Prince's Fire

by Amy Raby

  “Wait. What do you mean by a breakaway enclave?”

  “You remember how the Obsidian Circle used to operate, before Lucien pardoned them and they became Riorca’s ruling party?”

  “Of course,” said Celeste. “They were an underground organization of many independent enclaves. Collectively, they incited rebellion and assassinated Kjallan leaders.”

  “It turns out a few of the enclaves didn’t like the idea of Riorca accepting Kjallan rule in exchange for the concessions granted them, and they’ve broken off from the larger organization. My team tracked down one of the breakaway enclaves last summer and broke it up. But I know there’s at least one more out there. Probably two. We’ve had threats, even assassinations. We had a bomb go off in Cuttleshore.”

  “Those names I gave you—did they have to do with the breakaway enclave?”

  “I can’t talk about that,” said Justien. “But let me be clear: while most people in the Enclave building are law-abiding and trustworthy, the enemy’s eyes and ears are present. Until I identify the responsible party, you should be careful what you say.”

  • • •

  Rayn sat on the bed in his assigned state apartment, feeling lonely. He’d slept part of the afternoon and joined the Riorcan leadership at dinner. They’d seated him next to Celeste, but she didn’t exchange a word with him all night. The Riorcans had peppered him with questions about his country and his family, and Celeste had swapped stories with Ista and Bayard, with whom it was clear she had a shared history. He and Celeste might have been at two different dinners for all they’d interacted.

  He’d driven the woman away. Maybe it was for the best; he couldn’t commit to an alliance with Kjall, and sleeping with her had been a colossally bad idea. Still, it would be nice if he could at least talk to her.

  He missed Lornis, too; he’d rarely been separated from the man for this long. How had Lornis reacted when he’d learned Rayn had gone overboard? Did he know yet that Rayn had survived? Surely Lucien had passed the word on to the Inyans when he’d found out. Otherwise they’d still be mourning his death in Riat, maybe even heading back to Inya without him.

  Celeste had a new bodyguard. The man was enormous. He looked like a savage from some distant land. Oddly, Celeste had seated the man at dinner with them instead of having him hover behind her in the manner of the Legaciatti. The bodyguard had said almost nothing to the group at dinner, but a couple of times he’d leaned over and spoken quietly to the princess, which made him wonder how long the princess had known this man and just how intimate they were.

  Lucien said a message had arrived for him from Inya. It was impossible that this could be good news. A ship would have been dispatched for only the gravest of reasons: foreign attack, volcanic eruption, death of a family member.

  He rose from the bed and began to pace. He needed his message. And he needed to return home.

  • • •

  Celeste was trying to make the best of being trapped in Riorca. With Justien’s help, she tried to make sense of the assassination attempt that had taken place on the Goshawk.

  Without access to the Goshawk itself, her investigation was necessarily limited. She could, at least, communicate with the Imperial Palace via the signal network. Lucien had already departed for Denmor, and Vitala was with him. So she spoke to Lucien’s adviser Trenian.

  What investigations have you made into the event on the Goshawk? she signaled.

  By return signal, delayed several hours, Trenian told her that once they’d learned what had happened on the ship, they’d taken the entire crew into custody and begun interrogations. These, unfortunately, had revealed little of significance. The three assassins had been taken on board as ordinary sailors in Riat. The practice of taking on new sailors to replace those lost to death or desertion was commonplace, and the ship’s captain, who’d had no idea of their ill intentions, was not held to be at fault.

  Celeste verified that her bodyguard Atella had survived the attack. But Atella had no intelligence to offer either. She’d killed all three assassins. Searches of their bodies had yielded no significant evidence, and she knew no more than Celeste about who they were.

  She and Justien puzzled over this information. The assassins had boarded the ship in Riat, which suggested they were Kjallan. But why would a group of Kjallans want to assassinate an Inyan prince?

  Her theory was that the assassins were Inyan and had followed Rayn to Kjall. Possibly they’d even come on his own ship, the Magefire, and from there taken up service on the Goshawk. She ought to ask Rayn if their faces had looked familiar to him. But he would surely have mentioned it if they had, and after their argument in Waras, she was staying away from the man.

  • • •

  It was the third day of Rayn’s stranding in Denmor. Yesterday he’d requested and been granted a tour of the city. Governor Asmund had escorted him personally through the city streets, pointing out the docks and harbor, a recently constructed shrine to the Vagabond, a public park, shops, and eateries.

  He’d come here ostensibly to see how Kjall was treating this conquered province. He’d heard nightmarish stories about Riorca: bodies impaled on stakes in the center of town, desperate poverty, townsfolk enslaved by death spells. While he was sure Asmund had shown him the best of Denmor, steering him away from the seedier spots, the stories he’d heard appeared to be untrue or exaggerated. Riorca might be cold and bleak, but the province was thriving in its modest way.

  Now, back in his rooms, his thoughts returned to Celeste. Perhaps he’d been wrong to hold her accountable for her father’s crimes. As she’d pointed out, she’d been only eight years old when Florian had invaded Mosar. She could not have stopped him. As an adult, she was calm, rational, and kind, obviously more interested in scholarly studies than in war. He probably owed her an apology.

  But the problem of Lucien remained. He’d seen enough of Celeste to know that she did not share her father’s propensities, but he could not say the same about the young emperor. Celeste vouched for him, but they were brother and sister. He probably showed her a better side of himself than he showed others.

  Someone rapped at his door.

  “Come,” he said dully.

  It was a runner. “Your Highness,” he said, bowing. “An Inyan ship has arrived.”

  “What sort of ship?”

  “A clipper,” said the runner. “Name of Water Spirit.”

  Finally. That was his cousin’s ship. This must be the message he’d been waiting for.

  He dismissed the runner. Thanks to Governor Asmund’s tour, he knew the way to the docks. It was an easy walking distance, and plenty of daylight remained. He left the Enclave building and set out into the city.

  He feared the message would have something to do with his father. King Zalyo had deteriorated badly in the last year. The disease or madness, which had taken over his mind, seemed to be accelerating. It was beginning to affect his body: he looked older than he ought and walked with a shuffling gait. The man was fifty-two years old, far too young to be dying, yet clearly he was doing just that.

  The bustling streets that bridged the gap between the Enclave building and the harbor were Rayn’s favorite part of the city. They were lined with shops and restaurants. The tang of frying fish and the homey scent of baking bread wafted through the air. There was a bookshop across the street, and a chocolate shop on the corner ahead. After he got his message, perhaps he’d stop in and buy some chocolate for Celeste. His apology might be better received with a gift. He carried no money, but perhaps he could borrow some from his cousin, if indeed Tiannon had come personally.

  Something slammed into his back.

  The dirt road rushed toward his face, but he caught himself and stumbled against the wall of the chocolate shop. Pain erupted between his shoulders, searing, burning—the worst pain he’d ever felt. It tore a cry of agony from his throat.


  Knife or arrow in his back, he could not tell.

  Townsfolk were fleeing the scene in every direction. He had to find cover. He was a dead man if he stayed where he was.

  He stumbled toward the chocolate shop door.

  Someone charged toward him through the scattering civilians. He reached for the hilt of his sword, but his arm wasn’t working. The attacker crashed into him, knocking him to the ground. A crossbow bolt slammed into the wall where he’d been.

  “Stay where you are.”

  The person who’d knocked him down was a woman—he could tell by her voice. She was enormous, easily as tall as he was, and she held a longbow. Quick as lightning, she drew back the bowstring and released an arrow. It dropped a man standing on a rooftop across the street.

  Two more men came running. The woman nocked another arrow. She swung around as if to select another target, but did not loose the arrow.

  “We’re friends,” called one of the men as they approached. He dropped to Rayn’s side. “I’m a Healer, and Tomas is a war mage. Are you wounded anywhere besides your back?”

  “No,” Rayn gasped.

  Tomas spoke to the archer. “You see any others?”

  “One,” said the archer. “I think he’s running.”

  “Should I give chase?”

  She shook her head. “Stay.”

  The Healer pulled out a knife and cut off Rayn’s tunic around the bolt wound. “I’m going to get this out. Stay calm.”

  “Won’t I bleed to death if you take it out?” He’d heard it could be more dangerous, sometimes, to remove an arrow or bolt than to leave it where it was.

  “I know what I’m doing,” said the man. “You won’t bleed to death.”

  The streets had cleared after the attack, but a few civilians were returning now to stare at the scene.

  “Get out of here,” growled the archer, threatening them with her bow.

  She and Tomas began to speak about the dead man on the rooftop, but Rayn soon lost the ability to focus on their words. The Healer was tugging at the bolt in his back, and the pain flared so badly he went blind with it, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth.

  “Hold still,” said the Healer.

  He lost consciousness.

  When he came to, the archer still stood above him with an arrow nocked in her longbow, but Tomas was gone. The rooftop assassin lay at the archer’s feet; apparently someone had fetched him. Rayn saw that he wasn’t dead after all. The assassin was breathing, though he had an arrow in his side and was bleeding copiously.

  Rayn gave an experimental twitch and discovered his back didn’t hurt nearly as much as before.

  “Take it easy.” The Healer rose to his feet at Rayn’s side and gently helped him up. “I’ll need to work on that wound some more later, but you can stand. No sudden movements.”

  Rayn reeled, dizzy, as his body came upright. He’d lost blood, all right—there was a pool of it where he’d been. Not as much as the other man had.

  The Healer handed him a bloody crossbow bolt. “Souvenir?”

  Rayn shuddered and pushed it away. “Who are you?”

  “We’re friends,” said the Healer.

  That didn’t answer his question. Where had they come from?

  The Healer nudged the wounded assassin with his boot. “You want me to fix him up? What are we going to do with him?”

  “Interrogate him, I’m sure,” said the archer. “You might need to take the arrow out so we can move him.”

  Were they Riorcan city guards? He doubted it. They weren’t uniformed. Maybe he’d been assigned a protection detail without being aware of it. He might be inclined to complain about that if they hadn’t just saved his life.

  Civilians were gathering again, this time watching from a distance. He heard footsteps—a group of people running toward them. He shivered, still jumpy from the attack. The archer aimed her bow in the direction of the newcomers. A group of six people rounded the corner, and she lowered the weapon. Rayn recognized three of them immediately: Tomas, Princess Celeste, and her new bodyguard.

  “Oh, thank the gods,” panted Celeste as her eyes fell on him.

  “My cousin’s ship has arrived,” he said. “I know I can’t go to the docks in this condition, but can someone fetch my cousin and bring him back here?”

  “Your cousin’s ship?” asked Celeste. “Is that the one bringing your message from home?”

  “No ship arrived at the harbor today,” said the huge bodyguard.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Quite certain,” said the bodyguard.

  Soldier’s Hell. The whole thing had been a ruse. He turned to Celeste. “Who are these people?”

  “Let’s get you back to the Enclave building,” she said. “I’ll explain there.”

  14

  Back at the Enclave building, Celeste followed Justien downstairs to the underground prison. Ahead of them strode the tall, powerful-looking woman with the longbow slung over her shoulder. She held the captured assassin, who remained conscious but weak. The Healer had already removed the arrow.

  The archer carried the assassin into a cell. Guards swarmed around the pair, blocking Celeste’s view.

  Justien halted outside the cell, and the archer came out to meet him. “Your Imperial Highness,” she said to Celeste, dipping her head.

  “This is my wife, Nalica,” said Justien.

  Celeste clasped wrists with the archer. Clearly this woman was another member of the Order of the Sage. “Thank you for what you did. I’m sure you saved the Inyan prince’s life.”

  Rayn came up beside her. “Yes, thank you.” He clasped wrists with Nalica as well.

  Celeste looked him over. He stood awkwardly, one shoulder raised a little higher than the other. “You should go and finish with the Healer.”

  “In a moment. I want to see what you learn from this man, since apparently he wanted me dead.”

  Celeste turned to Justien. “Are you going to question him?”

  Justien nodded. “It won’t be pretty, but it needs doing. We’ll want a mind mage. Would you . . . ? I hate to ask, Your Imperial Highness, but I’m not sure I trust anybody else.”

  Celeste swallowed. She’d never done this sort of work before, never even viewed an interrogation, though she knew they took place beneath the Imperial Palace. An interrogation was only as reliable as the mind mage who sat in and used magic to determine whether the prisoner was telling the truth. Prisoners would say anything when subjected to torture—lies, truths, half-truths, whatever made the pain stop. Without a trustworthy mind mage, one who honestly reported what her magic told her, interrogation had little to no value. “I can serve as your mind mage. We need a writ, though, or it’s not legal.”

  “I’m authorized to write those. Have you done interrogations before?” asked Justien.

  “Not as such—”

  One of the guards inside the cell cried out in a frantic voice, “Justien!”

  Justien darted into the cell, followed by Nalica. Celeste trailed after them as far as the doorway. Inside the cell, the prisoner convulsed on the stone bench.

  Justien turned from the prisoner and cried, “Healer! Kasellus, where are you?”

  The Healer who’d helped Rayn shoved past them into the cell, followed by more guards. They surrounded the assassin. From the door, Celeste craned her neck but couldn’t see what was going on. Though dying to ask questions, she held her tongue. The men were obviously trying to save the assassin’s life.

  The noise and frantic activity around the assassin slowed. Then it ceased, and the men who’d been standing over him stood up, their shoulders slumping.

  “That’s it,” said Kasellus. “He’s gone.”

  “He’s dead?” cried Celeste from the door.

  “Fucking deathstone,”
snarled Justien. “That’s enough. Get out.”

  The men filed out of the cell, leaving only Justien and Nalica and the assassin. Celeste went in, followed by Rayn. The assassin lay pale and still on the bench.

  “He had a deathstone?” asked Celeste.

  Justien lifted the assassin’s head and indicated a spot on the back of his neck. “Feel.”

  Hesitantly, Celeste touched the place. There were two lumps, one for the riftstone and one for the deathstone. The assassin’s body was still warm. Her skin crawled. It was not often she saw a dead man, let alone touched one.

  “What’s a deathstone?” asked Rayn, touching his own fingers to the spot.

  “A bit of Riorcan magic,” said Celeste. “It’s attuned to the person in whom it’s implanted. That person can activate it at any time to release a death spell upon themselves.”

  Rayn blinked. “Why would they do that?”

  Justien ran his hands over the victim’s clothes, searching him. “For exactly the reason this man did it. To avoid interrogation.”

  “I know about it because the empress has one,” said Celeste. “It was implanted in her when she was a girl. Ista has one too.”

  “They’re not generally used anymore.” Justien fumbled in a pocket he’d found sewn into the assassin’s tunic. “The Circle once used them, back in the day—ah.” He retrieved a folded piece of paper. “Here’s something, maybe.”

  “What is it?” asked Celeste.

  Justien unfolded the paper. He looked at it, and his triumphant smile faded. “It’s in code. I can’t read it.”

  A frisson of excitement buzzed through Celeste. “Let me see.”

  Justien handed it to her. On the paper was a series of unreadable Riorcan letters, all uppercase, with no spaces or punctuation. “Can your team break ciphers?” she asked.

  Justien’s brows rose in bewilderment. “Are you joking?”

  “No,” said Celeste. “If your people can’t break it, I might be able to.”