It was her time to become a queen, but she would not go quietly.
She squared her shoulders and waited for the cell door to open.
* * *
They stopped just before the cell. Eoghan regarded the oversized ring of keys in his hands and turned to Assana. “If I send her back to her father, we can have peace.”
Assana nodded. “You will be a hero. The kingdom will know the malevolence at Duncarrow started and ended with the sorcerer.”
“Be certain,” he said, splaying his fingers over her belly. “For if Oldwin kills me, it will be our child who reigns. Are you? Certain?”
Assana started to say something. Now was not the time for confessions. In the end, she just nodded.
“Let me speak to her first. She needs to know she has nothing to fear from me.”
“I’ll distract the guards. They belong to Oldwin now, and they will not allow you to leave with her so easily. I will meet you back in your chambers.”
Eoghan paused. Nodded.
Assana wrung her hands together and then, clumsily, leaned in to peck his cheek. “You are better than the man she will expect to walk into her cell. Show her this and let us be free of Oldwin, and of the legacy that has followed you since you sent Darrick into the sea.”
* * *
The door swung open. The king stood before her.
He was alone.
Esmerelda had never met Eoghan Rhiagain before. She’d seen his painting in the guildhall at Warwicktown, but the artist had done their part to soften the way his limbs gnarled inwards, and the slump of his spine that had not happened overnight.
“Lady Esmerelda,” Eoghan said. She was still recovering from the shock of his physical deformity that the small high voice, that of a boy, didn’t startle her as it might have. Nothing about him seemed right. This was no king standing before her. Had he really caused all the mayhem now plaguing their kingdom? This pathetic creature? “This is not the way I wanted for us to meet.”
“Nor I, for as you know, I once chose death over standing here before you.”
“Yet I am pleased that you live now.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are,” she said. The hand clutching the blade slipped with sweat. She grasped it tighter, taking a brave step forward. “For now you’ve gotten what you wanted all along.”
Quickness. Quickness is the mark of a woman’s hand in battle. Small, decisive thrusts, Esmerelda. Ye ken?
Yes, Father.
You are small, and can move faster than a man. They willnae expect skill from you.
“You do not belong in a cell,” Eoghan said. “I’ve made arra—”
Eoghan’s face froze as an arc of crimson streamed from his neck where her blade had swiped. He didn’t immediately grab for the wound. Even as he bled out, his shock at the swift shift of the moment held him in thrall of her as his eyes asked questions his mouth could not form.
He stumbled back against the table and Esmerelda leapt forward, driving the knife into his shoulder, and then again into his neck, where it found no purchase for the flesh had already been mangled by her handiwork. Esmerelda screamed as she buried the knife a dozen times, landing haphazardly but decisively.
“For my uncle Byrne! For the Southerlands, and the salt and sand that will never be yours! For the Westerlands! For my Ryan, and my child, that you willnae ever lay your filthy hands on!” Her screeches blinded her. She was lost to her frenzy, to words she could no longer hear herself shrieking, to the stabbing motion of a hand that was no longer her own.
At last she climbed off him, breathless. She staggered backward. What life remained in Eoghan could be seen only in the light dying in his eyes.
Fleetingly, she wondered where the guards were. Why they had not come to accost her, to save their king. But she did not wonder this for long.
“You cannot die until you know, you monster. I want you to know about Darrick. He is alive, you craven bastard. You lose. You lost then, though you didnae know it. Darrick Rhiagain lives and he will come take his rightful place on the throne of Duncarrow!”
With one last scream, Esmerelda rushed forth and jammed the knife into his eye.
47
Children and Traitors
“Send Steward Waters out!” Storm yelled, planting herself at the center of the bridge. “I wish to treat with him, and I will not speak to another.”
“Got a message for him, do ya? From who, girl?” a guard who’d been standing on the other end chatting with the blacksmith called. They both laughed and returned to their conversation. As if there wasn’t a war brewing just beyond their doorstep.
Storm smirked, squaring her stance. Oakenwell’s armor lay in a heap at her feet. “From Lord Warwick of the Southerlands!”
The men stopped talking. They passed their astonishment between them.
Oakenwell tensed in front of her. “What did I tell you? They’ll kill you, and then me.”
“As long as they kill you first, I don’t see the problem. I’m fast,” Storm said, voice low. “We don’t need them to believe us, we only need to keep them distracted.”
“Yeah? If they don’t apprehend Lord Warwick before he can find Lord Blackwood, you mean?”
“They’d kill Lord Warwick without hesitation, were he standing in my spot. You and I both know it. It had to be me who brought you in. He has the best chance of finding Brandyn now.”
“And if he does? He’ll be no match for Mortain. He should have called for the Southerland forces.”
“Well, he didn’t, did he? So here we are, you and I, and we better make the most of it.” She smiled. “Ahh here we go.”
A dozen guards swarmed up from seemingly nowhere, swords drawn. Storm raised her hands and kicked Oakenwell to do the same.
“Who’s in charge here?” she called out.
A decorated guard stepped forward. “That would be me, but you’ll find we do not mix the business of words with children in the Easterlands, especially the female kind.” He nodded at Oakenwell. “Send him forth. We’ll take it from here.”
“It is the law of this kingdom that a messenger be treated with the respect of a lord of the realm. Put away your swords, and deliver my message, or be counted as traitors in The Book.”
The men seemed unsure as they exchanged looks. Some lowered their steel halfway, others doubled down on their threat-filled glares.
The one in charge stepped forward, sword out but at his side.
“Are you men? Men would not be afraid of a mere girl,” Storm challenged. “Men would live by the code of honor of the kingdom and fetch the only man authorized to treat with me.”
“The code does not extend to children and traitors,” one spat.
Oakenwell stepped forward. “It is not for you to decide what I am. Call for Steward Waters and he can judge my actions in the absence of Lord Quinlanden.”
“Or I can,” said the one in charge. Several of the guards snickered.
“If you do, you will be sent to the dungeon as a traitor yourself. For your authority does not extend to a man of Great Family, and even Mads Waters would not go against a tradition so inviolate.”
“Go on, then.” The guard in charge nodded to others in the back. “Go find him. We may not see battle today like our brothers but there’ll be a show for us to enjoy just the same.”
“I haven’t seen him this morning,” one said.
“That’s ‘cos he’s in the dungeon with that sorcerer, you half-wit. Now go.”
“Doing what?”
“How should I know? Ain’t our business. Ask me another question and see what answer you get.”
“Now what, girl?” Oakenwell said over his shoulder.
“Now,” Storm said with a sigh. “We wait, and we hope it takes them longer than it should.”
* * *
“You’re late,” Mortain accused. He kicked at the bucket Drystan laid at his feet. The water spilled all over them both. To the other man he said, “Why are you here, Waters? Why are not wi
th your men, looking after the Saleen?”
Waters half-laughed. “I chose not to add bearing witness to genocide to my conscience. My men have their orders. Tepid as they are. Look after the mindless undead? They may as well catch a noontime nap.”
Mortain scoffed. He looked again at Brandyn. “The wind has shifted solidly in our favor. Everything that happens now will happen as it should.”
Waters grunted. He slapped Brandyn. It elicited a pained grunt, but did not rouse him. “Why haven’t you killed the little pube already?”
Drystan pressed himself against the wall. He was too late, Mortain had said, but he’d made it just in time. Brandyn was alive, and Mortain was still here. Everything in his life had led him here, to this moment, at the precipice of his destiny. What would his father think? His mother? What would they say if they saw all he’d done since leaving home, all he’d become? Standing here, now, mere inches from the creature who would either further the kingdom’s pain or at last end it, at the tip of Drystan’s sword.
Mortain sighed in pure annoyance. “You ask why the boy is alive? I ask myself why I have suffered you to live, when your usefulness was spent long ago.”
Waters dropped a hand on his sword. “You wouldn’t dare. Lord Quinlanden—”
“Is a prisoner of the king, you fool! You almost grasped this with your dull assertion that the words coming from Duncarrow were not his, but you lack the cleverness to understand why they were not his. Aiden Quinlanden will never again be in charge here. Will not ever step foot in the Easterlands, let alone rule it. He’ll die in that cell in Duncarrow, and the sooner it happens, the better for him.”
Waters sputtered through an attempt at a response. “You don’t know that. You are no wiser than me, Mortain.”
“You don’t know what I am,” Mortain answered. “If I ever choose to show you, your life will already be mine.”
“Pardon me. Apologies. Sorry. Steward Waters? You’re needed. On the bridge.”
Waters spun on the lowly guard. “For what?”
“There’s a... a prisoner. A traitor.”
Waters gestured around him. “Can you not see we’re in a dungeon. There are prisoners all around us.”
“Not just any prisoner, sir. Steward Oakenwell.”
Mortain laughed. “Ahh. There may yet be fun ahead of you, Waters, in what little remains of your life.”
Waters grunted and followed the guard.
Drystan willed his heart to slow. His breaths, he pushed to the shallows. Mortain had not yet looked his way. He was fixed on Brandyn, regarding him with slowly increasing intensity. Drystan found he couldn’t look at his cousin, that his courage had brought him here, but it could not force him to behold the broken body of a child.
But he, too, wondered why Mortain had not killed him.
“What a pathetic little thing you are,” Mortain mused. “Defenseless. Pointless.”
Drystan knelt quietly and set the bottle of wine down in a pile of hay.
“It seems I cannot kill you after all. Your Ravenwood blood, as insignificant as it is, has nonetheless prevented me from finishing this. But there are other ways to ensure a man’s death. There are wulves who would be happy to feast upon your broken flesh. Starving children who would take their crude daggers of shale and rock to you in exchange for a hot meal.”
Drystan slowly lowered his hand to the hilt of his sword.
“I know I promised you a swift death if you cooperated, but does it count if I pulled what I needed from you instead of receiving it willingly? I’m not certain it does, Brandyn of Longwood Rush. I’m not certain at all.”
Drystan’s hand moved with controlled swiftness as he withdrew the steel from its sheath.
“I should send your head to the king,” Mortain said with a light laugh. “He’s beginning to amass quite the collection from the Blackwoods. He should open a gallery. For that, I might even return to Duncarrow.”
Brandyn started to wake. His astounded gaze locked tight onto Drystan, both eyes peeled so wide they seemed to tremble. Drystan shook his head in a panic, and Brandyn let his head fall to the side.
A strained sound came from the boy. Mortain leaned in to hear it better.
“What was that, Brandyn? You would like me to spare your life?”
“I said,” Brandyn croaked. “Yours ends here.”
Drystan sprang forward and launched himself at Mortain. The sorcerer turned just as Drystan’s sword came down upon his neck, slicing clean through.
Drystan dropped his sword to the stone floor. He heaved one final pant and then stopped breathing altogether, mouth hung, suspended in his shift from disbelief to acceptance. Brandyn drew a hard, inward gasp, then trapped the sound there. They both watched Mortain’s head roll across the floor and land at the foot of the guard who had missed everything.
The guard screamed.
* * *
Ash hovered impatiently in the hallway. He’d grabbed a basket of linens on their way to the dungeon. Drystan was ushered into the cell, he lingered behind, wearing an overly anxious look to show anyone wondering about him that he was awaiting the one who would give him direction.
The door to the cell was open. What a bold monster Mortain was, inviting anyone to dare challenge him. Knowing it would mean their death. Ash had never met any of the sorcerers, but he’d heard enough stories to know they were not in possession of the morals of man.
Drystan seemed to understand this, but his blood ran far too hot on the ephemeral idea of fate. Ash had seen greater men fall upon the sword of what they believed to be their destiny, and lesser men live long lives from their outright rejection of it.
Drystan could be a great man. He didn’t need the head of the enemy on the end of his sword. He had the whole of the Northerlands to build his legacy upon. Sylvaine or no, Drystan was a Dereham, a man of the Northerlands if not in blood, then in all the other ways that mattered. With Gretchen’s help, he would bring hope after the generational curse of Hadden’s Bane, a prophetic veil Holden would never shed no matter what accomplishments he notched on his belt.
If Drystan succeeded in doing what he’d come for, he would be the hero of the realm, welcomed home as an easy replacement for his father. If he failed, his efforts would die here with him.
There was no longer anything Ash could do either way.
The helplessness gnawed at him. He had only just gained a son, and in the most pivotal moment of Drystan’s short life, Ash could only watch, his power taken, his purpose shattered, as his son approached it alone.
Two guards walked past him, pushing him farther against the wall. He dropped the basket of linens. These were men who had drawn the worst fate of the guards, working the dungeons, and yet, still, there was a hierarchy. A pecking order. Ash, as a servant, was not even worth the murmur of apology.
As he knelt to retrieve his basket, Ash looked toward the cell just as Drystan brought the sword down upon the back of Mortain’s neck. It all happened so slowly, but yet so fast that Ash could not comprehend what he was seeing. Somehow, he managed to bring the basket back into his arms, clutching it tight, his mind still committed to the present task and not the horror unfolding before him.
The guard’s scream was what ripped him forward. Ash threw the linens to the side and drew his sword, but in an instant was overcome by a handful of guards answering the call of the one who had witnessed the bloody end of the sorcerer.
Drystan turned to face them, assumed the stance Ash taught him. He reached for the sword he’d dropped at his feet. Ash’s heart swelled with pride, but also the fear of knowing, knowing, knowing what came next and the acceptance he would not get there quick enough to stop it.
Drystan hardly had his sword up to block one blow when all seven guards buried their steel in him, one by one. Drystan stumbled back against Brandyn, and the younger boy reached down for his hand, which he was able to take only briefly before the blood on his hands caused him to lose purchase. Down to the floor Drystan slid, ju
st as Ash burst into the cell.
He had only a moment. Only a moment to see Drystan look up, bleary-eyed, to hear him say the words.
“I did it, Father.”
Drystan’s eyes closed.
Ash spun to face the assailants. The first he speared through the belly, and as he withdrew it, he pulled a dagger from his belt and sent it sailing into the neck of another. He bore down and howled through the windmill he made with his sword as he brought it through four more, bearing down at the resistance of flesh and bone, and then, when they had all fallen, clutching their wounds, he finished them off.
The last one backed toward the door. He dropped his sword. Fear burned in his eyes.
“Please don’t,” he begged. “I have a family.”
Ash pulled his sword free and drew the end across the guard’s neck. “Then you should not have killed mine.”
* * *
The man who had slashed through seven guards on his own leaned in and quickly cut the straps binding Brandyn to the chair. Brandyn fell to his knees, where Drystan lay half on his side. He searched for any sign that what he was seeing with Drystan was a trick of light, any chance he might only be wounded, but there was nothing. He was gone.
The stranger pulled Drystan against him, and the sob that emanated when his mouth peeled open was so horrifying that Brandyn felt he would hear it in his nightmares for the rest of his days.
Brandyn was free, and Drystan Dereham was dead. How many others had fallen, while he’d failed to free himself from the sorcerer? How had Drystan even come to be here at all?
Brandyn’s head spun as he pushed himself to weave all that had happened into something that made sense.
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