“Our horses are saddled,” Veldon announced as he fell into step, his hand resting upon the hilt of a sword. She had never seen him carry a weapon before. He must know how to use one, every nobleman had lessons as a boy, but he had no reputation as a swordsman.
“Perhaps one of us should remain here,” she said lightly, so as not to hurt his feelings.
“Perhaps it should be you,” he said, cool as ever.
“I am the better shot,” she said.
“You are also injured.”
“Barely.”
He stopped her with a hand to her forearm. “Are you certain we should not send for the general?”
Chae-Na was not certain, but her decision hadn’t changed. She shook her head. “Ko-Jin cannot deflect cannonballs any better than you or I. And Asher’s general is likely leading this strike, not Asher himself. If there is still a chance he will stumble into our trap in Greystone…”
Veldon’s icy eyes betrayed nothing. “And you think it wise to keep him in the dark?”
“He has a weakness for emotional decision-making,” she said.
Chae-Na felt Veldon’s gaze sharpen on her face, so she affected a lighthearted expression. “Shall we, then?”
He exhaled through his nose. “You cannot fault me for wanting to protect you,” he said in a softer voice that already acknowledged defeat.
“Certainly not. Just as you cannot fault me for conducting myself as any decent ruler should.”
She tried to move on, but he tugged gently on her arm. “I love you,” he whispered.
She smiled. “Thank you. Now, come along or stay, but we must move.”
He relented, and they passed into the foyer side by side. A figure stepped into their path, blocking the door. A woman who typically wore a sour expression, but who now appeared smug.
Britt.
Chae-Na’s hand balled into a fist, nails cutting into her palm. The mere sight of the woman ignited an unparalleled rage—a furious, scorching hate that threatened to consume her. Swallowing it back was physically painful. It cost her something.
“Excuse us,” Chae-Na said, her voice strangled.
The Cosanta woman’s smile turned serpentine. “I think it wisest if you stay here, Highness.”
“I do not answer to you,” Chae-Na said. She could not help picturing her brother’s face, as she stood here before the woman who’d arranged his murder. Her entire body trembled.
Britt crossed her arms and cocked her head, as if listening for something. After a moment, Chae-Na heard it too—approaching feet pounding outside the palace entrance. It sounded like an enormous mob, but a mute one. A marching army.
Chae-Na’s rage crystallized into fear. Beside her, Veldon’s face drained of color. They both remained motionless, prey frozen at the approach of a predator.
Britt glided forward on her dancer’s feet. Her hand snaked out and grasped the queen’s wrist with bruising force.
Chae-Na turned her head, her eyes narrowed. “Release me.”
“Unhand the queen,” Veldon snapped.
Britt’s freckled lips pressed into a thin smile. “I only wish to guard you in Ko-Jin’s absence. He charged me with your safety.” There was such mockery in her voice, her eyes dancing in private delight.
“I do not answer to him any more than I answer to you.” Chae-Na eased her sword from its sheath. “Remove your hand from my person, or I will remove it from your arm.”
They exchanged glares, each taking the other’s measure. Britt must have seen Chae-Na’s willingness to shed blood, because she let go.
“Veldon, we must—” The palace doors banged open.
The day was so bright that she was momentarily blinded. Chae-Na blinked against the glare, hand raised to block the sun. A vast crowd congregated on the lawn, sprawling from the palace steps, across the green, and through the gates far below.
At the fore of this endless host stood a tall man with dark hair, his beatific face haloed in light. He clutched the hand of a young woman with wild, curly hair. The pair strode through the entry, into the marbled foyer.
Quade.
The queen fell to her knees hard enough to bruise. She sensed Veldon and Britt do the same on either side.
Heart fluttering, Chae-Na was consumed with a desperate need to please him. And a fearful uncertainty of how she might do so. Should she press her body flat to the floor? Should she remove her armor? Offer her crown? Cause herself harm?
What would he like best?
“Britt, darling,” Quade said in a voice that caressed the ear. He kissed the Cosanta woman’s unworthy brow, and she shuddered. “You have served me well. I will not forget it.”
His dark, depthless eyes flitted to Chae-Na. His gaze made her skin burn. He stepped in front of her, then raised her chin with the tip of a single finger. A burst of pleasure exploded from that small point of contact.
“My queen,” he said, the words like honey. She shivered. “It has been too long.” He looked her up and down, and she wished she were not so unsightly. His attention flicked to Veldon. “And my queen’s new consort. An inconvenience, but no matter. There will be plenty of time for all of us to get to know each other. I’m sure we’ll discover a reasonable path forward. But first things first. Chae-Na, dear—”
Quade offered his hand, and though she felt undeserving of his touch, she accepted his help in rising. He did not release her hand, but rather laced their fingers together. Oh, Spirits…
“Shall we take a trip to the city gates?” he asked with gallantry, his black eyes aglitter. “You see, my men would very much like to come in.”
Arlow darted up the ladder to the top of the battlements, his ears ringing with cannonfire. The ramparts were clogged with an odd collection of soldiers, civilians, and Chisanta, all milling about in confusion. Panic hung thick in the air, along with smoke and powdered debris.
He wedged himself between two archers and scanned the length of the wall, assessing the damage. Arlow spied several places where the stone was cracked and cratered, but it all looked superficial. He frowned—not in displeasure, but because he didn’t understand how so many direct hits could leave so small a mark.
The next blast pierced the air, and Arlow was pleased that he did not flinch. For once.
His entire body tightened, waiting for the blow to land. He wished Clea were here, that she could be in several places at once. His heart thundered. Smoke bloomed, but there came no impact.
The soldier to Arlow’s right wiped sweat and ash from his eyes, blinking hard. “There’s no shot…”
“What?” Arlow shouted.
“It wasn’t loaded,” the soldier called back. “They’ve stopped loading the cannons, for some blighted reason.”
Arlow stumbled away from the parapet, his breath coming in choking rasps.
Quade could have shattered their defenses and ended this siege, but instead he had pulled back. Like a man unwilling to break a thing which already belonged to him.
Arlow needed to find his family.
He set off on numb legs, sliding down the ladder and stumbling into the street. He sprinted to the nearest stable, where he stole a horse. Likely, it was property of the crown anyway.
The streets were in chaos, and as he rode through the crush of frightened civilians, voices cried out to him.
“Pauper’s Prince,” they shouted, and for once it did not sound as if they were mocking him. “What’s happening? Is the city safe?” Are we safe? Is this the end?
He was too desperate to stop, but he tried to console as best he could without pause. “The walls remain intact.”
“Is Quade here?”
“Has he come?”
“Is he returned?”
“Can it be true?”
“At last?”
“Finally?”
Arlow shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, his feelings uncertain. A thread of hope had snaked through his fear.
He hopped from his saddle outside their s
oup shop and burst through the door. Jeana stood at the cauldron, stirring her potato chowder, as if the city were not under attack. The sight of her there, with her frizzy hair and her filthy apron, was disconcertingly ordinary.
“Mae?” he gasped. “The baby?”
His landlady looked up, her expression bland. “Well, they’re up at the palace, aren’t they?”
He was having difficulty catching his breath. “I know they were, but Mae was going to speak to Foy. Have you seen either of them in the last half hour?”
Jeana cocked her head to the side, her brow creasing. “Of course. They were here, but when they heard the news, they returned right away.”
He heaved an exasperated sigh. “What news, blight it?”
She smiled, baring all of her yellowing teeth, but her eyes were dark and flat in her wrinkled face. “That our savior’s come back to us, of course. Go, Master Bowlerham. Go and see.”
Arlow blinked; his thoughts slowed and slurred, as if with sudden lethargy. He turned on his heel and wandered back into the street, where he mounted his borrowed steed, clicked his tongue, and set forth at a sedate trot.
When the main avenue came into view, beyond the Narrows, he found it full of activity. Lines of soldiers marched through the streets, and the civilians of Accord cheered.
Quade’s soldiers are in the city. The thought hummed with portent, but the only follow-up his mind could produce was, Well, isn’t that interesting?
He rode for the palace, increasing his speed steadily, until he was flying through the streets. The clatter of hooves against pavement drummed in tune with his pulse. Excitement coursed through him.
Because Quade was here. Quade was here!
He galloped through the gates and across the palace lawn. There were several dead bodies scattered across the grounds—Chisanta, by their dress. Arlow rode past, dismounting when he came to the main entrance. The doors already stood open, like an invitation.
He jogged into the foyer. Blood glinted on the marble floors, and Arlow wondered absently who that blood belonged to. And who would clean it up.
His gift always took him where he wished, so he walked without intention. When he ended up in a vacant dining hall, his brow furrowed in confusion. Quade was not here, which gave him the peculiar sense that his luck had turned faulty.
It was the sound of a crying baby that finally directed his feet. He took the grand stairway two steps at a time, his anticipation mounting by the second.
They were in the library, which struck Arlow as an odd place to convene. Almost everyone Arlow cared for was collected in this one room.
Mae paced a short circuit, with Linnie clutched to her chest. Foy stood in the corner, his gaze vacant. Chae-Na and Veldon knelt upon the carpet. There were others as well—Wynn, Britt, Jorren.
And, most significantly, Quade Asher. He leaned against a bookshelf, examining a series of volumes near the window. Sunlight kissed the planes of his face and gleamed in his dark hair. His visage made Arlow feel unsteady on his feet, like he might—perhaps should—collapse to his knees.
“These are all the new prophecies?” Quade asked softly. And, Spirits, that voice.
“Save for the volume still being recorded,” Chae-Na said. “That is with the scribe in Yarrow’s tower.”
Quade ran his fingertips along the spines of those texts, his eyes hungry. Then he straightened and turned, looking upon Arlow for the first time.
To be on the receiving end of such a gaze, it was far too much to bear. Arlow fell to his knees.
“Arlow,” Quade said, smiling. “So good of you to join us. I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know your lovely wife in your absence.” He extended his hands to Mae, a silent request. Without pause, she transferred Linton into Quade’s care. The babe had been fussing, but as soon as he was cradled in Quade’s arms, he hushed. “And this, I take it, is your son.”
The sight of Quade Asher holding his infant child did something strange to Arlow’s stomach—he could not identify the emotion, but he felt it strongly. Quade smiled down at Linton, brushing the babe’s cheek with a single fingertip. “Yes, clearly he’s yours. The resemblance is striking. A handsome child.”
“Thank you,” Arlow whispered. His guts fisted inside him, though he couldn’t say why.
“I can no longer have a son myself. I confess, I’m quite jealous. It must be a comfort to know you will live on through him.”
Quade approached, Linnie nestled in the crook of one arm. “Rise,” he said, and Arlow shot to his feet.
He extended his hands, hoping to take his son, but Quade did not return him. Instead, he bent his head close to Arlow and gazed into his eyes. “Did you learn of my presence in the city?”
“Yes.”
“Were you glad to hear of it?”
“I was. I am.”
Quade’s eyes darted back and forth, scrutinizing Arlow’s undeserving face. Then he nodded. Once again, Arlow offered up his hands to accept his son. Once again, Quade did not give up the babe.
He stepped back, licking his lips. “It seems you have been busy this past month. Not long ago, there would have been only one monarch to depose, but now there are four and an heir to contend with.” He sighed, as if put out, but his disappointment soon gave way to a curling smile. “Well, inconveniences can be dealt with. Tell me, where is your friend the general?”
The answer flew from Arlow’s lips: “Greystone.”
Quade’s dark brows rose. “Whatever for?”
“To lay an ambush for you.”
The man barked a laugh. “I’m impressed. That might have worked, had I not had other plans today. How did they know I would have been there? Did Britt give herself away?”
The Cosanta woman drew a sharp breath through her teeth, her eyes wide. But Quade was looking at Linton, not at his spy. The baby cooed.
Arlow shook his head. “No, it was a logical deduction. Bray compared your whereabouts with her telegraphy records.”
“Ah, Bray Marron. An enterprising young woman. I thought so the first time I saw her, when she was just a slip of a thing. I assume she is also in Greystone?”
“Yes.” Arlow said, “Along with Peer, Whythe, and Tae-Young.”
Quade’s attention still lingered on the babe in his arms. “I think he’s fallen asleep.”
“I can take him,” Arlow said.
“No,” Quade answered, and Arlow’s heart kicked.
The man smirked. He lofted Linton up on his palms, like an offering to the Spirits. Like he might drop him. “Are you afraid, Arlow?”
“Should I be?” Arlow whispered hoarsely.
There came a heavy pause, during which Quade’s dark eyes glinted with humor and mischief. “Of course not,” he said at last. “Mae, darling, you take him.”
Mae hurried forward and accepted their son. Arlow hated the blank look on her face. Mae was typically so expressive; she looked wrong this way.
“Wynn, dear,” Quade said. “Come and hold my hand again.”
The moment the curly-haired young woman touched Quade, he transformed. It was like watching a bright light brighten, like the moon dispersing a shrouding mist. Arlow felt he had to look away. This man was too radiant to gaze upon directly.
“Will you do all I ask of you, Arlow?” Quade’s voice was velvet, a delicious purr. It stirred his blood.
“Yes,” Arlow whispered, fervent.
Quade’s eyes held all the dark splendor of a night’s sky; they bewitched Arlow. “I want you to find Kelarre and choose one other strong fighter. Then I want the three of you to teleport to Greystone and dispatch your friends. They meant to cause me harm, and so I’m afraid they must die. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You must do everything in your power to kill without mercy. Use every advantage, including your luck. If you survive, return to me.” He flashed a toothy smile that reminded Arlow of some beautiful, predatory cat. “Now, go.”
And so he went, leaving his son and
wife behind without thought.
Chapter Twelve
Peer wondered how long they’d been waiting. It seemed an eternity. After so much time crouched in the same position, his leg muscles had begun to cramp. He was contemplating the pros and cons of taking the phrase ‘lie in wait’ more literally. The ground didn’t look all that dirty.
For the past hour, he’d been unconsciously slipping his pistols from their holsters, spinning them in his hands, and sliding them back into place.
“Show-off,” Whythe had mouthed from the other side of the alley, but he also continued to watch, which was poor inducement for Peer to stop.
Based on the intermittent shifting of his companions, he suspected they were as restless as him. Except for Bray, who radiated readiness yet remained as still as any statue. Her gaze never flickered from the stretch of sunlit road before the Greystone Telegraphy Office.
Greystone.
Peer couldn’t stop thinking how strange it was to be in this city again, when he didn’t feel like the same man who had last walked these streets.
He remembered visiting this very office, with Bray and Yarrow. It was where they’d found the first clues that would eventually lead them to Quade: a fire and a missing fourteen-year-old girl. He hadn’t trusted Yarrow then. Though, mostly, he’d been jealous.
Not because he wanted to be with Bray himself, of course, but because it hurt to watch these two people slip into love, like they simply couldn’t help themselves. It had seemed to him, then, that if a Cosanta could be attracted to a Chiona, why could Adearre not love him? They had far fewer obstacles in their path. If against-the-odds romance was possible, surely this mundane variety should not only be possible—it should have already happened.
Spirits, how angry he’d been then. How confused and consumed with doubt. He experienced a surge of tenderness for his former-self, whose dreams were so doomed. Peer wished he could whisper a message to that young man: Life’s gonna get much, much worse. And then, later, it’s gonna get much, much better. Just hold on.
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