by J. E. Holmes
The rain began to fall, unseasonably cold. Dark clouds were settling in over Korv, nearly to Sladt. Once she was up on level with the city, the high winds whipped at her hair, tossed her scarf, tore leaves from their branches. Given the rain, the cold, and the wind, they would have an icestorm before noon.
When she returned to the manor, Jinnrey was just serving up breakfast, and no one was at the table yet. Really she was too nervous to eat much, but she needed to keep up appearances.
Wulfgar and Wien came down with Javras after Ediline had already finished eating. He was immaculately dressed in the finest leathers she’d ever seen, with gold thread embroidery and gray silk sleeves. His sword hung at his hip. Everything fit him so well, and the color of his eyes, the light shade of his hair, were more significantly pronounced against the black and gray attire.
“Princess,” Wulfgar said, “you are not much fancied.”
“I didn’t bring my court gowns, if that’s what you’re getting at,” she said. Two times she could remember she’d been forced to dress up for a court function. Servants had dressed her and then taken away the elegant gowns when she was done.
“You look good,” Wien said with an approving nod.
Ediline had only ever seen Wulfgar in that worn, open-chested vest, his Might tattoo proudly on display. Now he wore a dress uniform similar to Javras’s, only much larger to account for the sheer circumference of Wulfgar’s biceps and the width of his chest and shoulders.
Wien, on the other hand, wasn’t dressed in leathers at all. She wore a ceremonial tunic, wrapped around her torso. It was an unusual one-sleeved garment of green and white. The sleeve went all the way to the tips of her fingers, ending in a glove. Ediline had seen them before, worn by ambassadors from Saiyoe. It was put on glove first, and the rest of the garment was wrapped around its wearer and clipped at the neck. Typically the tunic was accompanied by a pleated skirt, but Wien wore trousers instead and tall black boots. She had a thin weapon at her side, a traditional taibuo, a dense spike wielded in a manner somewhere between a sword and a Tithelken taki. The taibuo was supposedly sharp enough to split skin without the victim being aware of it.
“You all look like you’re ready to see a king,” Ediline said.
“And are you?” Javras said.
She looked down at herself, her plainclothes outfit. What she’d been wearing the night before had been finer quality, but they were no longer fit to be worn. “I’ve seen my father a time or two in my pajamas,” she said. “I think I’ll be fine.”
“And for meeting my father?”
“I won’t claim to be a fancier person than I am. If he doesn’t like it, well, I’ll probably run away, terrified, and go change.” She flashed a charming smile whose confidence was only a fraction real. Behind it, frothing fear threatened to upturn the contents of her stomach.
Cloaks pulled on against the growing ice-rain, they departed for Sladt. The walk across Korv, bouncing on slick bridges and through dividing crowds of people, was tense. Ediline was so nervous she wanted to do nothing but talk, but every time she tried to get some distracting conversation going, no one was in the mood to speak. Even Wulfgar was silent. It seemed odd at first, but then she realized: this must be what he was like when he was working. Inside the house, playing games, he was on break. But now, in the crowded city, he needed to guard Javras.
They reached the open gate to Sladt, around which a silent crowd gathered. Not citizens—these were soldiers, in ten straight lines of eight, with Straad at their head, giving the signal to hold formation. Not one of them moved or seemed at all perturbed by the rain. There was a path down the center of them wide enough to walk.
“Wait just inside the gate,” Ediline told Javras. Flanked front and back by his keepers, he proceeded through the ranks of soldiers. Ediline stepped up to Straad, right in his face. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“It pains me to do so, Princess, but my men and I are engaged in peaceful protest,” he said in his typical fashion, volume increasing at the end. “You may pass, but we will make it clear that we oppose this visitor.”
“I do, too,” she grumbled, “but you’re being an idiot.”
“Excuse me, Princess?”
She wiped water off her face. Her hair was a sopping mess, and her cloak was half soaked through. “Straad, do you wish for my father to be killed?”
Straad’s eyes shot wide open, and he frowned so deeply Ediline thought his jaw might fall off. “Princess, you must have opened the top of your head and left your brain with your first change of clothes.”
She did not look down or away in shame. Yes, she had changed her clothes and she hadn’t been home. What of it? He could judge her all he wanted, and she’d slap his battle-scarred face if it came to it.
“If you show Ashwin Teshtéshev that we are not interested in peace, he will kill my father. He might kill you, too.”
“He did not seem to notice us.”
Her heart jumped. “He’s already inside?”
“Yes, he arrived—”
“Thank you, General Straad, but I’m afraid this is wholly ineffective.” She hurried away and caught Javras by the elbow just past the gate. She turned him away from the door to the Meeting Hall and led him and his keepers toward the leftmost stairway, which cut around the outside of the manor to the east face.
“Where are we going?”
“Going to the Meeting Hall would be a waste of time,” she said. “If Ashwin is going to see my father, it’s going to be in the Hall of Council, and he’s already in there.”
“He is?”
“Yes,” Ediline said.”Did you know where he would be meeting my father?”
“I did not.”
“And you don’t know what they’re going to be talking about,” she said. “The only thing you seem to know is when your father was set to arrive. Tell me the truth, Javras—were you even sent here to meet your father, or are you here to head him off?”
He pulled his elbow away from her, and the four of them stopped. Ice-rain began to fall, driving sleet amidst the swirling clear water, the gusting wind. Ediline’s cheeks were cold through to her mouth. Despite the numbness, or maybe because of it, she felt her heartbeat in her face. Javras wiped his face, wiped his hair away, and frowned.
“You figured that out,” he said. “No one else has.”
“I’ve spent so much time with you, I should have figured it out long before now.” She glanced sideways to Wulfgar and Wien. They put themselves in positions so that Ediline couldn’t see both at the same time. “Why?” she said.
“I worried King Maxen of Tithelk would kill him.”
She jerked involuntarily backward. “You think . . . you think my father might kill Ashwin the Endbearer?”
“He isn’t immortal, and he’s coming into the capital of a recently hostile nation alone.” He clenched his fists then gripped the hilt of his sword. Ediline wasn’t worried in the slightest that he would attack her.
“I don’t want to sound confusing,” he went on. Now he had to shout over the rain. People hurried for cover. Straad’s soldiers likely had not moved. “I wouldn’t be upset if he died. But I think you and I can agree that this is one place where he should not die.”
Because then King Maxen would have the bloodsword, and the atrocities he could commit with it would make historians forget Ashwin’s murders that ended the last war. “You’re right,” she said. “Let’s stop this.”
He nodded. She took his hand and ran. The entrance door to the Hall of Council was nearly as impressive as the front door to the Meeting Hall. It was twice as heavy but half as big. It had a huge latching system to keep it locked, and it was as thick as a whole oak. When he was home, King Maxen spent most of his time in this hall. It had a secret corridor which connected it directly to the king’s bedchambers. It was, in a way, the heart of Sladt.
The massive door was open, and Ediline’s mother stood outside it.
Her Brilliance Queen Al
arica of Sladt, of Korv, of Tithelk, was an elegant woman. She was slender and composed, silver-haired and fair of complexion. In every gesture, in every stance, her Grace was obvious. In many cases, she smiled easily, but not today. She wore a heavy amber cloak and was drenched by the cold rain.
“Mother,” Ediline said. She slipped to a halt just in front of her, Javras catching her a little. “Javras and I wish to go inside.”
“Ediline, sweet,” Queen Alarica said. “Not now. You know what is happening.”
“Actually I don’t,” she said, “but I imagine it has something to do with me.”
“It doesn’t—”
“Is Father going to offer me up? If I marry Javras and go back with him to Ronrónfa, Ashwin might spare us? Who am I kidding—he’d only bargain to spare his own life.”
“Ediline,” Queen Alarica snapped.
“He would bargain you away if it would save him, Mother.” Ediline wiped water and hair from her forehead. Beneath it, she was hot with her anger.
“You are my daughter. Know your place.”
“I am the eighthborn, am I not?”
Her mother frowned.
“If that is part of Father’s gamble,” Ediline said, “he has made a poor miscalculation.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with your daughter, Your Brilliance,” Javras said with a bow. “I apologize, but I must request that you allow us to pass. And to warn you: if you do not, that will not stop us.”
Queen Alarica swallowed. “Ediline, if things go poorly—”
“I know what to do.” Ancil had told her, in his stupid cryptic way.
“Be careful,” she said. Then she wrapped the cloak tightly around herself and hurried away from the door. A different mother might have drawn a different daughter into a tight embrace, what might be the last contact between them, and whispered words of care. Queen Alarica disappeared into the storm without so much as a glance back.
Javras didn’t hesitate to move through the open door, and Wulfgar and Wien were quick behind him. The grand corridor inside was warm and dry, a relief. Yellow light shone from the walls and from vine chandeliers hanging from the towering ceiling. Over the echoes of their clack-squeak footsteps, she heard voices ahead. Just to the right was another massive door, this one made of stained glass depicting an enormous tree, and it too was open. Beyond it was the Hall of Council. There were no visible guards, but they had to be somewhere nearby. Close enough to intervene but not so close that they might appear a threat.
She burst into the Hall and stopped just behind Javras, setting her hands on his back. Wulfgar and Wien were in front of him, shoulder to shoulder.
The Hall of Council was modeled after the grand throne rooms of the Lords of Attenia. There were alcoves to each side, but the chamber was otherwise long and narrow, with stained glass windows high overhead, above the alcoves. A massive rosewood chair lay at the end, in the center of the aisle. Smaller chairs faced it, where the lesser people would sit. Beyond the rosewood chair was the back wall, carved and painted to depict a scene from The Words of the Lords, the Battle of Semnal Valley. The secret passage to King Maxen’s chambers was there. Ediline had found it once as a child, on accident, by pushing a certain piece of the wall, but now she couldn’t remember which.
King Maxen filled the throne. At the center of the aisle, in the center of the room, stood a man who had to be Ashwin Teshtéshev. He was bigger across than Javras, with short gray hair and a clean-shaven face, worn from time and sunlight. He wore black leathers. At his hip was an empty black sheath, trimmed in gold.
In his hand was the bloodsword.
It looked like he held a cut of shadow in the air. The whole length of it, hilt and blade, was completely black. There was no reflection on its surface from the light of the chandeliers. Ediline could only just make out the edge among the blackness.
She gripped Javras’s back, seized by fear at the sight of the sword. What could it do? How much was myth? Why had she not asked Javras those questions? She’d only wanted to avoid thinking about this day, when she should have been preparing for it.
Ashwin turned toward them, his brow furrowed in surprise. “King Maxen told me you were here, Javras, but I did not believe him. I had left you instructions to remain in Ronrónfa.”
“I delegated my responsibilities,” Javras answered coolly. The father and son spoke in Tithelken, though they didn’t need to. To allow everyone to witness his taunting?
Ashwin raised his empty hand at his son and pointed. “Tell me why you are here.”
Javras jerked backward and seized as if he’d been run through by a blunt spear. He cried out and nearly doubled over, but Wien caught him and pushed him back upright.
“To stop you, and to tell you I’m in love,” Javras grunted. “Her name is Princess Ediline of Tithelk, and she’s standing right behind me.”
His words were choked out, oozing pain. Ediline was fixated on Javras, on the horror of whatever was happening to him. Only distantly was she shocked by his revelation, only deep down did she dare to feel warm.
“Fool.” Ashwin lowered his hand with a flick of disgust and a curl of his lip. He turned on King Maxen, showing that he was done speaking to his son.
Javras went limp after his father lowered his outstretched hand. Ediline ducked under his arm and supported him on her shoulder. “What was that?” she said.
“Malen,” Wulfgar said. “Torturer’s vine. It forces a person to speak the truth and to obey. An emblem of Insight and Presence, body and mind. It is rare and it is painful.”
“Lords,” she gasped. “Without even letting you answer first. Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” Javras said. “Wien, make sure no one is hiding in the alcoves.” Wien nodded and split off, slipping away to the eastern alcoves. “Wulfgar, guard the door.”
“Yes.” Wulfgar backed to the door, never pulling a baleful glare away from Ashwin.
“You are preparing an army,” Ashwin said to King Maxen. He pointed, the same gesture he had made to Javras as he burned the malen. “Tell me why.”
“I am training soldiers because that is what a sensible king does,” King Maxen said, his voice booming with outrage. The torturer’s vine didn’t seem to affect him the way it had Javras. His Resilience must have guarded him against it. “Your conduct is offensive, emissary. If you do not cease, I will remove you from this hall.”
“Father!” Javras shouted. “I am not done with you.”
Ashwin did not turn. “I will speak to you when I choose to speak to you, boy. Hold your place and wait until I am finished.” He pointed at the king again, but Ediline saw no reaction to the malen.
Javras reached for his sword and started forward. Ediline hooked his elbow, but he shook her off and took two steps away from her. As he drew the sword, the sliding of the steel echoed in the great hall. It was a beautiful blade, smooth and shimmering and sharp.
Now that he had moved away from her, standing alone in the aisle made her legs shake. She needed to be elsewhere. Wien had slinked off to the right, so Ediline slid off toward the left and stood beside the first alcove there. She looked into them, briefly, and she did see someone. Two alcoves up, concealed behind the narrowest lip of the archway. A dark-clad figure.
Ashwin turned fully around, sword cutting a black curve through the air. “Son,” he said, “do not be a fool.”
The figure from the alcove dashed out across the hall floor, spear drawn. He made no sound. Ediline gasped, and Ashwin turned at the sound. He saw the would-be assassin just in time and cut the spear in two. Without flourish he swung a counterattack, but the attacker from the alcove darted back and picked up the half of the spear with the spearhead.
“No, stop!” Javras shouted. He ran forward.
The assassin dove in again. Ashwin sidestepped and swung downward. The spear was no defense, and neither was the man’s armor. The sword cut him straight through from shoulder to hip, spilling bright blood across the slick wood floor.
Ediline felt sick. She couldn’t pry her eyes from the body that hit the floor. Split open, it hardly resembled a person anymore. It could have been one of her brothers. From this distance, she couldn’t really tell. For gasping like that, was it her fault that he’d died?
“No,” Javras said, his voice shaking. It sounded like despair.
“By this blood,” Ashwin said. “I will topple kings whose hearts beat with wickedness.” The blood showed brightly against the black of the sword, and then it disappeared, like water being dried up in hot sunlight.
Ashwin spun with sword outstretched, swinging a black arc, though no one was assailing him. Javras flinched, but he was unharmed. Ashwin’s swing ended on King Maxen, the sword leveled at him. A moment passed. Nothing happened. No one moved. It lasted less than a second, but it felt so much longer. Ediline felt her stomach twist with dread that something awful was about to happen.
The next moment, a wound opened up in her father’s chest like he’d been slashed by the sword. Blood stained through his shirt. It was identical in placement to the cut that had brought down the assassin. King Maxen cried out, blood in his mouth, and he writhed and fell from his chair.
Ediline was frozen, shrunken in the alcove. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Her life had been insignificant. No one had cared about her. No one had cared what she did or what she wanted. She was just the ninthborn to . . . to a king who was now dead.
She threw a glance back toward the door. Wulfgar stood there still, arms folded over his chest. Javras stood in the center aisle, halfway to Ashwin, his arms limp at his sides, his legs buckled. Ashwin began to stalk toward King Maxen’s body. At the movement, something stirred in Javras. He shook off whatever had been holding him inactive, and he retightened his grip. “Wien,” he said.
She flew from one of the side alcoves. Ashwin spun on her, but she was short and ducked the blow, moving with wondrous Grace. He swung again and again, and she ducked and dodged.
Ediline pushed herself from her alcove, but she stopped after a few steps. She looked to Wulfgar. “Don’t we have to help?” she said.