Faded black paint spread across her nose and forehead in perfect streaks only marred by the line of tears dripping from eyes I almost recognized.
“Help me,” I pleaded. I crawled up onto my hands and knees and held the bar. “Help me,” I raged again, my voice shaking with anger and need, like an open wound.
Her tear-streaked eyes recorded my agony, but she didn’t move. I pulled at her cloak, trying to bring her closer, to force her to action, but she stayed planted.
Her cloak slipped off.
Underneath the cloak was a structure of rusting gears and green misty ghostlight, a skeleton of pipes, sparks, and machinations. Historians were nothing but walking Whirligigs, with a face of someone I almost remembered.
I dropped the cloak and found a corner on my own.
She recorded my deaths.
Again and again.
I died of thirst, a slow death that rattled my lungs and set a sharp pain in my abdomen.
I reawakened a foot away from where I’d lain, only to die from poisoned food. Each time I awoke, my body was battered, but my heart was still beating. I didn’t know how long I could live, clutching on to life with only one heart left to beat. Three times she watched me die. She stood sentinel as I shuddered awake, vomited on the cold stones, and screamed into the darkness to let me go. I didn’t want to live, only to stay dead.
She watched, but she never said a word.
* * *
Hours, or days, or years later, a door opened, and a lantern’s sharp light burned my retinas.
“Still alive?” Edvarg said nonchalantly, like he wasn’t surprised, or as if he simply didn’t care.
The Historian was gone.
“How many days?” I croaked. My throat was rough as used sandpaper—dry and full of muck.
Edvarg’s cape flicked in the breeze. He cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps if we remove your head entirely.”
“How. Many.” I stopped to fill my lungs.
“Eleven.” Edvarg scratched his beard. “Perhaps if there were enough witnesses…”
I ignored my uncle’s casual inquiry in how to kill me and clenched my eyes closed. My parents were eleven days gone. I’d lost eleven days of my quest. My palm brushed the bauble around my neck. I died from a lack of drink, yet I had crystal-clear water strung around my neck that I would never consider drinking.
Not until I knew I’d be strong enough to do this.
3
DAGNEY
I was in the market when the Executioner gongs rang out. Loud. Mechanical. I clutched the book against my chest and glanced up at the moons above me.
There was time. There was still time.
The bookseller pulled his embroidered books from their stands and packed them in a large trunk. I stepped quickly to his table.
“How much will you give me for this?” I asked. I showed him the bindings, but did not let go. You never let a trader hold your wares. Father taught me that.
“Lady Tomlinson.” He eyed the title on the spine, and then shook his head. “I don’t deal with traitors.”
And I didn’t deal well with people calling me names. I grabbed a handful of his lace cravat and pulled him until our noses were almost touching. “Jecky Varnes, I’ve bought enough books from you to furnish your entire house, so you will deal with me. How much?”
His eyes bulged at my violence. “One silver.”
I let go. “I bought it for five not twelve days ago.”
“Prices go up, prices go down.” He fiddled with his collar and went back to stacking.
I folded my arms. “You are cheating me? I’m your best customer.”
“You were a council member’s daughter,” he muttered. “I could call the guards on you. I’m sure King Edvarg would love payment for your father’s betrayal.”
I lowered my hands. “My father left me too.” My throat tightened, but I refused to let it weaken me. “He loved me more than anything in this world, and he and my brother left me with nothing. Please. I have a household to feed.”
He met my gaze, a spark of light back in his eyes. “Five silvers.”
“Thank you.” I handed him the book and it slipped into his trunk before I could count my silvers. “I’m looking for information about my brother.”
“Be glad you got the silvers.” He slid his last three books off the shelf and collapsed the thing in one winding twist of a gear. I’d always admired his mechanical bookshelf. “The King’s Executioner’s been summoned. Market’s closing.”
I stared up at the twin moons. It was getting late indeed if I could see their faces.
“I heard the gongs.” I slid my coins into the pockets of my market dress. “I’m sorry about your cravat. It’s been a difficult few days.”
He slammed his trunk closed and locked it. Jecky Varnes used to be friendly, almost a friend. I shared sweet rolls with him, and he always saved me the best books.
But now I was just grateful he didn’t spit on me.
The market emptied. No one here would trade with me, not even for information. I needed to know where my brother was. I had to find him.
But there was no one here, except one woman, huddled in the shadows, counting coins with trembling fingers.
I didn’t know this trader. She sat with her legs folded on a woven rug. Small carved stones lined her table. I crept closer and she looked up. Her eyes were lined with kohl, her pale hair reddened with dye, her face creased with wrinkles. She wore a dress made of scarves and feathers, with tiny shells sewn as embroidery, and nestled in her skirts was a small black-and-white dog.
“You aren’t heading to the execution?” I asked.
“I’ve seen enough death.” Her husky voice barely reached me. Her pale gold eyes found mine. “Why aren’t you running off to join the crowd? You aren’t afraid you will miss it?”
I wish I could miss the execution. I glanced toward the castle, and I wrapped my shawl tighter. “I’ve heard tale Sir Grigfen Tomlinson was with the prince the night of the treason. But no one has seen him since. You haven’t heard any rumors—”
“About your brother?” She scratched her dog’s ears. I lowered my eyes. “Aye, I know who you are, miss. I also know you’d do anything for information, so how’s about a trade?”
I knelt before her table. “I have few coins.”
“No, coins aren’t enough. I’m looking for land. Far away from the city.”
I scoffed. “You expect me to trade my family’s land for information?” This was not my first market day.
“No, miss.” She bit her lip. “There’s no information to be had. Not one soul knows where your brother is. I tell you true. I’m offering you more than information.” She glanced over her shoulder before she pulled an unassuming silver bottle from a shell-lined pocket. “I’m offering you answers, and a path to a good future, for you and your family.”
I leaned away from the table. King Edvarg published every word of that contract my father had signed, and the Devout proclaimed to everyone who would stop at the Abbey gates about the council’s decision to drink the Savak seer water. With her words and the twisting in my stomach, I recognized the contents of the bottle without a taste. Seer water. Treason and answers in one gulp. But why reveal it to me now? Seer water was worth a thousand gold pieces at the least.
I stared at the woman. This kingdom was such a melting pot; there were merchants from every kingdom, each one a different height, weight, nationality, and gender, but somehow, they seemed stamped from the same design.
Except her.
Her dyed silver hair. Her pale eyes. Of course. She was a Savak in hiding, and if she wanted to flee … The Savak hated deserters more than any enemy. If she was found here when they came to claim our throne, she’d be among the first to die.
“One year’s lease,” I offered. But where would she be safest? “The orchard at Avenlo. It’s been closed for decades, but there should be wild apples, plenty of squirrels and rabbits. The house isn’t much, but it should be warm enough
when frost comes. Three days west, follow the river until Forest Hill when you turn south.”
“My wife and I thank you heartily.” Her eyes shone. “Goddess blessings on you,” she whispered.
The moons-light brightened and I felt a swelling of hope in my chest. I would find my brother. I had to. No one else was looking.
I took the seer water and sniffed it. Not well water or wine. I’d never smelled something so crisp before. There was no trick. She’d sold me seer water for a year lease. I’d never won such a bargain before. I closed the stopper and tucked it away before anyone could see me.
“Best hurry, my lady,” she said. “Don’t want to miss your summons.”
I swallowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Her leathered face creased in a grin. “I’ll keep your secrets if you keep mine.”
I offered my hand and she shook it. “That’s a deal if I’ve ever made one.”
The gong sounded again. Third time. I drew a breath. I couldn’t delay any longer. I had to be about my father’s business.
* * *
God below, guide my axe.
My thoughts were more prayer than plan. I stood alone in front of the tall stone doors, as nervous as the first time I attended a ball, but this time my older brother wasn’t here to push them open for me. This time I was heading toward death, and it was not my own. My knees shook, and I couldn’t move. I wasn’t ready to step out of the dark tunnel and into the gallows.
Not yet.
Heavy drums pounded in the distance, each boom echoing in my rib cage. The black robes of the King’s Executioner covered my corset and bloomers, and the weight of the gilded axe pressed into my shoulder, heavy as a bag of laundry.
Would the blood stain my robes?
Don’t think about it.
I drew a breath, but didn’t open the door.
The tunnel smelled like my father—of ink and blood, sweat and polish. It smelled of his tears. He’d warned me taking a life would not be easy. He said it destroyed a piece of his soul to do it.
But he still did it. And with Father gone, I had to take his place.
If only my brother were here to answer the summons. If Grigfen had worn the robes, he wouldn’t have stood out. His height was closer to my father’s, his shoulders larger.
Perhaps it was good he wasn’t here for this. It would kill him to kill another. He’d received the muscles, but I was the one who’d inherited my grandmother’s strength.
I tugged the sword belt lower on my hips and widened my stance. I was a large woman, thick as my father. Perhaps they would not think me a woman below the robes.
I could do this.
My fingers twitched inside the witch-made gloves. I lowered the black hood over my mask and tried not to think of the person I would kill on the king’s orders. It could be anyone. A dissenter who spoke out against our new king. A traitor, like the servants who helped King Vinton leave.
The new king demanded a show of strength. With war looming on the horizon, our people needed it. And there was no stronger hero than the King’s Executioner—he who came from below the streets to kill in the king’s name. He mingled with the Undergod. He was holy and secret and sacred.
His title was the mask my family wore, and that was worth protecting.
I pressed the door with the palms of my golden witch-made gloves. The solid wall slid open in front of me, and I stepped through into the night.
At the base of the castle, where some kingdoms would keep a moat, my kingdom held an arena. A half circle of steps made risers to aid the crowd’s view.
The awaiting crowd scattered away as the wall behind me closed. Half-melted candles arched around the wall, where names were etched.
The onlookers cheered for my arrival as if I were the star of a theatrical. It’d been too long since I’d heard a kind word, so now this mob celebrating my presence felt like a feast to the starving. Almost comforting. But the lie in their love made the warmth curdle at the base of my throat.
I’d been spat on for my father’s actions. They were cheering for a title, and not the girl behind the hood.
I focused on the raised platform, covered in straw at the center of the arena, and the blackened block that awaited me. I walked the way my father would have, shoulders wide, hips straight, keeping silent as the lowborn moved out of my way. No one could see the tears scratching my cheeks. No one could hear my pulse racing.
No one except me.
I could face this. My father had. My grandmother had. My family had carried the secret title and responsibility for four generations, hiding our heavy duty behind our noble name and lands. I’d always been proud of it, of my grandmother’s kills, which had stopped the Devani revolt, of my father’s high standing with our old king. But I never thought twice about those who died.
And now all I could think about was a name I didn’t know.
The drums stopped as I reached the block and lowered the axe to the straw. King Edvarg joined me at the block. Tall as a mountain and thin as a river on a map. He’d been king for a few days, yet he still wore the gray robes of the Holy Order of the Undergod—now edged in royal silver and king’s bronze. A tight silver crown traced his brow, pressing down the sacred cowl of the high priesthood. He always seemed sickly to me, with his face lined in shadows. He raised his spindly fingers to the crowd circled about the platform. They silenced.
“It grieves me to meet on this dark night.” His soft voice rumbled like a distant thunder. “My brother’s treason has led to this, and here this sad business will end. Our god will be appeased, and his justice will rain on those heathen Savak who stole the best of us with their vile lies.”
The crowd cheered. He spat on the dark cobblestones and I drew backward. To King Edvarg, heathen meant anyone who didn’t worship the Undergod. To anyone else it was only an insult, but from King Edvarg it was a holy judgment of damnation.
“We will not betray our god,” King Edvarg’s voice echoed. “We will not give in to my brother’s blasphemy and cowardice. When the Savak try to claim our lands, we will show them our swords are mightier than any traitorous contract. Our fight against the Savak begins tonight, with one death. A death I mourn already.”
The torches flickered. I caught a whiff of burnt oil.
A crowd of men dressed in long black robes lined with raven feathers moved to the edge of the platform, holding back the crowd with their silent presence and sharp gaze. Historians. I couldn’t look them in the eye. Even behind their carved silver masks, the Historians’ vision was too sharp. My brother had told me it was best to stay away from their notice.
They were watching me now.
I slouched and tried to hide beneath the thick black robes. I was only doing this at the king’s command. It was the king’s kill, not mine. He didn’t even know who the Executioner was. No one did. They should be focused on him.
A bell tolled, and the lanterns sputtered. I heard the footsteps first, the first hint of the life I would take. The crowd roared as the prisoner walked forward, chains linked around his wrists, his eyes and mouth tied with filthy coverings.
I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw. My hands would not settle.
Not Prince Ryo.
Any name but his. My brother would never forgive me for this.
The crowd circling the platform spread down the long roads. They only avoided the Executioner’s wall. With the bewitched gloves, I could press the wall open and reach my father’s tunnel. That would be my escape. If it came to that.
But there was no way out for Ryo.
I stared at Prince Ryo like I had the night of my first ball, like he was the only person in a crowded room. Except this time, Ryo marched toward his death in bare feet, dressed in a poor shirt, made dusty red from dirt, sweat, and blood. He’d hate that. He was always so meticulous with his clothing, so concerned with the way his people saw him. The crowd quieted, for this, even in rags, was the prince whose birth sparked a three-week festival, the prince
we waved to when he was a small boy, sitting high on his father’s shoulders as he grinned from the castle balcony. He’d grown handsome as he aged, with his strong jaw and intelligent eyes. It seemed like god spent more time designing him than others. I knew the details of his face, the scar above his eyebrow, the curve of his lips, the halo of black hair, which seemed a crown. We all did.
He was ours.
And he’d betrayed us.
I should have seen it coming.
No one hated him more than I did. That first ball I’d thought him handsome, and when Grigfen introduced us, he looked me up and down, his lips curved in an appraising dismissal as though he thought me plain. No one danced with me the whole evening. The other girls mocked my ribbons and the boys shoved me to the back of the ballroom. I cried myself to sleep that night, and every other time I’d stepped into his company, Ryo had made another joke at my expense, which would echo and repeat through meaner tongues.
Long before my father signed that contract, I was the lowest girl in court, and I knew exactly who had given me that role.
The king’s guards dumped him at my feet, next to the blood-darkened block.
The crowd rumbled, none louder than a row of Everstriders lined among them. Their matching bleached leather coats hung to the top edge of their boots, belted tight at the waist with three buckles and strings of holy bells. They eyed the king’s guards and the Devout with distrust. One Everstrider kept his eyes on Ryo, his hand touching the sword handle at his belt as if he would protect him. The rest formed a line at the back of the platform.
I pulled my thin knife from my boot and slipped the blade between the fabric and Ryo’s cheek.
King Edvarg protested, “His mouth must be bound.” He loomed closer.
But I would not be intimidated. “He has a right to a last word, sire,” I answered, my voice deep as my father’s.
“His words are lies. Blasphemy.”
“And he has a right to it, Your Highness.”
The king’s glare burned, but he didn’t silence me. The crowd was too close, and with the Everstriders watching so sharply, this moment was a scale too precariously balanced. King Edvarg couldn’t push me, not if he risked tipping.
Glitch Kingdom Page 4