. He’d done this on purpose—told Daniella the truth, even though Jaeme had told him he could lose her. Jaeme shouldn’t have been surprised. His uncle was in league with Diamis, had used blood magic, had betrayed Jaeme’s confidence and his own knighthood oaths.
But, unreasonable as it was, this felt like the biggest betrayal of all.
Why? Why now? Was it just petty vengeance? Gods, what had Jaeme ever done to him?
“Come with us,” Hugh said, sword still in hand. “Come quietly, and we’ll sort this out.”
Jaeme put his hand on his own sword. There was no way to sort this out. Daniella would never forgive him—not after he’d betrayed her in the precise way that Erich had. His uncle was bent on pinning his actions on Jaeme, and Jaeme had no proof against his words. Jaeme knew which of them the other knights would believe. As he looked at Greghor, the man who’d raised him and then betrayed him, betrayed them all to Diamis, the god seemed to grow warmer in Jaeme’s hand.
A word formed in his mind, crisp and clear and unmistakable.
Murderer. In Jaeme’s mind, he saw his uncle approaching Lord Hammish, the man his father had supposedly killed.
And taking a knife to his throat.
Jaeme gripped the stone, though, unlike all others, it didn’t give in his palm. Now his knees did shake, even though the ground was long still. His uncle, who had stood by, the supposed lone voice in the Council for the pardoning of his brother, had set him up to die in the first place.
Jaeme couldn’t help but feel like he should have known.
Greghor sighed, the very portrait of sorrow. “I did try with you, Jaeme. But despite my best efforts otherwise, I could not prevent the inevitable. The priests warned me. The blood of your traitor father was too strong in you.”
It was like a punch in the gut, to hear those words from Greghor, even knowing the truth about his uncle. He tasted bile in his mouth, hot and acrid. A memory of one worship-day passed unbidden through his thoughts, one out of thousands of meaningless worship-days throughout his life, spent kneeling in a cathedral which rested on hard dirt and even harder morality. Jaeme and Greghor were visiting a baron not far from Bronleigh, and the worship-day service there was not any different than at Castle Grisham. Jaeme knelt on the red dirt beside several other young sons of nobility, attending post-devotion, listening to the priest blather on about the state of souls while tracing symbols in the dirt with an evergreen branch.
Jaeme’s attention only caught upon hearing the priest mention the souls who have died a traitor’s death, ashes buried under stones but forever detached from the blessed earth. It was nothing new, of course. He knew what would follow.
“What about the souls of the children of traitors?” asked Brogan, the baron’s son, with a cruel smirk at Jaeme. Several of the younger boys tittered.
“They become traitors, too,” said another boy, prompting more laughter.
Jaeme ignored them. After five years, he had gotten quite adept at that. After all, punching Brogan’s pimpled face, while satisfying, would bring his uncle’s disapproval. They were guests here.
The priest watched Jaeme through narrowed eyes. “That is for Kotali to judge.” He continued on, paying no further attention to Jaeme for the remainder of the lecture.
Something later that day had prompted him to ask Greghor about it, while sitting in the drawing room reading. “Uncle, what happens to the souls of the children of traitors?” he asked, glancing up over the edge of the thick book.
Greghor raised an eyebrow at him. “What do you care, nephew? You aren’t one.”
It was true. Jaeme had always believed it was true. But then the image passed, and he could only see her, the love he never imagined having, green eyes become dead things, hurt beyond all description. And now he realized how it felt to have been used your whole life, nothing more than a game-piece tossed about.
Everyone in Daniella’s life had made her feel this way, including him. Jaeme had become a son to Greghor, had looked to him as a father these long years.
They become traitors, too.
“Jaeme,” Hugh said again. “We can take you by force, but if you come quietly—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Greghor said. “It doesn’t matter if you come quietly. If that body speaks to Diamis, then the damage is done. I couldn’t protect your father, and I won’t be able to protect you.”
Jaeme opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Of course, Jaeme thought bitterly. Why bother to improve upon a plan that worked so well the first time? He didn’t want Jaeme to come quietly. He didn’t want to risk that Jaeme might have some evidence against him that would prove him a liar. His uncle was hedging his bets, even though Jaeme possessed no such evidence.
“You filthy bastard,” Jaeme said. His blood rushed through him hot as fire, his entire being suddenly focused on the malicious, carefully hidden smugness on Greghor’s face. With a clarity born of pain, he realized that this was exactly what his father saw. The entire world turned against him, and the gloat of triumph in the eyes of the man who had caused it.
Why? Jaeme thought at the stone. Why now? I did what you asked. I found you. I’m supposed to be your chosen.
The stone did not respond.
How could the will of a god have ended up like this?
Jaeme heard footsteps behind him. Reinforcements must have arrived. Jaeme had only moments left. And though he held Kotali, the miracle that accompanied him had already passed, had served only to strand him here, on the newly formed, fully isolated plateau of Grisham.
With a man who was determined to kill him where he stood, and waited only for Jaeme to resist, to make it seem that Greghor’s accusations were true.
Jaeme could see only one way out. His mind and his heart were in agreement.
He drew his sword.
“Duke Greghoran of Grisham,” he said, using his uncle’s full title, as was required by the statutes of challenge. “I challenge you to a duel of restitution, on the charge of the Betrayal of Oaths.”
Hugh’s eyes widened, and he looked immediately at Greghor. The guards around Greghor tightened their formation a bit, though if his uncle accepted the challenge, they would be forbidden to interfere. The footsteps behind Jaeme stopped as well, waiting, it seemed, for Greghor’s answer.
Greghor stared stone-faced at Jaeme, the hints of smugness gone. Jaeme smiled. He’d thrown his uncle off his game, made the man consider. Did he dare come up against Jaeme? If Jaeme won the duel, by Mortichean law, he would be absolved. The trial by combat would prove that Jaeme’s accusation was correct, that Greghor was the traitor, that Jaeme was innocent. Not that his uncle would survive to face the consequences.
> Duels on this particular charge were always fought to the death.
“I will allow you the chance to withdraw the challenge,” Greghor said. “Anyone can see you’re shaken. I do not wish to kill you. You are the child of my heart; I could not bear even to watch you face the justice that waits for you.”
Jaeme clenched his jaw. Of course. That was why his uncle had scared away Daniella. He was taking away everything Jaeme held dear, throwing him off balance so he’d be unable to fight back. Greghor was right about Jaeme’s physical state; on a normal day, Jaeme was easily the better swordsman, but shaken as he was, he could no longer feel assured of the outcome.
Jaeme’s glance fell to the side of Greghor, a few steps behind, where stood a little boy, watching Jaeme with sad, scared eyes. A boy who was a mirror image of Jaeme as a child.
Except that this boy had Daniella’s curls, her bright red hair.
Jaeme was torn between the desire to weep and to laugh. He knew there was no child there, that this child didn’t and wouldn’t exist. Yet still the boy watched him. And Jaeme knew that, like his own mother, he was finally being taken by the madness.
His chances didn’t matter. The Earthstone didn’t matter. Better that he would die here. Kenton would find another godbearer, one who could do his job, like Nikaenor, like Saara, like Sayvil when it came to her turn. Kenton would rescue the stone from his uncle. Perhaps they could carry it to the Chamber wrapped in cloth and not need him at all.
“The challenge stands,” Jaeme said.
Greghor looked at him with fake pity. “Then, dear nephew, I’m afraid I must refuse.”
Jaeme’s heart burned. His uncle was free to refuse by law, but doing so was an insult—the final of many. Under normal circumstances Greghor would be branded a coward, but Jaeme could already imagine the way his uncle would spin it to his favor. He couldn’t bear to fight his dear nephew, bereaved as he was that Jaeme had turned out exactly like his father.
Fine. For the first time, Jaeme understood what drove Kenton forward, seeking justice for the lives of his people, seeking Diamis’ death. It wasn’t about saving the world at all. It was about revenge, pure and simple, because without justice, the world wasn’t worth saving. If Greghor lived, growing fat and old off the suffering of others, then everything else was meaningless.
He couldn’t allow Greghor the luxury of refusing him.
Jaeme’s lips turned up in a humorless smile. He knew he would die. He knew he couldn’t best them all. But if he could only take his uncle with him, at least his death would have meaning.
The footsteps behind Jaeme advanced again. Jaeme looked over his shoulder and found Kenton stepping up behind him. “We’ll take the others,” Kenton whispered. “Your uncle is yours.”
Just around the corner, Jaeme saw Sayvil also watching him, pulling an alchemist hood over her face—bottle-glass covering her eyes and thick leather protecting her face from whatever she was about to unleash. Whatever it was, Jaeme hoped he and Kenton could weather it without protection.
Greghor opened his mouth, no doubt to order the guards to seize Kenton, to arrest them both, but Jaeme spoke over him.
“No matter,” Jaeme said, shoving Kotali deep into his belt pouch. He took a step toward his uncle. “If it costs me my life, I swear on the god I hold you will not leave this courtyard alive.”
The knights behind Greghor charged forward. Kenton and Jaeme both sprang into action, Kenton drawing his sword in one swift motion and putting it clean through the gut of one of the knights before Jaeme even met with his. Jaeme parried a blow from the guard and grabbed his sword with one hand, shoving the man backward. As Jaeme stepped past him to reach his uncle, Sayvil descended on the guard. Her hand clapped over his mouth, and the man choked and sputtered.
Jaeme reached Greghor, who had his sword up to block and was retreating toward the castle doors. Hugh stepped in front of him as the final knight bolted for help. Jaeme couldn’t reach him—not with both Hugh and Greghor between them. Instead he locked swords with Hugh.
“Step aside,” Jaeme said. “You’ve been deceived.”
“You know I can’t,” Hugh said. “This isn’t honor. It’s murder.”
That might be true, but Jaeme no longer cared. He drove Hugh backward with a few quick blows, and Hugh hit the bottom castle step without anticipating it, falling backward onto the stairs.
The guard reached the door, and Greghor backed away, keeping his sword up between himself and Jaeme. Jaeme had already decided to allow the guard to go to keep his uncle from escaping, and hope to the gods that he’d be able to dispatch his uncle before reinforcements arrived, when Kenton hoisted himself up on the stone wall lining the stairs and ran up to the door, killing the guard before he could pull the door open. Greghor turned to keep Kenton from flanking him, and Jaeme used the opportunity to lock swords with his uncle and shove him up against the castle wall.
Hugh scrambled to his feet and advanced up the stairs toward Jaeme. Jaeme would have been caught between them had Kenton not leapt forward and pushed Hugh back down from the stairs with several glancing blows.
Gods, Kenton was fast. And now Greghor was alone. Jaeme’s uncle hopped the short wall lining the stairway and landed on the other side in the dirt. Jaeme followed Kenton’s example and hopped up on the wall with one foot and then jumped down with the other, landing and pivoting in front of his uncle. For an old man with a bad back, his uncle seemed to have taken the jump rather well, and Jaeme imagined his body must be holding together through adrenaline alone.
Much like Jaeme’s mind.
On the packed dirt next to the stair wall, they circled one another, exchanging blows, gauging the other’s strengths and vulnerabilities. Although they’d dueled in practice many times before, this was different. There would be no quarter given on either side; Jaeme had to gain the upper hand, and he had to do it quickly.
They parried and swung, thrust and blocked in a dance older than any other, set to the music of scuffing feet, pounding heartbeats, and ringing steel. Greghor thrust forward, and Jaeme dodged behind an empty cart that had been left by the stairs, causing Greghor’s sword to glance off of the crossbar and leaving him momentarily exposed on the other side. Jaeme leapt forward and Greghor dodged back as Jaeme swung the sword around with a two-handed grip, hoping to strike with full momentum, but missing completely. He whirled around just in time to block the return strike.
Behind Greghor, Jaeme could see Kenton matching steel with Hugh while grinning like the children outside Grisham who’d been playing joust with the bush. Hugh didn’t deserve to die for falling victim to his uncle’s treachery, but if justice was really served, Kenton would come out on top.
Jaeme didn’t see Sayvil, and he hoped she, unlike the guard, had made it out for help. Jaeme’s arm began to ache unbearably, much faster than he had expected, the wounds he’d sustained in the swamp suddenly sparking with pain once more. However, Greghor, also aware that Jaeme was better in combat, was fighting with an intensity Jaeme had never seen from him before; it was the fervor of a caged animal, pushing back encroaching death with every blow. It was something Jaeme recognized, because he felt it too—not the fear of death itself, for death, he knew, was virtually guaranteed. It was the fear of death without justice that drove him forward with a mad focus.
Kenton’s fight had no meaning for Jaeme, except to buy him time. Kenton might win, but even if he did, they were stuck here, with no means for escape, and the rest of the guard would descend upon them.
He ignored them all as he fought, single-mindedly watching for any weakness, any unprotected limb or overextended thrust, until finally, it came. Greghor dodged to the side and stumbled over a small outcropping of dirt and grass, driving him to one knee. Before he could right himself, Jaeme lunged forward, driving the sword point toward his uncle’s throat.
And he hesitated.
For
in the space of a heartbeat, he saw Greghor’s wide blue eyes and slack jaw; he saw himself about to kill a man he had loved all his life. The force of the moment, the reality of what he had to do, stopped him for the barest of seconds, the sword tip inches away from its target.
But it was enough.
Greghor rolled away, and with a swift kick, knocked Jaeme’s legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. They both scrambled to their feet and circled each other warily again.
Greghor flashed Jaeme a triumphant sneer, as sweat rolled down his face. “You can’t do it, Jaeme. You can’t bring yourself to kill me. You’re cowardly and weak, just like your father.”
Jaeme’s chest heaved as he drew in ragged breaths. “You’re the coward. You’ve cost me everything, and now you’re going to die for it.”
Greghor sneered. “For the girl? I’m sure Diamis has grander plans for her than to be your whore.”
Jaeme kicked out, hitting his uncle in the shins and following it with a strike that his uncle barely parried, backing away several steps. “She would have been my wife,” Jaeme said. Gods, even his voice felt raw.
With a growl, Greghor raised his sword for an overhand strike and ran suddenly at him. Jaeme did the same and their swords met in the air above their heads with a loud clang, sending a shudder down his sword arm and more pain in his shoulder.
Greghor used his free hand to grab Jaeme’s wrist, holding his sword still in the air as Greghor’s sword continued its momentum across the blade. Jaeme grabbed for Greghor’s wrist only a second later with his own free hand, but not before his uncle’s blade was behind Jaeme’s head; the two struggled against the other’s arm strength, locked close in a wrestling hold.
Jaeme looked to Kenton for help, but the man was entirely occupied with Hugh, keeping the knight busy with quick, advancing attacks. Jaeme was certain Kenton would have bested him by now if he hadn’t been so studiously edging himself between Jaeme and Hugh to prevent Hugh from helping Greghor. It must have pained Kenton to do so, and Jaeme appreciated the sacrifice.
