Allies & Assassins

by Justin Somper

  Asta shook her head, defiantly. Jared wondered if he’d upset her pride when he’d said she was “helping” with the investigation. He knew it would be truer to say that she was leading the investigation but he didn’t want her to feel responsible for what had happened to Nova, or anything else for that matter.

  “Hal!” he called.

  As ever, the Bodyguard was quick to do his bidding. “Yes, Prince Jared?”

  “I need you to look after Asta while I’m at the funeral.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Asta protested.

  “She’s not fine,” Jared asserted. “She’s potentially in danger and I don’t want you to let her out of your sight. I think, all things considered, it’s best if you stay here during the funeral. Asta, you can use the bed if you like. And Hal, I want you to stay right here and watch over her. Don’t let anyone else in, you understand?”

  Hal nodded, his fingers brushing the hilt of his dagger. “Completely.”

  Jared placed his hand on Hal’s shoulder. “It’s really good to know I can depend on you.”

  Hal nodded once more. “Always.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Jared said. “Asta has a headache. Do you know where we might find something to relieve the pain?”

  Actually I do,” Hal said, brushing part them and towards the door. “I just need to step into the Prince’s Office.” He was only gone a matter of moments and, when he returned, he was clutching a small glass vial containing a reddish colored substance.

  “Your brother was plagued by headaches in recent weeks.” Hal lifted up the vial with its cork stopper. “A dose or two of this seemed to do the trick. You don’t need much—it’s strong stuff. You mix it with water.” He removed the stopper. As he did so, a thin wisp of the powder stored inside was released into the air.

  The powder had a very particular smell. Asta knew she had experienced it before. It took her a moment, as Hal busied himself mixing it with water, to place it. Then, as he offered her the glass, she shuddered and exclaimed, “Ergot!”

  “What?” Jared was unsure how to respond. He and Hal watched as the glass trembled in Asta’s hand, and neither was surprised when it slipped through her fingers and fell onto the rug beneath her chair. Asta’s face was a vision of panic.

  “Don’t worry,” Hal said gently. “I’ll make you up a fresh dose.”

  “No!” Asta recoiled. Her expression had taken on a manic air.

  “What’s wrong?” Jared asked.

  She pointed at the glass. “This is what killed your brother. Not poison mixed in with his food, nor poison administered through his hunting wound. This headache cure.”

  “What?” Jared dropped to his knees beside her. He was aware of Hal, standing over him, also frozen to the spot.

  “When my uncle conducted the postmortem on Prince Anders,” she said, “he identified two possible poisons, savin or ergot…”

  “I know,” Jared said defensively. “You and I have discussed it over and over. Your uncle concluded that the toxin was most likely savin but you suspected that it could actually have been both.”

  “Yes,” Asta agreed. “But Uncle Elias was only going on the facts he had at his disposal. He told me, in passing, that ergot is sometimes used to relieve migraines. In low doses, it isn’t harmful but, if used on a regular, cumulative basis, it can be fatal.”

  “What are you telling me?” Jared asked her. “That my brother inadvertently killed himself with headache powder? Even if I do accept that, how do you explain Silva’s murder and the attempt on Nova’s life?”

  Asta was silent for a moment. He could sense her mind racing nonetheless. “No,” she said at last. “Anders’s death was not accidental. He was murdered.”

  Jared suddenly caught Hal’s gaze and wondered, for a moment, if they should be having this conversation in his company. He tried to catch Asta’s attention but she was possessed of a new, urgent energy.

  “Maybe Axel was right from the outset and this is a political attack—whether from outside or within Archenfield. It makes sense. First, you murder the Prince—to send the Princedom into shock and prove you can strike right at the heart of the court. Next, Silva, not because of the baby she is carrying but to break the all-important alliance with Woodlark. Then the Falconer—the one who controls communication with the borders and the other Princedoms beyond. Don’t you see? You’re being picked off, one by one. The murderer was the one who gave Prince Anders this headache remedy. If we find out where he got this medicine and we have the name of our assassin.”

  “Where does anyone in the court obtain medicine?” Jared said, speaking before thinking. Seeing Asta’s expression, he wished he could take back his words.

  “My uncle.”

  “It can’t be Elias!” Jared exclaimed, shaking his head.

  “Why not?” Asta inquired. “Because he is my uncle? This isn’t a game. There are no rules. Savin was a difficult substance to get hold of, because it only grows in the Physic Garden. But ergot is far more readily sourced…”

  “It wasn’t Elias.” Hal Harness’s voice caught both their attention.

  They turned. The Groom’s Bell began to sound. It was the last bell that would sound today—the one to summon all the mourners to the funeral.

  “What’s that you say, Hal?” Jared inquired, not waiting for the bells to cease. He couldn’t wait any longer for the answers he needed.

  “It wasn’t Elias who supplied this medicine to Prince Anders.”

  Jared’s eyes were wide. “You know this for a fact? You need to be very sure about this, Hal.”

  Hal nodded. “I understand.”

  “Well?” Asta’s eyes implored Hal. “If Uncle Elias didn’t give it to Prince Anders, who did?”

  Hal paused for a moment, then he shook his head sadly. “Logan Wilde,” he said. “The Poet.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Archenfield

  EVERY LAST MAN, WOMAN AND CHILD IN ARCHenfield had turned out to bid goodbye to their beloved Prince. At least, that’s how it seemed to Prince Jared as he walked at the heart of the funeral procession. Both sides of the road were crowded deep with Prince Anders’s mournful subjects. Many held aloft the flag of Archenfield—creating a sea of gold and blue and green. Those at the front of the crowd reached out their hands as the horse-drawn bier came near. Perhaps they imagined if they could only achieve a physical connection with Prince Anders, the strength of their united desire could work some alchemy and breathe life back into his skin and bones. Jared had no doubts regarding the depth of Archenfield’s communal hunger to resurrect its fallen leader, but he was under no illusions. His brother was dead; as was his Consort and their unborn child.

  Prince Jared walked a short distance behind the bier, assuming his position as Archenfield’s new leader. As great an adjustment as it would be for his subjects, it was an even more momentous metamorphosis for Jared himself. He was Jared, Prince of All Archenfield. The days when he might race around the palace ramparts, or go running with Hedd in the forest or sit quietly daydreaming in meetings of the Twelve were long gone. This week’s cruel events had initiated him into leadership and now there could be no turning back. “One foot in front of the other.” He heard his mother’s voice in his head. It had been her advice to him and Edvin on managing their pace during the funeral procession but it was equally valid, he supposed, when it came to taking on the many responsibilities of ruling.

  He turned now, exchanging a glance with Edvin, who was on Jared’s left-hand side. As Edvin returned his discreet smile, Jared was struck once more by how much his brother resembled Anders. He was sure the crowd must be affected by this too. It offered a certain kind of continuity, as if their wish for resurrection really had been granted.

  Jared returned his eyes to the crowd, greatly moved that they had turned out in such numbers. It took him back to another September day, little more than a year before, when the Princedom had been swept up in Anders’s and Silva’s fairy-tale romance. Anders had bee
n the first Archenfield Prince in living memory to take a bride from outside the Princedom. This marriage had not only brought together the whole of Archenfield in a mood of warm optimism, but united Archenfield itself with its neighbor. Now that alliance with Woodlark was broken, as Queen Francesca had been abundantly clear the night before.

  The royal wedding day had been at the same changing of the seasons. Prince Anders had sported a boutonniere of acorns and a leaves of oak. Now acorns lay on the ground once more. Silva had been an autumn bride and an autumn widow. Today her broken body was on its way back to the homeland she had never truly been able to let go of. Jared hoped that her soul might find some peace and that, in time, her family might feel able to forgive what had happened to their daughter while in the foreign court. Somehow, he doubted that was possible.

  He turned now to his right-hand side, where Logan Wilde, the Poet, walked—of course—in perfect synchrony with him. Logan was too busy watching, acknowledging the crowd to notice Prince Jared’s glance. Good, thought Jared. He would deal with Logan later. For now, all that mattered was keeping him close. He heard his father’s voice. “Keep your friends close, Jared, and your enemies closer.” Prince Goran’s words had never assumed such potent meaning as now. Jared drew comfort from this. It was as if his father were there too, walking beside him, offering the support he so desperately needed.

  Some distance behind Jared, Edvin and Logan, Queen Elin walked alone. It was little more than two years since the death of Prince Goran. He too had been beloved. The dead Princes of Archenfield were a tough act to follow. It was only the deep affection for, and belief in, young Prince Anders that had allowed Archenfield to move through its grief for Prince Goran. Jared knew that his mother’s iron resolve had been a key factor in transferring the reins of rule from Goran to Anders and it was arguably Elin as much as Anders who was responsible for the mood that today—the love, the grief, bordering on something more. Now Elin was faced with the challenge of transferring the Princedom successfully from the first of her sons to the second. And he had witnessed, at firsthand, her bloody-minded determination to succeed at this.

  Prince Jared lifted his hand to the crowds on either side of the road—acknowledging their grief, knowing that, for now, it must take precedence over his own. The duties of the Princedom were as unyielding as the oldest trees in the forest; the very forest into which the cortege was now heading, where it would at last leave behind the crowds as their fallen Prince journeyed on to his final resting place.

  Jared closed his eyes for a moment, thinking grimly of what lay ahead. Opening them again, he glanced over his shoulder and glimpsed Cousin Axel a short distance behind Elin. Jared saw to his brief amusement that Axel, with his long limbs, was having to exert some considerable restraint not to stride ahead of Elin and wreck the ordered procession of mourners.

  As Prince Jared’s Edling, Axel was now heir to the Princedom. And, despite his initial doubts and their obvious differences, Jared was starting to see the wisdom in his mother’s advice. Of course, Axel had failed spectacularly in his duties as Captain of the Guard when he had allowed the wrong man to be executed for Prince Anders’s murder—that was something Jared believed would haunt him for the rest of his days. But, in the end, Axel had been there when Jared needed him and it seemed that, for now at least, they were on the same side.

  The next two rows in the procession were made up of the remaining key officers of the Princedom: the Priest, the Beekeeper, the Woodsman, the Chief Huntsman, the Executioner, the Cook and the Chief Groom. The Falconer was, of course, missing from their ranks—presumed dead but, hopefully, slowly journeying back to life in the makeshift surgery in the palace, watched over by the Physician. Also missing was the Bodyguard who, on the Prince’s command, was guarding Asta. And then there was the Poet.

  Jared turned briefly to his right side again. This time, Logan caught his glance and smiled reassuringly. Jared gave a nod, then turned swiftly away.

  It was, thought Jared, a sign of the mourners’ respect that, in spite of their grief, none attempted to follow the members of the cortege. Instead, they hung back to the sides of the road. Only those within the Prince’s family and immediate retinue would be present for the burning at the edge of the fjord.

  The sun was beginning to set, its rays seeming to ignite the trees of the forest. It was beautiful, but it made him think again of the funeral pyre that would soon come into view. He shivered. The air was cold, the wind more biting than ever. Jared’s eyes stung and were now running with water. He wiped away the tears with the back of his funeral coat’s sleeve and was horrified to feel Logan place what was clearly intended as a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It took every fiber of his being not to shrug the murdering fiend’s hand away then and there. But he was hamstrung until they left the crowds behind.

  Had Logan noticed the way Jared had reflexively tensed at his touch? If so, it seemed he had not read anything into it. His hands back at his sides, he was walking on, continuing to survey the crowds, who remained many rows deep even as the forest came ever closer.

  Jared thought of Anders—of all he had been, of what had happened to him, and what was about to happen. He felt the cold grief of saying goodbye to a brother he had never truly known. It tore through his insides, sharp as a hunter’s knife. He vowed then and there not to make the same mistake with Edvin. They had always been close but now there was a danger, as Edvin had said, that Jared’s princely duties would create a distance between them. Jared would fight not to let that happen. He may not have been able to make Edvin his Edling, but he would find a role for him, a way to keep him close. That could all be taken care of in the coming days and weeks. After the merciless pace of the past seven days, Jared might even find time to exhale. But not yet. There were important matters to attend to still. He would need every ounce of self-discipline to conclude things to his satisfaction. To honor his dead brother and father and all the other Princes of Archenfield who had come before him.

  Now, at last, the funeral procession entered the forest. Now, finally, they left the grieving crowds behind them. It was time to attend to business. Prince Jared turned to Logan.

  “That went well, I think.” The Poet’s words, accompanied, as they so often were, by a reassuring smile, cut him off.

  This time, for the first time, Jared did not bother to return it. There was no need to now. Now he could show Logan that the charade had finally come to an end.

  “It’s all worked out just as you wanted, hasn’t it?” Jared addressed Logan this time as they ventured ever deeper into the blue-green forest. “When did you know you had such a talent for planning, but also for improvisation?”

  Oblivious to the Prince’s true meaning, Logan shrugged. “I’m not sure exactly. Perhaps I’ve always been that way.” He smiled again. “It’s in my blood.”

  “Yes,” Prince Jared said, conscious of the edge in his voice. “But then again no. I tend to think you have worked quite hard to hone these skills of yours. You would have to have done, I suspect, in order to convince your superiors that you were capable of such an important and treacherous mission.”

  Now, at last, he could see a flicker of uncertainty in Logan’s eyes. The Poet opened his mouth to speak but Jared interrupted him; the days of Logan Wilde writing the script were over. “You successfully positioned my brother’s body on the bier for all of Archenfield to see. Tick. You dispatched the Prince’s Consort back to Woodlark. Tick. There’s only really one thing you messed up, isn’t there?”

  Logan frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I follow what you’re saying.”

  “Let me spell it out more clearly for you,” Jared said evenly. He took a breath. “You killed my brother and my sister-in-law and their unborn child. Those three murders all went swimmingly for you. But you failed to kill Nova Chastain.” He nodded, pleased to note the sudden look of horror in Logan’s eyes. “Yes, my friend, against all odds the Falconer survived her fall and brought your evil house of card
s tumbling down. The game—and I really think that’s all this was for you—is over.”

  FORTY

  The Forest

  THE FUNERAL CORTEGE MAINTAINED ITS SAME even pace as it made its way along the main track through the heart of the forest. Its green shadows washed over the members of the procession, broken only by the blue sky and the shafts of golden light as the afternoon sun cut through the gaps in the branches. Green, blue and gold, just like the flags the crowd had waved. The ancient colors of Archenfield.

  “It wasn’t a game,” Logan now told Jared. “Though, I will admit, it had many entertaining moments.”

  Jared’s jaw dropped. “What kind of sick mind do you have? You’ve sent four innocent people to their deaths!”

  Logan shook his head. “Innocent? My jury’s out on that. Anyway, I thought you said the Falconer is still alive? So it’s three, not four, by my reckoning.”

  “Anders, Silva, their unborn child and Michael Reeves—the steward you framed for my brother’s assassination.”

  “Oh yes!” Logan said, his eyes bright with realization. “The steward. It’s so easy to forget about him, isn’t it?”

  “For you perhaps,” Jared said. “I doubt I ever will.”

  “No,” Logan agreed. “I daresay you’ll carry his unjust death on your shoulders all the days of your reign.” He smiled. “Well, let me tell you, Michael Reeves may not have been guilty of Prince Anders’s assassination, but he had amassed a few other crimes against the Princedom. Spying for his homeland, for instance. Word to the wise, Prince Jared—it’s far easier to frame those who have something to hide.”

  Jared’s blood ran cold at Logan Wilde’s words. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see that others had now noticed that he and the Poet were talking. It was bad form but he could see that it was not a source of alarm to them. For all they knew, he was reflecting upon the size of the crowd with his chief advisor, or discreetly being reminded of the next part of the funeral rites. He turned his attention back to Logan.