Champion of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  Breathing heavily, Willow lowered her knife and pressed her hand to her side. Where had the Fraziers gone? She took a couple of limping steps away from the stairs, toward the central hall, and saw the three coming back her way. Lady Frazier had her children by the arms and was dragging them along after her. “Who are you?” she said.

  “No time. Go to the kitchen annex. I have to clean this up.”

  “They’ll catch you.”

  “They won’t if I’m fast enough. If I don’t conceal this fight, your husband’s life could be in danger. Now, go!”

  Lady Frazier nodded and hurried away. It was so nice to deal with intelligent people who didn’t argue. Willow ran, trying to ignore the pain in her side, down the hall to the first door. Burning gilt outlined the ceiling, silver candlesticks sat on the mantel…this was some kind of drawing room. It would have to do. She trotted back to the fallen guard and got her hands under his arms, dragging him across the shining surface and praying she wasn’t leaving too much of a mark. She hauled him into the drawing room and returned for the armor. There was an enormous bloody stain on the floor where the guard had fallen, but none of it had smeared when she dragged him away. Small mercies.

  The armor was too heavy for her to lift and was covered in blood, so after a couple of abortive attempts to set it back on its stand, she resorted to dragging it into the drawing room. It made horrible squeaking noises and left a huge scuff mark on the glossy floor. Willow cringed every time it screeched, fearing this would be the moment someone would choose to investigate. But no one came. She tore the smock off and used it to mop up the blood, doing as thorough a job as possible with a tool ill-suited to the task. It would do until sunlight revealed the true extent of the mess.

  She threw the bloody smock atop the dead guard and pressed her hand to her side. It couldn’t be that bad a wound, because she wasn’t dizzy or falling down, but she should have it seen to as soon as possible. What time was it? There was a clock on the mantel with chilly iron hands; the time was about twelve-thirty or a little later. It only felt like it had taken forever.

  She stood next to the door for a minute or two, assessing the hallway. No metal moved. Breathing out in relief, she pushed the door open a crack and sidled out, keeping her hand on the door so it would shut quietly.

  It didn’t shut. Willow let go of it entirely and saw it hang there, half-open. She pushed on it with no effect. Perplexed, Willow released the door—or tried to. Her fingers wouldn’t move. Neither would her arm. Her heart pounding, Willow tried to step away from the door. Nothing. She was frozen in place. Even her breathing was labored, as if her lungs were working against a great pressure.

  There was the sound of clapping, slow, measured applause, but Willow couldn’t turn her head to see who it was. “I really wonder what you were thinking,” a woman’s voice said. “You broke in, killed a man, and instead of fleeing, you cleaned up your mess? Not what I’d expect of a thief.”

  Footsteps, as slow and precise as the applause, approached from the right, behind Willow, and a woman came into view. She had short brown hair and a heart-shaped face, and her brown eyes were amused. Delicate emerald traceries of light made tattoos along her bare arms and extending up her throat to her face, turning her fair skin sickly green. “So the question is—what are you, really?” said Gillian Kent.

  Chapter Nine

  Willow tried to speak, but her jaw felt as if someone had their hands around it, locking it shut. “That was a rhetorical question,” Kent said, “or at any rate, one I don’t care about the answer to. Come with me. You don’t really have a choice.”

  Suddenly buoyant, Willow felt her feet leave the floor, and she drifted forward. Kent walked ahead of her, down the cherry-red hall. The portraits on these walls were older, done in a style perhaps two hundred years old, which was as much as Willow could tell. Their laughing eyes mocked her—the great Willow North, never been caught and didn’t intend to be caught, captured as easily as trapping a fly in amber. Kerish was going to be furious—no, more likely he’d be mourning her, as Willow was under no illusions about what her fate was going to be. She remembered Lady Godfrey’s expression when Willow had first mentioned Kent’s name. The Ascendant other Ascendants were afraid of. No, this was not going to end well.

  She relaxed and didn’t try to fight against her invisible bonds. That was pointless. Instead, she watched Kent, who walked as if she had all the time in the world. It had been stupid to try to clean up the mess. Stupid, and unnecessarily risky. Surely Lord Frazier’s life wouldn’t have been in danger, just because the hostages were free? They’d still need him as a hostage himself. She’d been an idiot, and now she was paying for it.

  Kent gestured, and a door to the right swung open. “After you,” she said. Willow drifted through the doorway into a darkened room lit only by the dim glow of coals in the fireplace, more gilding, more silver candlesticks, iron and brass andirons—another drawing room. How many drawing rooms could one family possibly need?

  She floated in the darkness while Kent struck matches and lit candles, then stoked the fire until it rose up eagerly to light the room. “Have a seat,” Kent said. Willow drifted toward a sofa and was tilted so she lay upon it. She was starting to feel achy from the uncomfortable pose Kent had her locked in, her neck turned a little too far to the left, her fingers curled where they’d been clutching the door, one knee slightly bent in preparation for a step that never came.

  “You chose a very bad time to steal from this manor,” Kent said, taking a seat opposite Willow where the firelight cast its glow on her sickly green skin. “A week ago I wouldn’t have cared, but now I feel personally affronted by your attempt. This is my home now, and I should snap your neck and be done with it. But I’m curious. Explain yourself, and I might let you live.”

  Willow’s head and face unlocked, and she worked feeling back into her jaw. “I thought this was Lord Frazier’s home, my lady,” she said. “I wouldn’t have come if I thought I was stealing from an Ascendant.”

  “That’s not really an answer,” Kent said. Agony shot through Willow’s right hand as her pinky finger snapped. She screamed and fought against the Ascendant’s power, uselessly.

  “I didn’t get what I came for!” she shouted. “I thought if I cleaned up the mess, I’d have more time to find it.”

  “Interesting,” Kent said. Willow tried to control her breathing, which hurt as it fought against Kent’s magical hold. Good thing she can’t sense lies. Of course, if she could sense lies, she couldn’t also break my fingers. Maybe I should stop being grateful for things.

  “What did you come for?” Kent sounded bored, as if the conversation was barely holding her attention.

  “A…a necklace. Lady Frazier’s necklace. I was hired to steal it.”

  “And you didn’t know my fellow Ascendants and I were here?”

  “Knew you were here. Thought you were guests. I swear I wasn’t going to steal anything else.”

  “Yes, but Lady Frazier’s jewelry is mine now, so you were going to steal from me.”

  Willow let out a whimper, only partly faked. “I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t know.”

  “You swear a lot. Don’t you know it’s an insult to heaven to swear something you’re powerless to effect?” Her right ring finger snapped, and Willow screamed through clenched teeth. “And you are powerless. You know that, don’t you? Tell me you’re powerless.”

  “I’m…powerless,” Willow grated out.

  Kent smiled. It was a pleasant expression, or would have been if her eyes hadn’t been so hard and cold. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”

  Willow nodded.

  “Good. Fear is so underappreciated. Fear controls better even than magic. Now. You say you didn’t get what you came for? I don’t believe you.”

  Willow flicked a glance down her leg, faster than thought. “I didn’t. I sw—I really didn’t.”

  “What use is the word of a thief? Let’s see, what else did you t
ake?”

  “Nothing.” Another glance. Come on, take the bait…

  Kent’s eyes slid to where the wand was sheathed on Willow’s right leg. “What’s this?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. I didn’t steal it, it’s mine.”

  Kent removed the wand and turned it over in her hands. “Something you care about?”

  “No. It’s not important. Just…please, leave it alone.”

  The cold eyes gleamed. Kent waved the wand as if directing an invisible orchestra. Willow sucked in an anticipatory breath. “It is important,” Kent said. “And you’re more afraid of what it will do than of me. I find that…astonishing, actually. So, tell me about it.”

  “No. I won’t—aah!” Tears poured down Willow’s face as her middle finger broke.

  “Change your mind.”

  “Please don’t hurt me anymore!”

  “Then talk. You must truly be stupid not to see the connection between pain and obedience.”

  “All right!” Willow screamed. “It’s magic!”

  The wand stilled. “Magic?”

  Willow nodded. “It comes from Eskandel. It puts source into things. Into people.”

  “Like a dowser?” Kent sounded genuinely surprised. “But you’re not an Ascendant. I would know if you were.”

  “I have inherent magic. I never went for Ascendant training. But I can use source like an Ascendant. That wand puts source into me.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Willow let herself sag with relief, as much as her body would allow. “You’re right. It’s not true. Please give it back to me.”

  Kent struck her across the face. “Don’t think you can get away with lying to me!”

  “I didn’t! You’re the one who won’t believe me! I’m telling the truth!”

  Kent sat back in her chair, twiddling the wand in her fingers. “How does it work?”

  “Let me go, and I’ll show you.”

  “I don’t think so. Explain it to me, or I’ll kill you and work it out in my own time.”

  Willow swallowed. “There are silver discs in my pocket. You take one and put it over the skinny tip of the wand.”

  She floated a little ways off the couch and rotated slightly so her left hip was pointed at the ceiling. Kent reached into her pocket and withdrew a handful of silver discs. “What are these for?”

  “They contain source. Not much of it, because they’re so small.”

  “They don’t look like anything special.”

  “Well, source is invisible unless an Ascendant is wielding it.”

  Kent nodded. Willow tried to keep hope from rising up inside her. She hadn’t won yet, and this was easily the riskiest thing she’d ever done. “Then you turn it so the skinny end is pointing at you, and twist the ivory cuff at the other end. The source will go into you.”

  “I see.” Kent aimed the wand at her chest. Then she lowered it. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  “You could try it on me first. Then you’ll see I’m being honest with you.” Willow tried to sound just helpful enough without verging into the sycophantic.

  “Right, and give you a weapon to use against me? I don’t think so.” Kent raised the wand and gave the ivory cuff a quick twist. The disc went bright green, and Kent gasped in surprise. The green traceries on her skin went dark. The grip holding Willow in place vanished, dropping her to the sofa. In an instant she launched herself at Kent, knocking her and the chair over to land hard on the floor.

  A candlestick flew at Willow’s head, caroming off it and making her bite her tongue. Another candlestick struck her, with even less force, but enough to send dizzying bronze sparks across her vision. She grabbed Kent’s hand with her left and tried to pry the wand free. Kent bucked and knocked Willow farther back, squirming away.

  “What did you do to me?” she said. “My magic—”

  “You did it to yourself,” said Willow. She grabbed one of the candlesticks out of the air, wrenched it away from the grasp of Kent’s magic, and hurled it at her enemy. Kent ducked rather than try to regain control of it. Willow took the opportunity to draw her knife. “Surrender, and I’ll let you live.”

  Kent’s eyes went wide. Then she laughed. A hail of books from a nearby shelf pelted Willow. “You’re no ordinary thief. Who are you really?”

  It couldn’t matter at this point. “Willow North.”

  “The false King’s puppet master. You dared much, coming here.”

  Willow put up her right arm to fend off more books and stepped closer, holding her knife at the ready. “With a woman of your reputation, how could I stay away?”

  Kent snatched a candlestick out of the air and swung it at Willow, forcing her back a step. “I’ll take great pleasure in watching you die. Eventually.”

  Willow caught the second blow on her blade and shoved hard, and now it was Kent who had to move back. “More torture. How boring. Is that the best you can do?”

  A twinge ran through her right hand, as if the bones of her fingers were trying to bend backwards. Willow bit back a scream as the broken bones grated against each other. “Where’s your dowser when you need her?” she added.

  Kent snarled and swung again. Willow stepped inside the blow and thrust with the knife, deep into the woman’s belly. Kent’s eyes widened again, and she dropped the candlestick. “You…” she said, putting a hand across the deep, gaping wound. Willow twisted the knife. Kent sagged, then collapsed. “You…how could you possibly kill me?”

  Willow ran through a dozen responses in her head and discarded them all. Kent’s eyes slid closed, and she fell to the ground in a spreading puddle of blood. Breathing heavily, Willow knelt beside her and wiped off the blade on her sleeve. Then she sheathed it and closed her eyes. She’d earned a moment’s peace. Her hand felt like it was swollen to twice its normal size and her arms and head ached from the battering, but she was alive.

  After about a minute, she retrieved the wand, sheathed it, and went to the door and listened. No one had raised an alarm, and it was still not quite one o’clock. Now what? Possibility number one: she could try to find Lord Frazier, enlist his help—but he was as helpless as she was, and there were still three Ascendants, two of whom had elemental magic and could set one or both of them on fire. Possibility number two: find the Ascendants and convince them that without Kent, their mission here was over—but trusting an Ascendant went against every instinct she had, never mind what Lady Godfrey said.

  She pushed the drawing room door open and glanced to each side. The hall remained still and empty. Possibility number three was leaving the manor, possibly catching up to the Fraziers and helping them escape. Her hand and her side were urging her to take that option. With one last look at Kent’s body, she left the room and ran swiftly to the kitchen annex door.

  She had to push hard on the door to get it to open, heard a quiet grunt of pain, and slipped through the narrow gap. “Mistress Oliver! You’re still here?”

  “I saw that woman take you into the Blue Room,” Mistress Oliver said. “I didn’t know what to do, but I thought—I couldn’t just go back upstairs.”

  “That’s all right. You would only have been hurt if you’d come to my rescue.” Willow brushed her hand across the wand sheathed at her right leg. “Did the Fraziers make it out all right?”

  “As far as I could see. Don’t know if those soldiers saw them.”

  Willow went down the hall as far as the kitchen, which still glowed warmly in the light of the banked fires. “I could catch up to them.”

  “What about his lordship?”

  “What about him?”

  “Won’t they kill him if they know his family’s gone?”

  “I…don’t think so.” But the woman was right; even with Kent dead, Donald Frazier’s life was in danger. She had to try to free him. Willow sent up a silent prayer that Kerish would forgive her. “Where’s his room?”

  “Third floor, second from left if you’re coming from the servants�
� stair. What happened to your hand?”

  “That Ascendant happened to it.” It was throbbing dully now, no longer the sharp pain it had been, but that was almost worse than the initial breaks. “I’ll be fine. Are there guards on Lord Frazier’s room?”

  “Yes. Two men. Will that be a problem?”

  Willow wanted to laugh. Mistress Oliver had an absurd sense of what Willow was capable of. “I hope not. Look, can you brew me a cup of tea?”

  “At this time, you can think of tea?”

  “I need an excuse to get into Lord Frazier’s room. It’s a slim one, but it’s all I can think of.” The rest of the plan was simmering in the back of her mind, all of it contingent on reaching Lord Frazier. She didn’t think she could get away with pretending he’d been summoned, too, and she was in no condition to fight another armed guard.

  Mistress Oliver looked unconvinced, but she stoked the fire and put a kettle on to boil. Willow sat at the kitchen table, its surface scarred from years of use, and palpated her pinky finger. White hot agony spiked through her hand, and her vision darkened. So, don’t do that. Thank heaven Gillian Kent had gone for what in most people would be truly crippling. Willow’s left-handedness was proving remarkably useful. Not that a broken hand wasn’t inconvenient. She put a hand to her side; it came away bloody. Cursing silently, she pressed her elbow against her side, which throbbed like her hand but in a much sharper way. It wasn’t a bad wound, but it was painful and she really ought to bind it up.

  “Can you help me with this?” she asked Mistress Oliver, who was staring at the kettle as if she’d never heard the adage that a watched pot never boils. Between the two of them, they managed a temporary dressing on the wound and found another, unstained smock for Willow, as well as a kitchen maid’s cap. In the meantime, the kettle whistled, and Mistress Oliver set to work brewing tea.