If not…
“Then, Lady Rielle,” said the king, his voice heavy, “I will have no choice but to order your execution.”
Rielle allowed the hall’s silence to grow. Lord Dervin Sauvillier watched her, his eyes keen. Across the gallery from him, the Archon sat, sedate, with his hands folded in his lap.
“I do not decree this lightly,” added the king. “I have known you all your life, and your father has served me for twice that long. But I cannot allow that to affect my duty to protect my people. We must be certain you are not the danger we have feared for a thousand years.”
Oh, Rielle, said the voice, returning with a swift jolt of anger, please tell me you won’t let them trap you like this.
But she had already stepped forward to speak. She felt as bright and sure as the sun.
The Magisterial Council believed it to be a choice, Ludivine had said—to protect and not harm. To serve and not betray.
It was a choice, and she had made hers.
She would be a symbol of light and not of death.
“I understand your fear, my king,” said Rielle, “and I will happily endure these trials to prove my worth and my strength to you, my people, and my country.” She made herself look around the room. No one would be able to accuse her of cowardice. She found Audric and Ludivine, drew strength from the sight of their faces. “I am not afraid to test my power.”
Whispers moved through the assembled councils. Rielle lifted her chin to stare up at the king.
I will show you what I can do.
I will show you who I truly am.
“Then, Lady Rielle,” said the king at last, his expression torn, “let the trials begin.”
12
Eliana
“You will hear things about the Emperor’s assassins, things designed to terrify you. That their loyalty to him gives them extraordinary strength. That, like him, they cannot be killed. But I tell you, the butchers of Invictus are as flesh and blood as you are. It is a battle of beliefs. Can your faith outlast theirs?”
—The Word of the Prophet
“You don’t look surprised to see me,” said Rahzavel. He approached through the bathing room with a dancer’s grace. “So you’re a fool, but you’re not stupid.”
Every instinct screamed at Eliana to run out of the maidensfold after Simon and Navi, but to where? And then what? Rahzavel would chase her to the ends of the earth. He and Invictus and the Emperor himself would view her defection as a personal insult.
She had time for two fleeting hopes—that Simon and Navi would get out of the palace safely. And that Simon would find a spark of mercy in his heart and protect Remy and Harkan.
Then Rahzavel attacked.
He was fast, through the bathing room and upon her before she had the chance to strategize. He raised his sword, and with that pale face smiling coldly at her, everything Eliana knew abandoned her in an instant.
She turned and ran.
Rahzavel chased her through the scented labyrinth of the maidensfold. He caught up with her, let his sword fly. Eliana swung the adatrox sword, its heavy hilt slick with blood, and parried. Rahzavel advanced; Eliana barely blocked each of his cuts.
Their blades caught. Eliana stepped back and quickly turned her sword, dislodging him. She swiped wildly at his torso, but he was too quick. He advanced again. Eliana stumbled back, found a carving of a scantily clad woman on a tabletop, threw it at him, and ran.
She heard the carving hit the floor. Rahzavel’s quick footsteps followed her through a series of narrow carpeted rooms.
Her strikes became desperate; Rahzavel was too fast, too meticulous. She gasped for breath; he hardly seemed to break a sweat. She ducked his sword, the blade hissing past her neck. She flung aside the adatrox sword, used her free hand to grab whatever she could find—vases, goblets, gilded plates—and fling them back at him.
He laughed at her, dodging it all.
They emerged once more into the bathing room, the tile slick from water and blood.
A lone girl huddled in the corner, whimpering.
Rahzavel’s smile unfolded. “You’re frightening the whores, Eliana.”
She thrust at his belly with Arabeth; he blocked her easily.
They circled each other, Eliana blinking back sweat. Her hair had fallen loose from its knot.
“You should never have turned,” said Rahzavel, every syllable pristine. “You could have been one of the Emperor’s favored. Your family would have wanted for nothing.”
Then, without warning, someone shoved Eliana from behind. She lost her footing on the slick tile, and Rahzavel used his sword to knock Arabeth away.
He lobbed a hard backhand across her face. She fell, her head knocking against a low table.
Dazed, she saw movement and color—one of Lord Arkelion’s concubines, scurrying away. The girl had pushed her.
“It seems the bonds of sisterhood do not extend to traitors.” Rahzavel’s voice floated above her. He straddled her hips, his face inches from her own—clean-shaven jaw, straight nose, gray eyes flat and distant.
She felt a sharp pain below her throat and glanced down, too dazed to fight.
He was cutting her.
A new panic seized her, shocking her awake. She needed to get away from him, now, before he saw the truth.
“Many would kill their dearest loved ones,” Rahzavel murmured, “for the chance to serve the Emperor as we do in Invictus. And yet you have thrown in your lot with the Prophet’s lapdog?”
Another cut, a shallow X between her collarbones.
She twisted in his grip. He cut into the soft flesh of her upper arm.
God, no, he’ll see—
“I suppose I shall have to find the Emperor a more grateful recruit,” he mused softly, “and keep you for myself.”
He swirled one long finger in her fresh blood and dragged it down her arm to her elbow.
He glanced down—and froze.
Eliana followed his gaze. The world slowed and stilled.
Together they watched the cut on her arm close.
An instant later, the skin was as good as new.
Rahzavel’s gaze shot back to hers, and for the first time since she had known him, she saw a spark of something other than bloodlust in his eyes.
Wonder. Confusion.
Fear.
Eliana could hardly breathe. Her blood raced hot beneath her skin.
“What are you?” Rahzavel whispered.
A sudden movement, just beyond Rahzavel’s shoulder. A tall, dark shape; a shift in the air.
Eliana flashed Rahzavel a smile. “I am your doom.”
Rahzavel leapt up, turned, and met Simon’s sword with his own.
Eliana rolled away, retrieved Arabeth, and pushed herself to her feet, ready to jump in after Simon and help, but the sight of them stopped her in her tracks.
Rahzavel and Simon whirled, stabbed, struck, their blades cutting the air. They swerved and ducked and parried and thrust. Whoever the Prophet was, he had obviously made sure Simon was well trained enough to fight even the Emperor’s own assassins.
She followed them into the expansive sitting room at the rear of the maidensfold, unsure how to help. Her vision had cleared, but Simon and Rahzavel were moving so quickly it seemed to her simply elegant chaos—daggers and swords, crimson and silver, the blood on the floor and the bloodred wings of Rahzavel’s cloak.
Their fight took them onto the terrace surrounding the maidensfold. Eliana hurried after them, the warm coastal breeze washing over her. Below, one of the river’s tributaries crawled slowly to the sea.
Rahzavel’s blade caught Simon’s, pinning him against the stone railing. They were locked together, Simon’s eyes full of cold fury, Rahzavel’s empty and deadly. Simon’s knees were buckling.
Eliana saw her op
portunity, dove for Rahzavel’s back with her dagger. He whirled at the last moment, knocked both her weapon and then Simon’s out of their hands. Eliana grabbed a porcelain urn from a nearby table, brought it crashing down on Rahzavel’s shoulders. He barely stumbled, but it was enough.
Simon kicked Rahzavel’s elbow, and the assassin dropped his sword. Then Simon shoved him across the terrace railing.
Kicking and clawing, Rahzavel jabbed Simon in the throat, but Simon held on, gasping for air. Eliana hurried to his side, helped him push.
Rahzavel tumbled over the railing and fell into the blackness below.
Eliana gazed over the edge, trying to see if he hit the river, but the night was too dark. She wiped blood from her face, breathing hard.
Simon joined her, coughing from Rahzavel’s last blow to the throat. He spat over the railing, his lip curled with disgust.
“Do you think the fall was enough to kill him?” the girl—Navi—asked, joining them at the railing.
Then the bells of the watch towers along the palace walls began to ring.
Navi hissed a curse. “Razia. She disappeared shortly after you arrived. She must have reported you.”
Eliana’s eyes met Simon’s. “Follow me. We’ll have to do this the hard way.”
She led him and Navi back through the palace, down a different network of narrow servants’ passages. They met three adatrox coming up from the ballrooms. Navi flattened herself against the curving stone wall while Eliana and Simon punched and stabbed their way free.
They dashed inside a suite of rooms in the palace’s east wing, where party guests occupying the bedrooms shouted in protest, then raced out onto another wide terrace, this one lit with rose-glass lamps and fragrant from heaps of flowers. Below, Lord Arkelion’s gardens were a sea of light and color.
Eliana led the way, jumping off the terrace into a row of shrubs. She landed hard, branches cracking beneath her, and rolled to her feet. She heard Simon and Navi land behind her, heard Navi’s soft cry of pain.
Partygoers leapt back, alarmed. Someone screamed.
Eliana whirled, searching. A squadron of adatrox burst out of the Morning Ballroom, swords in hand. Two held rifles. They crouched on the steps, aimed, prepared to fire.
Two shots rang out; Eliana ducked. A nearby stone urn shattered. A group of dancers in silks and bangles fled, screaming.
Eliana led Simon and Navi through the gardens, knocking past the stunned guests, trying to ignore the sounds of the pursuing adatrox. She could not think of Rahzavel, of how lucky it was that he would have no chance to tell anyone about the impossible thing he had seen.
She would think only of Harkan, of her mother, of Remy.
Remy, I’m coming. Don’t be afraid.
More adatrox waited for them at the gardens’ perimeter, where a guarded tunnel led into the outer yards. Simon barreled into the adatrox, cut down two. Eliana saw a revolver flash and shoved Simon out of the way just as a shot rang out, then spun around and sliced open the shooter’s throat.
They made it into the outer yards, then through the Lord’s Gate and into the city itself. The Old Quarter was in a panic, citizens scrambling to return to their homes. Limp naming day garlands scattered the uneven cobbled streets. Fireworks exploded overhead in a shower of red.
Eliana looked back to see the palace looming some distance away—and a dozen adatrox in close pursuit.
Finally, they emerged from the Old Quarter and barreled through the bedlam of the common markets on the city’s edge, where vendors and shoppers, having planned for a night of revelry, now scrambled for safety.
Eliana looked ahead to the east bridge. Signal fires flared to life in the towers flanking the water. Soon every soldier in the city would know exactly where they were.
They hurried past the towering Admiral’s statue, where Harkan stood waiting. He lit a bombardier and hurled it past them toward the approaching adatrox. An explosion, screams of shock and pain—then a ringing silence.
The market grounds lay in ruins. The bombardier had bought them a moment or two.
A small weight slammed into Eliana, throwing its arms around her.
Remy.
She kissed the top of his head. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. I’m here.”
Harkan stood behind him, looking past Eliana. More adatrox were coming, pouring down from the city’s upper levels. He threw back his hood, loaded the revolver Simon had given him.
“El, take him and go,” he told her.
Eliana stared at him, Remy in hand. “You’re coming with us.”
“Simon can’t spare more grenades. I can hold them off.”
“Are you mad? You can’t shoot worth a damn.” She grabbed Harkan’s arm. “And there are too many of them. They’ll kill you!”
Simon yanked Remy from her grip, roared, “Eliana, now!” and hurried across the bridge, sheltering Navi and Remy against his body. The two halves of the bridge, lowered to bring in supplies for the fete, had begun to raise. Remy looked back frantically for Eliana, but arrow fire from the city’s inner wall rained down upon them, and soon he was lost to the night.
Eliana grabbed Harkan’s hand. “Come on—”
But he stood firm, pulled her in to his body for a clumsy, hard kiss.
“I’ve always loved you,” he whispered against her mouth.
“You tell me this now?” She wanted to smack him. A sob burst out as shaky laughter. “You idiot—”
A nearby explosion nearly threw them off their feet. The adatrox had detonated one of their own bombardiers. Behind Eliana, the bridge shifted and groaned.
“I can handle this.” Harkan shoved her toward the bridge. “Go!”
She stared at him for a helpless, frozen moment, drinking up the sight of him—the dark fall of his hair, the beautiful square line of his jaw. Her throat filled up with all the things she had never said, and all the things she had.
None of it was enough.
She turned and fled across the bridge, not looking back even as she heard Harkan open fire. He cried out, and her chest seized around her heart. She ran blindly across the shaking bridge, jumped across the gap at the top, and stumbled down the other side. She joined Simon as he fought through the tower guards, Navi and Remy close behind them.
With each step she took, each swipe of her blades, grief struck her. Tears and smoke left her half blind.
First her mother, now Harkan. Her best friend. Her light on dark days.
She had left him. She had left him.
She listened for his gunfire and heard only chaos. The adatrox archers on the city wall shouted commands to one another. Simon hissed at her to move faster. He grabbed a bombardier from a fallen adatrox, triggered it, threw it back at the guard tower.
The explosion threw them off their feet. Eliana’s chin hit the ground. A shock of pain jolted her skull. But they had destroyed the tower, collapsed the bridge. It would give them a few minutes. She pushed herself up.
Past the bridge, they hurried into one of the scattershot encampments that had formed outside the city—refugees fleeing the dangerous countryside, hoping for a chance to get in the city. The camps were pandemonium. People bolted away from the city walls, trampling the slow and sick. Bleating animals ran crazed from their pens.
Still holding Remy close by the arm, Simon tossed Navi his adatrox cloak. She caught it and drew the hood up over her face. Two soldiers in threadbare cloaks found them with a pair of saddled horses. Others raced past them toward the city wall. Red Crown rebels, Eliana assumed, all ready to die to protect them.
Good, she thought. Their deaths will buy us time.
“Take the boy,” Simon ordered. Navi nodded, her face hidden. One of the rebels gave her a leg up, and then helped Remy before running toward the wall with the others. The last rebel turned to face Simon, her battered face lit with
some inner fire.
She put a fist to her heart and then to the air—the Red Crown salute.
“The Empire will burn,” she said.
Simon inclined his head. “May the Queen’s light guide you.”
Then the woman was gone.
“Wrap your arms around my waist,” Navi murmured to Remy, “and hold on tight. What’s your name?”
“Remy,” he answered, glancing fearfully over at Eliana. “Where are we going?”
“No.” Eliana emerged from her numb shock, backed away from Simon. “I ride with Remy.”
“Sorry,” Simon replied. “Can’t have you tearing off into the countryside before you fulfill your end of our bargain.”
Only days before, she had been the Dread—queen of her own bloody world. Unstoppable and unchallenged.
Now, she was in danger of losing everyone she loved, and she could do nothing to stop it. Nothing but leave the only home she had ever known and trust her brother’s life to a stranger who would not answer her questions.
Her unraveling patience snapped.
She accepted Simon’s outstretched hand, climbed up behind him, and brought Arabeth to his throat.
“Tell me where we’re going, Wolf, and why,” Eliana murmured, “or this ends right now.”
Navi urged her horse slowly toward them. “My friend,” she said to Eliana, “I swear to you, he is not our enemy.”
“Navana is a princess of Astavar,” Simon answered, “and we are taking her home.”
“The Empire’s invasion is coming much sooner than we had thought, and in greater numbers.” Navi looked out from her hood, her gaze grave and earnest. “I must warn my people in time, or Astavar will fall. This is not information we can trust to the underground.”
Eliana stared at the girl. It was impossible: a princess, posing as one of His Lordship’s concubines. An invasion.
Astavar will fall.
And if it did, so would the world’s last free kingdom. The Undying Empire would rule all.
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