He did not, however, give Yarrow the opportunity to move. He hurled his second blade, hoping to catch Yarrow off guard. He was not in luck. Yarrow moved without thought into Meeting Earth and the dagger flew wide.
Yarrow took several steps towards the assassin, but was forced to fling himself flat on his stomach as yet another dagger flipped menacingly through the air. In the space of a breath, Yarrow was on his feet again and had closed in on the man.
His opponent had a dagger in hand, but rather than throw it, he lunged, aiming to plunge the short blade into Yarrow’s gut.
Yarrow moved on pure instinct. He formed Slow Lash, knocking the man’s arm wide, and, in the same swift motion, he whipped his own arm around and smacked upwards at the man’s elbow, jarred him into dropping the weapon.
The assassin had no opportunity to react. Yarrow twisted him by the shoulder, caught the assassin’s neck in the crook of his elbow, and flexed—cutting off the blood to the man’s brain.
Yarrow had never used his innate fighting skills before—even when he fought Bray, he had held back, not wanting to inflict any real damage.
But this, this was different. He could kill this man effortlessly. And even as that truth settled into his mind, he noticed a thousand details. The assassin’s face cover had unraveled slightly, revealing a youthful freckled face. The boy had nicked himself shaving. He smelt like lye soap and wood shavings. Nausea roiled in Yarrow’s stomach.
He released the boy, letting him tumble, unconscious but very much alive, to the floor.
Another gunshot brought Yarrow back to his senses. He leapt to his feet and turned to assess the situation.
He had been fortunate to contend with only one assassin; five men aimed to kill the King. Adearre and Peer protected him with difficulty, given their lack of weapons.
Three killers set their sights on the Prince, but he was safe. Bray held him by the hand and the daggers and arrows flew ineffectually through his intangible form.
Yarrow watched as Ko-Jin took down a third assailant in his duty to protect the Princess. He moved with such force and speed that a fourth assassin, upon seeing his companion so effortlessly dispatched, turned and ran away.
The Princess broke out of Arlow’s hold and ran across the hall towards Yarrow, panic in her eyes. “Mother?”
The Queen answered in Chaskuan and the Princess slid under the table to join her. They clung to each other, whispering in rapid, high-pitched voices.
Arlow jogged after his charge, his face pale and his hand clutched at his side.
“You’re injured?” Yarrow asked.
Arlow flashed his usual self-confident grin, though pain narrowed his eyes. “Just a graze. I’ll watch them.” He jerked his head to the table. “You help the others.”
Yarrow took a moment to relieve the red-headed boy of his remaining daggers, though he had never practiced throwing knives before. How hard could it be?
He darted across the hall, his unfamiliar dress shoes sliding on the dance floor. Bray was closest—he sprinted in her direction. She looked spitting mad, but was unable to attack without affording an opportunity for the assassins to harm the Prince.
“Yarrow, be careful!” Bray shouted, though he was warned by her surge of concern first. A tall figure turned a pistol in his direction, his forefinger flexed over the trigger.
Yarrow slid to the floor just as the weapon fired. His ears rang and his nostrils filled with the sharp scent of gunpowder.
Back on his feet, he ran to Bray, and she sprinted to him, dragging the Prince along behind her. She reached out her free hand and he took it. He felt, for the second time, the strange sensation of having his own solidity wink out.
“We should group up,” he shouted, trying to be heard over the screams of the few remaining guests and the ringing in his own ears.
He was struck by an inappropriate desire to laugh as he, his boyhood love, and the future King of all Trinitas ran, hand-in-hand, across the dance floor like children at a spring festival. The swishing of Bray’s dress beside him helped to magnify the absurdity.
His amusement dissolved as the bolt of a crossbow whizzed through his chest and rattled to the floor. Bray couldn’t hold all of their hands, after all, and the assassins had brought some serious weaponry.
Yarrow counted the enemy and realized there were more than he had initially estimated and, despite finding highly trained resistance, they showed no intention of fleeing.
Ko-Jin, Adearre, and Peer formed a half arc around the King. The attack would be over quickly when their assailants ran out of ammunition, but while they had firepower, not even Ko-Jin could risk entering combat.
A lump formed in his throat as the hopelessness of the situation settled upon him.
“You should protect the King,” he said to Bray.
She grimaced, clearly wanting to fight. But the protection of the royal family must come first—even she, hot-headed as she was, knew that.
She tugged the Prince to where the King crouched. Yarrow took up a place beside Adearre in the line.
“Any brilliant ideas?” he asked his companions.
“I’ve got a plan,” Ko-Jin whispered. “Follow my lead.”
Yarrow took one of his pilfered daggers in hand, pausing. Eight assassins remained standing; they, too, stilled and waited. The silence that fell, after the prolonged din of shouting, gunfire, and trampling of feet, hung eerily in the air. Yarrow felt a drip of sweat run down his temple.
One of the assassins stepped forward. He unwrapped his head cover, revealing a handsome face marred by a single puckered scar on his right cheek.
“We have no wish to harm the Chisanta,” he said in a south Dalish accent. “It is the tyranny of the Bellra line we have come to end. Let us complete our mission, and we will let you go in peace.”
Ko-Jin took a decisive step forward. “If that is true, lower your weapons.”
Not one of them shifted, until the scarred man gave a short nod. Then the pistols, crossbows, and daggers pointed to the floor.
“I would feel a lot better if the weapons were on the ground,” Ko-Jin said, his voice pleasant. “The Chisanta are not citizens of Trinitas. This man is not our King. But I confess, I have no desire to be struck by a stray arrow or bullet should one of your men be feeling a bit overzealous.” The scarred man frowned. “Besides, surely you mean to give the King a clean death. You did bring that fine sword along with you.”
The man’s hand went to the hilt of the weapon at his side. “That was my intention,” he said cautiously.
Ko-Jin spread his hands, palms wide, in an inclusive gesture. “If you ask your men to put down their weapons, I’m sure my companion would be happy to bring the King forward.”
Yarrow wasn’t sure where Ko-Jin was going with this, but he kept his expression cool and disinterested. He knew his friend well enough to trust he would not allow the King to die, clean death or no.
The scarred man contemplated Ko-Jin for a moment, before giving the order. “Guns, crossbows, and daggers to the floor. Swords in hand.”
The men dropped their weapons with a clatter, then the whisper of swords pulled from sheaths kissed Yarrow’s ears.
Ko-Jin nodded graciously. “Bray, if you would be so kind as to bring the King forward?”
Bray pulled the King to his feet, her dress slithering audibly along the floor as she towed him forward. The King’s eyes went wide, his mouth working soundlessly, like a fish. Sweat beaded on his brow.
“No! I am your King!” he said, at last finding his voice.
Bray led him to the line of Chisanta, but did not move further into the no-mans-land. The assassin would have to come to them.
“No! Father!” the Prince bellowed. “Bray, what are you doing? You can’t!”
He tried to run forward, but Peer stepped into his path and detained him. Yarrow saw, now that Peer had turned, that he’d suffered a long scrape from his temple up to his hairline. Blood poured over his left eye, curled down is n
eck and saturated his creamy neckerchief.
Yarrow pulled his gaze back to the King. He sincerely hoped that whatever Ko-Jin had planned, it would work. If the King died this day, the Chisanta would certainly be held accountable.
Bray forced the King to his knees. He glared up at her and at the approaching assassin with scorching wrath.
The scarred man’s blade rested on the King’s solid shoulder. “In the name of the Pauper’s King,” he said in a booming voice, “we dispatch you to the Spiritblighter’s mercy.”
Gripped in two strong hands, he raised the sword high over his shoulder and cut down in a swift slice of silver. The blade should have driven into the base of the King’s neck, but instead it went straight through him and the tip hit the floor, sending a jolt up the assassin’s body.
Many things happened at once, then. In a moment of lightning-fast action, Ko-Jin had the assailant’s sword in hand and, with a swift, delicate motion, slit the scarred man’s throat. He did not pause, but leapt over the leader’s body to engage the remaining men.
Yarrow, Adearre, and Peer, releasing a stunned Prince, charged the remaining assassins.
It was over in the blink of an eye. Yarrow, himself, engaged just one man—or rather, dodged as the tall fellow attempted to slice him open. Yarrow grasped his dagger, raised it over his shoulder, and threw. It whizzed, flipping end over end, but the hilt, rather than the blade, struck the assassin just above the eye.
It did not matter. He was momentarily stunned, and Ko-Jin drove a blade through the man’s back. Yarrow saw the blood-stained tip protrude through the assassin’s chest. The man’s eyes widened in disbelief and horror; his gaze latched onto Yarrow’s, blue eyes imploring him to, somehow, unmake this demise. Then the life in him was gone, and he thumped to the ground.
It was over.
Yarrow panted and scanned the carnage. Black-clad corpses littered the ballroom floor. Yarrow had never seen a man die before—he wished he could unsee it. A strong desire to retch overcame him but he swallowed it down. He turned his eyes on the royal family, to the people they had saved. The Princess and Queen came out from their hiding place, Arlow walking just behind them.
“Papa,” the Princess said, tears rolling down her cheeks, as she clutched the King’s chest. He stroked her hair and made soothing sounds. “It’s all over now, baby girl.”
Bray crossed the blood-spotted dance floor to retrieve her shoes. She had no intention to put the horrid things back on her feet, but she supposed she shouldn’t abandon them. Her mind meandered, oddly unfocused.
Her adrenaline had begun to abate, and as it did an extreme exhaustion settled in. She longed to be back at the inn, out of this Spirits-cursed dress, and curled into bed.
“They were all unconscious,” a timid voice said.
“Unconscious?” the King boomed. “My entire guard?”
“Yes, your Majesty. They appear to have been drugged.”
Bray watched as a maid with a bucket of water and mop set to remove the blood from the gleaming dance floor. She cleaned in a slowly widening circle, then plunged the mop back into the water with a slosh, turning the suds pink.
A servant put the last of the corpses in a long line. Bray had never seen so many dead bodies at once. Something about the way they were lined up, evenly spaced, unseeing eyes and boot tips facing the lavish ceiling, seemed strangely orderly. They reminded her of the planks of wood that lined the Transcontinental Railway.
Their face coverings had been removed, revealing Dalish men of varying ages—one boy looked no older than sixteen, the eldest had gray hair. Each of them bore the familiar tattoo upon their neck, the crowned fist. It made Bray think of the only other time she had encountered Pauper’s men, when their carriage had been waylaid all those years ago. Funny that she should be in the company of the same exact people.
The King examined the row of dead assassins and shook his head. “I do not know their faces.”
“If they really are Pauper’s King men, you wouldn’t,” the Prince said as he too inspected the bodies.
“If?” the King asked sharply. “Of course they are his men. It was only a matter of time before that treasonous highwayman tried to be king of more than the paupers. I’ll have his head for this!”
Bray closed her eyes for a moment and swayed on the spot. So tired…
She jerked herself alert and made her eyes focus on the dead, look for clues. Instead, her gaze locked on Yarrow. He crouched before one of the corpses, a red-haired youth whose throat had plainly been slashed. The gash stretched wide and red, curved like a smile. Yarrow brushed the dead lad’s hair out of his eyes and smoothed it back gently, as a mother would her child. Bray felt a pang of remorse—Yarrow must have killed that boy, the first to die by his hands.
Yarrow’s eyes shot up and met hers, almost as if she had called his name. It sent a chill through her body.
“Bray, look at this,” Adearre said. She turned towards her friend, glad for an excuse to break eye contact. Adearre crouched next to the scarred assassin who had acted as leader, a small scroll of paper in his hand.
She knelt and took the telegram slip. “Regroup outside Che Mire,” she murmured aloud.
“Che Mire?” Yarrow repeated softly, as if to himself.
The King paced before the line of dead men, glaring as if he hoped to impress his displeasure upon them even after death. “I’ll have every one of those so-called King’s men taken into custody…”
“I do not believe that would help you,” Adearre said.
The King gestured impatiently for him to continue.
“Look at these tattoos.” Adearre turned the head of the leader to better expose the mark. “They are all fresh.”
“How can you tell?” the Prince asked.
“The darkness of the ink,” Adearre said, as if it were obvious. He pointed to the dead man’s neck. “And look here, the flesh is still pink from the initial irritation.”
“So they were new recruits,” the King huffed. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“Why would the Pauper’s King, in his first-ever act of violence, send an entire party of fresh initiates?” Adearre challenged.
The King frowned and ceased his pacing. The Prince stared at Adearre as if he were some kind of marvel.
“If it wasn’t the so-called Pauper’s King,” the King asked with flashing eyes, “who was it?”
Adearre shook his head, but he shot Bray a significant look.
Peer reentered the hall at that moment, a bandage on his left temple.
“Are you alright?” she asked and jogged forward to examine Peer’s pupils.
He smiled dreamily. “I am excellent.” He drew out the word ‘excellent’ comically.
Adearre chuckled. “Did the doctor give you something good, love?”
Peer smiled wide and leaned bodily into Adearre. “Love…”
“How was Arlow?” Ko-Jin asked.
“Oh, fine.” Peer yawned mightily. “Bit tetchy though.”
Bray, eager to leave, faced the King. “It’s late. If there is nothing further you require, Your Highness, we will take our leave.”
The King nodded absently and twitched his hand in a dismissal.
Bray took several steps towards the exit, her high heeled shoes dangling from her fingers and the heavy dress whispering across the floor.
“Wait!”
She halted and the Prince jogged up to her side. He smiled and ran a hand through his hair. “I wanted to thank you. I owe you my life.”
She shook her head. “You owe me nothing, but it was a pleasure meeting you.”
“The pleasure was mine.” He kissed her hand gallantly. “Good night, Bray Marron.”
It was an hour after midnight, and a light rain hung in the air like mist, glimmering with the lamplight. After the events of the evening, the stillness and quiet was unnerving. Bray scanned every shadow with suspicion as she left the palace.
The coachman had waited for them—tha
nk the Spirits—and he held the door open as they filed into the cushioned interior. Moments later, the carriage surged into motion, trundled down the wide drive and out into the city.
Bray turned to Adearre expectantly. His gaze was trained on Peer, a bemused smile on his lips. Their drug-addled friend had instantly fallen asleep on Adearre’s shoulder and begun to snore softly.
Bray cleared her throat and Adearre looked up. He answered her questioning look in a whisper. “Five of the assassins had scars from old burns on their arms and hands.”
“Burns…” Bray said. “You think this is connected to the fires?”
Adearre bit his lip. “I cannot prove that. It could be a coincidence. Perhaps those men worked a job in the past with close proximity to fire…”
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence,” Yarrow said, his face turned out the window. “Before the attack, I was talking to Vendra—”
“Wait, what happened to Vendra?” Ko-Jin cut across.
Bray’s eyes narrowed as she thought of the woman. In all the excitement, she had completely forgotten there had been another Chisanta present at the ball. But now that she was reminded, suspicion seeped into her mind. The woman had been close at hand—Bray had seen her, hanging on Yarrow like a leech, just before Adearre had spotted the assassins. So why had she not helped? She was tempted to blame her Cosanta weakness, but both Ko-Jin and Yarrow had proved an invaluable, seamless part of the group when the need arose.
“I don’t know,” Yarrow said. “I didn’t see her after the assassins arrived. She was a bit…deep in her cup, but I can’t imagine she would leave at such a time, that any Chisanta would…” A crease formed between his brows. “Before, though, she told me that her sedative stores have been robbed every year for the past decade, and the constable had traced the stolen goods to a warehouse outside Che Mire.”
“The syringe in Greystone…” Adearre said.
Yarrow’s face turned grim. “My thoughts exactly.”
“And that is where the assassins were meant to regroup.” Ko-Jin rubbed his chin. “You don’t think that something’s happened to Vendra? That she’s gotten in over her head?”
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