Allies & Assassins

by Justin Somper

  As Jared stopped speaking, he felt quite nauseous from the lies at which, through repetition, he had already become so practiced.

  “Well,” Logan said. “Someone really has become quite the politician since last we met.”

  Jared continued, ignoring him. “So you see, Logan, the coronation will proceed tomorrow, just as we always planned. It will mark an end to the time of crisis and signal the return to peace and stability under a new ruler.” He paused, allowing himself a small smile. “Me.”

  Logan shook his head again. “It’s an admirable attempt to sweep the truth under the carpet—worthy of me, you might even say. But you and I both know that cracks will soon appear. The threat is still out there and, just when you think all is safe, the world will come crashing down around you all over again.”

  “Perhaps,” Jared said with a nod. “And perhaps not. You took us by surprise, Logan. We won’t let that happen again.”

  “Is that all you came to tell me?” Logan said. “Do you still need a pat on the back from me, even after everything? You Wynyards are all the same. Didn’t Elin wean any of you properly?”

  Jared shook his head. “I don’t need or want anything from you,” he said. “I just came to see you one last time.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Was that a note of panic beneath the cocksure retort? “Are you going to proceed with my execution? But how will you explain that to the people?”

  Jared rested his hand casually on the bars of Logan’s cell. “The Captain of the Guard and I have discussed three options in regard to you,” he said. “One—extradition to Paddenburg.” He shook his head slowly. “That’s not going to happen so don’t expect a reunion with your equally ambitious sister anytime soon.” He noted with satisfaction Logan’s shocked reaction, then continued. “Two—execution. Obviously tempting and I’m sure Mr. Booth would be happy to oblige.” He glanced across at the Executioner, then back to Logan. “But, on balance, we’ve decided to plump for option three.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re obviously a patient man,” Jared said. “You waited until the time was just right to unleash your firebrand of chaos upon the Princedom. So, given that you are so patient, we’re going to keep you down here for a good, long while. I’m sure it will be a considerable comfort to you that you will remain, symbolically at least, right at the heart of the Princedom.”

  Logan frowned. Then his frown shifted into a smile. Jared was starting to think his trusted advisor had finally succumbed to madness. But when Logan Wilde spoke, his voice was full of cold conviction.

  “I was only ever the advance party. The fact I achieved as much as I did goes to show how weak the Princedom has become.”

  Jared’s eyes blazed with hatred. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps our defenses were down. But I told you before that won’t happen again. Not on my watch.”

  Logan smiled once more. “Your words are a little simpler when I’m not scripting you, aren’t they?” He shrugged. “No matter. They have a certain naïve power. But make no mistake, little prince, you will need every ounce of that power in the time ahead. You talk as if you are in control, but that is far from the true state of affairs. You’ll see how things really are soon enough.”

  The Poet’s words—for he couldn’t yet stop thinking of him as the Poet—chilled Jared to the core. But he couldn’t let his adversary see that. If he had learned one thing, in these past days, it was that as Prince he had to mask his inner thoughts and, most especially, his inner fears.

  “Our time together is concluded,” Prince Jared told Logan now.

  Logan Wilde shrugged. “It’s probably a good thing,” he said. “If I’m honest, compared to your older brother, you’re a bit of a bore.”

  Jared let the latest barb fall away. “Goodbye Logan.” He turned away, then paused, glancing back. “Thank you for everything you have taught me during our time together. I’m sure I’ll draw on your advice throughout my coming reign.”

  Logan shrugged. “We’ll see,” he said, retiring to the depths of his cell.

  The Prince turned away again and walked back over to Booth’s desk. The Executioner was busy working on the edge of his axe.

  “Believe me, Morgan, when I say I’m sorry you won’t get a chance to use that today.”

  Booth shrugged. “Never mind. It pays to keep them all nice and sharp anyhow.”

  “Don’t let the prisoner give you any trouble. If he does, I want to know about it.”

  Booth nodded. “Don’t worry yourself on my account. Just get yourself ready for your big day tomorrow. Archenfield is ready to welcome its new Prince.”

  Jared smiled. “I’ll take my leave,” he said. “But my mother asked me to pass on a message. She’s expecting you for tea at on the striking of the Physician’s Bell. She’s already picking out fresh reading matter for you.”

  Booth nodded. “I’ll be there,” he said. “It’s about time things got back to normal around here, don’t you think?”

  Prince Jared nodded and took his leave. Yes, more than anything, he thought as he mounted the stairs from the Dungeons, he yearned for things to get back to normal. He couldn’t bring his brother or Silva back from the dead but he could honor their memories, and those of his ancestors, by committing himself to delivering a lasting peace to Archenfield. He knew this would be no straightforward matter. Logan’s latest taunts were already spinning in his brain. He knew that Axel was far from convinced that the incipient threat from Paddenburg had been lifted. The Princedom was still on alert but Prince Jared knew he was not alone. He had his family and the Twelve and the Princedom as a whole to support him in the coming days and months. For now, they had rooted out the true poison at the heart of the court.

  Coming up from the Dungeons into the light, Jared felt some sense of release as the noonday sun fell across his face and neck. Logan’s threats and the pressure of the past two weeks were already beginning to lift from his shoulders. He knew that he’d feel better still when tomorrow’s formalities were over but he intended to stop and enjoy them—or, if not enjoy them, at least be fully conscious of them. It wasn’t every day that you were crowned Prince, and the whole of your nation took to the streets to wave flags and chant your name. Jared, Prince of All Archenfield. It still sounded strange in his ears, but he had a feeling he’d soon become accustomed to it. He shrugged and continued on, enjoying the poignant warmth of the autumn sun.

  “Ready?” Asta asked Nova as they reached the door at the top of the stone stairwell.

  Nova nodded, smiling softly. “Ready.”

  Asta pushed open the door and began climbing the final few steps that led to the Falconer’s Mews. It was strange to think that the last time she had climbed these stairs, she had thought Nova Chastain was the assassin. She glanced over her shoulder to check on Nova’s progress. She could see that the climb had taken its toll on the Falconer, but also that its completion and the arrival back in her own domain had brought with it a sense of elation.

  “How good does it feel to be back here?” Asta asked, reaching out her hand.

  “So good!” Nova exclaimed, her eyes moist. She took Asta’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Thank you, for all your care and support this past week. We didn’t get off on the right footing, you and me, but you have proved a true friend to me.”

  Asta smiled. “I’m just glad to see you make such a strong recovery.”

  “Do I hear voices?” A tall young man, with black hair and the beginnings of a beard, strode across the stone floor toward them, a falcon on his forearm.

  “Adam!” Nova exclaimed. “Asta, this is Adam Marangon, my Deputy Falconer. Adam, this is the rather wonderful Asta Peck.”

  “The Physician’s apprentice?” Adam said, reaching out to shake Asta’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you around the court.”

  Asta shook his hand. “Good to meet you, Adam. And who’s this?” She nodded toward the falcon that rested on his gauntlet.

  “It’s Pampero!�
�� Nova exclaimed, a smile breaking across her face. “She looks well. How are they all? How I have missed each and every one of them.”

  Adam smiled. “They have all pined for their mistress but, other than that, they are all fine. And now, I think I shall return Pampero to her perch and leave you all to your happy reunion with them all.”

  “I should get going too,” Asta said. “I’m sure Uncle Elias will have…”

  Nova reached out her hand. “Stay just a little, would you?”

  “Of course, if you’d like me to.”

  Adam led the way toward the perch, where Pampero’s companions were waiting eagerly, having sensed the new arrivals in the mews. It was a clear, bright day and Asta could see through the glass panels far and wide across the palace grounds—up to the glen, over to the forest, out to the fjord. Archenfield had never seemed so beautiful to her before. Maybe it was the last of the autumn sunshine; perhaps it was simply the fact that things were getting back to order after the turmoil of the last two weeks.

  Adam helped Pampero back onto the perch, alongside her companions, then began unstrapping his leather gauntlet. As he did so, he smiled at Asta. The way he smiled was so unguarded, it seemed to light up his whole face. She felt instantly that she liked, and could trust, Adam Marangon.

  “Where’s Mistral?”

  They both turned around at Nova’s question. The Falconer looked disconcerted.

  Adam shook his head. “Oh I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. The Captain of the Guard asked me to send her with a message to the Paddenburg Gate.” As he said the words, they heard the familiar bell begin to chime.

  “The Falconer’s Bell,” Adam said with a grin. “Right on cue. Mistral should be back at any moment.”

  Nova did not return his smile. She pushed past him, out onto the balcony.

  Asta approached Adam Marangon. “It’s only natural she should be a little anxious. After everything she has been through, I think she just wants everything to be back to normal.”

  He nodded. “We all want that, Asta, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Before she could answer, they saw a bird swooping toward the balcony. They both turned as it landed right in front of the Falconer.

  It was not a falcon but a great golden eagle. It was a huge bird with a vast wingspan.

  Intrigued, Asta strode out onto the balcony, followed closely behind by Adam.

  “I thought it was…” Asta began. She stopped speaking as she saw the stricken expression on Nova’s face and then looked more closely at the eagle.

  It was a huge bird, with a vast wingspan. In its claws were the bloody, torn remains of a much smaller bird. And in its arrogant beak was the bird’s head.

  “Mistral!” Nova exclaimed, stumbling back toward the glass. Adam moved over to stop her from falling. He held her tight in his arms, though she writhed like a wild animal.

  “I’m so sorry, Nova,” he said, soothingly. “I’m so sorry. I know how much she meant to you.”

  Asta gazed at the eagle. She had the strange sense that the bird was scrutinizing her and her companions with disdain. Suddenly it moved one of its claws and, as it did so, she noticed that it was carrying a messenger tube, almost identical to those carried by Nova’s falcons, only somewhat larger.

  Without checking with the others, or donning a gauntlet, Asta moved toward the eagle.

  “Asta!” Adam hissed. “Be very careful. A bird like that can kill with ease.”

  But she was beyond fear. And actually it seemed as if the eagle wanted her to reach over and disconnect the messenger tube.

  She did so and, opening it, allowed a scroll of parchment, sealed with wax, to slide out.

  “Who would use an eagle as a messenger?” Adam asked, frowning.

  “What does it say, Asta?” Nova broke free, at last, of Adam’s hold.

  Asta unfurled the parchment and began to read the words, written in elegant but unusually handwriting:

  To Prxince Jared of Archenfield,

  Your princedom is irredeemably weakened. Paddenburg is ready to take over full control. You have seven days to surrender your lands and people to us.

  If you fail to submit by sunset on the seventh day, our armies will break through your borders.

  Should anything happen to Logan Wilde during this time, we will know about it and our armies will arrive even sooner.

  Enjoy your coronation and the fact that yours will be the shortest reign of any Prince in the history of Archenfield.

  Yours in ambition and

  anticipation,

  Prince Ven and Prince

  Henning of Paddenburg

  As Asta finished reading, she gazed up into the others’ faces. She could see they were as shocked as she was; no one could find words to give voice to this new horror. Behind her, she distractedly heard the eagle’s wings opening. She glanced back, just in time to see the bird take flight. As it did so, it let Mistral’s decapitated head fall onto the stone balcony, then it soared away on the Archenfield sky. Evidently, the dark courier had completed its mission. Now it could return home to its masters.

  To be continued…

  Acknowledgments

  A note of thanks:

  Writing a novel can appear to be a solo activity, but in reality, it is a team sport, and I am indebted to a number of people who helped bring Allies & Assassins to life. The list begins with Hedd ap Emlyn, an inspirational librarian who, one grim autumn day in Wrexham, told me about the Welsh tradition of “The Poet’s Chair.” The story of Prince Jared and his court began to take root that very day. Hedd, thank you for opening the gates to the premedieval Welsh courts to me, for your generosity of time and spirit in directing me toward sources of information and inspiration, and perhaps most of all, for your forbearance when I played fast and loose with the source material. My next thank you is to my wonderful literary editor, Philippa Milnes-Smith at Lucas Alexander Whitley, who guides my writing career with a strong but steady hand and always seems to know the next step on the journey, even when I’m less certain. Thanks to my dynamo duo of editors: Sam Smith at Atom in the UK and Kate Sullivan at Little, Brown in the U.S. I’m so grateful to you both for your enthusiasm about this idea and for all the energy and wisdom you have shared as the project has developed. Thanks to my niece Nadine Mahoney for guiding me—and Elin—through how to mix paint pigments and to Billy Taylor, resident falconer at Lainston House Hotel in Hampshire, for opening up the world of hawks, falcons, and eagles to me. Last, but never least, thank you to Peejay Norman for championing this story from the first spark of an idea to the final edit, for being such an enthusiastic partner in research (from the Glen to the Fjord), and for helping me to find and keep my connection to Archenfield and all who live—and die—within its gates.

  —Justin Somper