by Cara Witter
Around the corner toward the front of the castle, a crowd of guards arrived, entering the courtyard at a dead run. They would both be dead in moments—surely even Kenton couldn’t fend off so many.
A flash of orange shot out from behind the smithy and a ball of burlap and powder broke open on the ground in front of the guards. With a whoosh of air, the powder dispersed, shooting upwards into the faces of the advancing guards until they were completely engulfed in a peach-colored cloud. They coughed and sputtered and stopped their advance.
Clearly all of Sayvil’s trips to the apothecary and the hours in her room with her powders had come to good use.
Jaeme finally managed to push Greghor’s sword from him, up and to the side, but felt a sharp burn as the blade glanced along the side of his neck. The two shoved away hard from each other. He heard the hiss of wind charms as more of Sayvil’s concoctions burst open, and the hacking coughs of the guards as they stumbled through. The silt in the air drifted across the courtyard, and Jaeme’s eyes began to burn and water, but he forced them to stay open, and Greghor did the same.
Jaeme’s free hand touched his neck, his sword outstretched to keep Greghor at a safe distance. He pulled his hand back to see blood smeared across his fingers, oozing from a ragged, shallow wound. Sweat dripped into his eyes, beaded hot across his lips. Greghor brushed sweat off his own brow, his lip curled, but appearing too fatigued to gloat at his small victory.
Jaeme’s legs trembled; he fought to center himself. He pulled together every flagging muscle in his body for one massive hit, which knocked Greghor’s sword arm to the side. As Greghor stumbled backward, Jaeme kicked him hard in the gut, sending him reeling. Greghor’s sword-hand smacked against a tree trunk, his sword flying far from him.
Greghor fell back onto the ground, his eyes wide with terror as he watched Jaeme advance. He looked from side to side, as if beseeching aid from any corner. But Kenton had driven Hugh back around the smithy, out of sight, and the remaining two guards still lay in a heap. The dust was settling over the crowd at the edge of the courtyard, revealing five men all on the ground, swiping at their eyes and hacking.
Jaeme focused on Greghor and felt a kind of calm settle over him, both hot and strangely dispassionate. “At least I’m man enough to do my own killing,” he said bitterly. Then, without a trace of his former hesitation, he plunged the sword deep into his uncle’s chest, feeling the thick resistance of leather and chain mail, muscle and bone. Greghor’s eyes widened further with the impact; he let out gasping groan, sputtering blood out of his mouth and down into his beard. His blue eyes bore into Jaeme’s in fear and accusation, before the spark of life departed from them and his body slid backwards off the blade to slump in an unceremonious heap.
Fifty-six
Daniella’s fingernails bit into her palms as Kenton and Sayvil disappeared around the corner, off to help Jaeme. She couldn’t worry about him now; she didn’t have time for anger or heartache or self-pity, either, though all those threatened to consume her.
She turned to Perchaya and Nikaenor. “Were any of you near the chasm when it opened? Is it wide and deep all the way around?”
“Sayvil and I nearly dropped into the thing,” Nikaenor said, running a hand through his hair with a nervous tremor. “It’s about ten feet across and deep enough that a fall would kill us.”
Daniella cursed. Just enough to make an escape difficult, but not so wide a chasm that Erich wouldn’t find a way across, and possibly already had.
She looked at Buras, who shrugged. “If I knew any other knights or servants more devoted to Lord Jaemeson than to the duke, we could perhaps rally some aid, but asking for help escaping seems more likely to get us all arrested at the moment. Maybe if we hide until your bodyguard comes back with Lord Jaemeson, then—”
“No!” Daniella snapped, then steadied herself. She couldn’t take the chance that Erich might find them. Kenton and Jaeme could catch up with them later. “We need to prepare a way out. With some rope, we could—” she started, but Nikaenor cut her off, his eyes wide.
“Netting!” he said. They all looked at him. “We could use some netting to make a rope bridge across.”
Buras raised an eyebrow. “Netting? Like, nets for fishing?”
Nikaenor flushed. “Or for . . . I don’t know, potatoes. Or something.”
Daniella groaned. Nets would be plentiful in Ithale, but less so here. “Ten feet isn’t that far across. There has to be a beam or something we could use, something sturdy enough—”
“The library ladder!” Perchaya said, and though Daniella could have stood to have finished her sentence, that was at least an object she was familiar with. She’d spent plenty of time scaling those ladders, picking through all the books in Grisham’s library. The first time, Jaeme had stood at the bottom of the ladder and teased her about being more rapturously in love with his books than she was with him. She’d pretended to agree—Grisham had all seven volumes of the rare Language and Peoples of the Banishment translated by Mastersmith Pleo, after all—and he’d reached up and tickled the back of her calf, and she’d laughed and climbed down to join him and—
Her eyes burned again. The library ladders here were made of heavy redvale-oak and easily tall enough. They would serve the purpose. That was all that mattered now.
“A library ladder,” Daniella agreed. “It should hold us, one at a time, at least.”
Buras looked dubious. “I still think we should wait for Lord Jaemeson before we make any decisions. I can protect you from this Erich fellow, whoever he is.”
Daniella’s blood turned to ice at just the mention of his name. “I doubt it. This Erich fellow is General Erich Dektrian.”
Buras’ eyes widened in a way that might have been comical under other circumstances. “General Dektrian?”
The awe in his voice was all too similar to Jaeme’s back in the swamp, and Daniella wanted to hit him. “Exactly.”
Buras hesitated, but then he nodded, looking slightly cowed. “Yes, my lady.”
Daniella smiled grimly. There was so much Buras didn’t know about Erich’s obsession with her, about his relentless pursuit of them. But she’d escaped him twice already. She could do it again.
“Do either of you need anything from your rooms before we go?” Daniella asked Perchaya and Nikaenor. Nikaenor shook his head, hefting the pack at his side. Perchaya bit her lip for a moment, then shook her head as well. There was something she wanted to go back for, clearly—probably something from Hugh or from Kenton.
Daniella had her own small but growing hoard of sentimental treasures from their travels—the book of myths Jaeme had given her in Berlaith, the pack of cards they’d played so often on the boat from Tirostaar that many were bent or torn, a wildflower Jaeme had plucked and slipped behind her ear as they’d walked from Haidshir to Grisham.
Better they both leave it all behind, for more than one reason.
The library was on the same floor as the bedrooms, but in the opposite direction. They hurried toward it, passing the stairs, nearly running over a serving maid carrying a load of linens as they turned a corner. Bedding scattered all over the floor, and Nikaenor and Perchaya instinctively bent to help her collect it.
“We’re so sorry,” Perchaya said, even as Daniella tugged on her arm to try to keep her moving. Buras was already ahead of them, almost at the library. The serving maid began apologizing as well, but then her face froze in fear, looking behind them.
At men coming up the stairs, swords drawn.
Daniella’s legs felt like lead weighing her to the ground, because in the middle of them was a familiar face, a face she’d desperately hoped never to see again.
Erich’s eyes found hers, and he smiled. Gods, he’d gotten across the chasm in a hurry.
He murmured something and the two other men—wearing typical Mortichean villager garb but carrying themse
lves with the confidence of trained soldiers—reached the top of the stairs and headed casually towards them.
As if, now that he’d found what he was looking for, Erich had all the time in the world.
The serving maid made a squeaking noise of fear, which shook Daniella out of her stupor. “Run,” she said quietly to the girl, in Mortichean. “Go find help, tell whoever you can find that there are Sevairnese soldiers in the castle.”
The girl nodded and took off toward the servants’ staircase around the bend in the hallway. Daniella and Perchaya traded glances. They weren’t close enough to the library to make it inside and barricade themselves in—Erich and his men might not care that a servant had run off, but they would certainly give chase if Daniella and her friends did.
And they would win.
“Ella,” Erich said, as if theirs was to be a joyous reunion. Her stomach turned at the nickname, at the fond smile on his face. “You don’t have to run anymore. I’m here now.”
A hand grabbed her shoulder from behind and Daniella startled, only to see Buras there. “Get behind me,” he said, pushing between her and Perchaya, drawing his own sword. Daniella wondered if, with Buras now between them and the soldiers, they might be able to make it to the library after all, but before she could even take a step, she saw two more men coming at them from that direction, dressed like the others, weapons drawn. One of them was guiding the serving girl along in front of him with a firm hand on her shoulder. She was pale, shaking; she clearly hadn’t found any help before they’d intercepted her. The man holding her—a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, with shaggy black hair and pale blue eyes, looked familiar to Daniella, though she couldn’t quite place him. He said something quietly to girl, then guided her into the library, closing the door behind her.
Good, she thought, as if there was truly anything good about this situation at all. They don’t want to hurt her; they just want to keep her from getting help.
Which meant there was no help coming.
Daniella gripped Perchaya’s hand and felt her friend squeeze back so hard she thought her knuckles might crack. Nikaenor stood with them, looking back and forth between the soldiers frantically. He made a motion over his brow—the sign of the waves—with a trembling hand.
“Five against one seems rather dishonorable,” Buras said, his stance deceptively casual. “Perhaps you’d care to test your swordsmanship against mine in a duel, General Dektrian?”
At least Buras managed to say Erich’s name without the note of worship this time.
Erich eyed Buras, considering. “I saw you fight in the tournament,” he said. “Your skills are incredible. Matthon Buras, correct? From a small town named Rekarchko, just north of Haidshir.”
Buras tensed, but he didn’t say anything. Daniella felt a pit of dread forming in her stomach. Erich wasn’t one for idle talk.
“Your father is a farmer, your mother a seamstress. You have a wife and several small children. Your Andronish uncle taught you to fight, and to speak Sevairnese, as well. He was in the Andronish military—our military, now.”
Buras’ voice was uncertain. “How do you know all this?”
Erich smiled. “I told you, I saw you fight. I was impressed. I asked around. It wasn’t hard to find people wanting to talk about the peasant showing all those knights which end of the sword was up.”
“And what of it?” Buras asked. His knuckles were white on the sword hilt, his stance no longer casual.
The pit in Daniella’s stomach grew larger.
“I’m inviting you to join us,” Erich said simply. “Not just to turn over the Lord General’s daughter, but to join the Sevairnese military. To be one of my top men. One of my Riders.”
The tip of Buras’ outstretched sword dipped slightly. Daniella resisted the urge to curse. Of course Erich would try to recruit him. What’s more, he could even do so sincerely—a fighter like Buras, who’d been so mistreated by the knights? Erich had probably had that in mind ever since he saw Buras at the tournament.
Getting him and the rest of them in one shot would be a masterstroke.
“I swore fealty to Lord Jaemeson,” Buras said.
Daniella noted how Erich’s eyes hardened, how his lips pressed tighter together at the mention of Jaeme. But he didn’t look back at her, didn’t indicate that he clearly knew of their relationship. If he’d had time to research Buras’ background, he surely wouldn’t have missed that.
Instead he kept his gaze on Buras. “You did. To a knight. Do you think he truly cares about you or your family? Do you think any of them do? Do you really want to fight among men who will never consider you their equal?” Erich gestured to the men at his side. “These men, though. They won’t care how much money or land your family has. My soldiers come from all backgrounds—farmers, like my parents. Merchants, nobles, tradesmen. Ifran over there, he grew up in a hut in the Ydgen mountains, knew only a handful of words in Sevairnese when he first joined up.”
The man who Daniella thought looked familiar grinned, swiping a patch of dark hair back from his forehead to show an Ydgen tattoo above his left eyebrow. “I knew the dirty ones,” he said, a deliberate joking return, a show of their camaraderie. “Turns out that’s all that really mattered.”
Buras cast a glance back at her, and Daniella could see him wavering. Perchaya and Nikaenor looked panicked as well. Nikaenor’s hand went to the pouch at his side that Daniella knew held Mirilina, but Perchaya stopped him with a hand on his arm, shaking her head. A good call.Nikaenor might be able to use Mirilina to try to convince Buras of the righteousness of their cause, or as a distraction, but Erich would know all about the godstone. He and his soldiers could disarm him easily and take the stone.
Buras stood straighter, and Daniella’s chest tightened painfully. “All right,” Buras said. “I accept your offer.”
Erich smiled. “All right, boys. Let’s head out. We have what we came for.”
Daniella blinked. They couldn’t have what they came for. They should be here for the godbearers. For Kenton, for the last of the Drim.
Shouldn’t they?
Ifran gripped Daniella’s shoulders and propelled her down the hall. Erich’s other men took hold of Nikaenor and Perchaya and brought them along, as well. Buras looked back at them all as they headed into a narrow stairwell—a servants’ exit that would lead near the kitchens downstairs.
Daniella tried not to blame Buras for what he’d done. After the way he’d been treated, it only made sense. She let Ifran lead her down a narrow staircase after Erich and Buras. Once they got outside, she would find another opportunity to escape.
At the bottom of the stairwell, Erich paused, looking down the hallway to see if the way was clear.
Buras took one look at Daniella over his shoulder, as if judging the distance between them. Then he drew his sword, lifted it high, and brought the pommel down over Erich’s head.
Gods, he’d only been bluffing.
Ifran held Daniella against the wall, clearing the path for the soldier behind him, who threw Perchaya against the wall beside her.
Erich stumbled out into the hallway, holding his head, but he still managed to draw and turn. He pulled his fingers from his bloodied hair, and he dodged as Buras swept out into the hallway after him.
The other soldiers pursued Buras out into the hall, blades drawn. Behind her, Daniella saw alarm on Nikaenor’s face as he pulled Perchaya to her feet and the two of them scrambled backward. They were on the other side of the guards now. They could do nothing to help her, and this was their only chance to get away. Ifran held her tight, and if she fought, she feared he would pull a knife on her. She couldn’t afford to feel like her life was threatened, not with her friends so close.
“Run,” she said, her voice coming out hoarse, as if she’d been shouting. With wide-eyed, equally desperate looks back at Daniella, Perchaya and N
ikaenor did just that, disappearing back up the stairs.
Erich and his men paid them no mind, which confirmed Daniella’s suspicions. Erich wasn’t here for the others—only for her. Perhaps now, as he’d once sworn to her, he was no longer doing her father’s bidding in chasing her. How ironic that she should have his attention on her own merits, now that she no longer desired it.
Erich stared at Buras, not with anger, but with genuine disappointment. “That’s the thing about Mortiche, they have this obsession with honor. But I’m a soldier. I have an obsession with winning.”
Buras had his back to the wall, keeping the men from circling him, and was deftly striking and parrying at Erich’s men while Erich watched. Ifran forced Daniella down the stairs, and she stifled a cry of pain as her arm twisted behind her. Ifran forced her to the ground at Erich’s feet.
Erich nodded to Ifran, who drew a dagger.
Please, gods, Daniella thought. Try to kill me.
But in a flash of steel, Ifran tossed the dagger at Buras, and it buried deep in his neck.
Daniella choked on her own cry as Buras coughed a spray of blood before toppling to his knees and then to the ground, blood trickling onto the stone.
Erich looked down at Daniella, and her skin crawled. “I’ve missed you, love.”
“I’m not your love,” she said, through a throat raw with fear and fury, struggling futilely against his iron grip. In that moment, she wondered how she ever could have compared Jaeme to him. Jaeme was a liar, yes. He’d betrayed her knowingly and deliberately. But he wasn’t cruel, like Erich, and she had a hard time imagining that he ever could be. “And you might as well kill me now, because I never will be.”
She wished he would try to kill her, that she would unleash her power on Erich, on his men, that she could disappear in blood and darkness as long as it meant she was free of him. If she was a weapon, she ought to be able to do it without the imminent threat, and she focused on her memories of the world coming apart, the power pulsing out of her. She reached down inside herself, trying to access it, to use that power to defend herself from the danger that was obvious, if not immediate.
