Darllion was pressed up against the rear wall, guarded by a man with a knife at his throat. He was bloodied, but still standing. The bodies of two of the guards were sprawled on the floor, along with a black-clothed figure. Where were the other guards?
Another man, dressed in black from head to foot, unlocked a cell door and pulled a protesting Prince Kharel out. Shoving the prince against the wall, the man opened the second cell and dragged Princess Selvia out. She was trying to claw the man’s eyes out. This didn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t they want to go with them? Wasn’t this a rescue?
An expression of horror flashed across the prince’s face as the man flipped a knife in his hand suggestively, and Kharel pulled Selvia towards him. Jerrol launched himself across the room, barging the man off balance and into Kharel. Darllion twisted out of his captor’s grip and, having disarmed him, planted the knife in the man’s side and let him fall to the ground. Jerrol shoved the princess behind him, parrying the oncoming strike. The absent thought that he was glad he was temporarily deaf drifted across his mind.
The black-clothed man recovered and grabbed the prince around the neck as Darllion advanced on him. Jerrol thought he must be cursing from the look on his face. The man in black hissed something and Darllion snarled in response. Jerrol blocked another strike, trying to keep the princess behind him as she tried to climb over him to reach her husband.
Jennery appeared on the steps behind the man, his face a picture. Jerrol grinned. “Give up, you’ve got nowhere to go,” he shouted, hoping he could be heard.
The man twisted towards him and laughed. He shouted in return before checking the stairs behind him. His expression of shock changed to determination as Jennery charged him. He shoved Kharel at Darllion and spun, bringing his sword up to block Jennery’s strike.
Darllion fell, struggling to untangle himself from Kharel’s heavy and unresponsive body. Jerrol struck the attacker from behind, who dropped to the floor, unconscious. The princess darted around Jerrol and pulled at her husband’s body.
Jennery grinned. “Well, at least we don’t have to drag him far!” he said, indicating the cells.
Darllion nodded and inspected his disheveled captain. “Captain? Are you alright?”
Jerrol put his hand up to his ear. “I can’t hear you.”
“You’re shouting Captain,” Darllion said.
“There was a huge blast,” Jerrol continued loudly. “I can’t hear a thing. Darllion, are you hurt? Can you stay here and lock them all up?”
“Yes, Captain.” Darllion exaggerated his nod.
Princess Selvia glared at them; her face etched with grief. “You killed him.”
Jerrol frowned at her. “What?”
“She said you killed him,” Zin’talia said.
“I think you’ll find the Ascendants did that.” Jerrol looked down at Kharel’s body and then back at Selvia. “Why didn’t you want to go with them?”
Selvia clamped her lips shut and narrowed her eyes.
Zin’talia murmured in his head. “Stop shouting. The whole palace can hear you.”
“AM I SHOUTING?” Jerrol asked.
“Yes, stop it. You’re giving me a headache.”
“Darllion, lock her up.” Jerrol tried to moderate his voice. “We’ll send you relief as soon as we can.” Darllion gave him a grubby grin and a thumbs up, and Jerrol patted him on the shoulder. “Jennery, with me.” Jerrol glanced at Jennery. “Watch my back. I’m having trouble with my ears since that blast. Can’t tell if someone is coming up behind me.”
Jennery nodded. “Where next?” he mouthed.
“Back to the king.”
“I don’t think we’ll be allowed in,” he joked.
“What?”
Jennery shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
Jerrol nodded and then wished he hadn’t. He rubbed his temple, but it didn’t help. “Let's check the perimeter is holding, then the king.” Jerrol led the way back up the stairs; he paused by the gap in the wall. “Tell the guard to hold station,” he said, pointing out the hole. Jennery leaned out and instructed the closest guard, who garbled something about exploding earth and shooting flames. Jennery glibly reassured him everything would be alright before following Jerrol up the stairs. Jerrol stooped over the bodies of his other guards, his face tightening before he moved on.
They met Landis in the gardens. “Sir, we’re struggling to hold the northern perimeter; they just keep coming.”
Jerrol frowned at him. “Say again,” he said. “My hearing was affected by that explosion.”
“North perimeter, need help.” Landis repeated.
Jerrol nodded in acknowledgement. “Jennery, go see if Nikols can cut them off. They have to be coming from those warehouses. Landis, I’ll send you the men from inside the palace. We have to stop them from getting to0 near. Watch for men carrying sacks; they cause those blasts. We have to prevent any more breaking through.”
Landis scowled, his blues eyes bright in his grimy face. “Khasalts, sir, used for mining. But it’s scarce, difficult to get hold of.”
Jerrol tried to read his lips. “Khasalts? Well, someone found some and plenty of it. Whatever happens, we have to hold the line.”
Landis nodded and returned to his men.
Jerrol skirted the terraces and entered the palace by the side entrance. He almost tripped over Bryce, who was lying across the floor. Pressing his fingertips against his neck, he breathed out a sigh of relief as Bryce stirred. Slipping an arm around his shoulders, he levered him up. “Up you get,” he muttered. Bryce staggered to his feet, waving his sword in front of him. “Stand down,” Jerrol said with a smile, steering him towards the main ballroom. He searched the corridors for the roving patrols.
“Ah, lieutenant, take your men and go help Captain Landis. He needs support at the north perimeter,” Jerrol instructed as they passed a guard discreetly positioned in the hallway. The guard saluted and left at a run.
Jerrol almost dropped Bryce as the sound of terrified screams that even he could hear erupted in the ballroom. Jerrol’s blood ran cold as he leant Bryce against a wall and dashed down the corridor. He burst into the room, taking in the scene. The guests had drawn back to the side of the room. Horrified faces were staring down at two councillors sprawled on the ground, arrows protruding from their bodies.
Parsillion had disarmed them and now stood over them. King Benedict and Prince Anders stood safely behind Fonorion. Glancing up at the gallery, Jerrol caught Birlerion’s eye and he gave him a brief salute. Birlerion nodded his head in acknowledgement before returning to his vigilant watch.
Jerrol knelt by the side of the red-headed man who lay gasping on the floor. An arrow jutted from his chest. Silver feathers formed the fletching and gleamed in the lamplight as if made of precious metal. Birlerion’s arrows, unsurprisingly. The memory of him diligently repairing these arrows distracted Jerrol for a moment. The dedicated concentration was another facet of the man he had once thought a cold and silent killer.
Parsillion hovered over the injured man, a sword at his throat. Jerrol smiled grimly. “Zin’talia, pay attention. Can you listen to what’s being said around me? Can you relay it to me? I can’t hear a thing.”
Zin’talia snickered in his head. “About time. The king is asking people to calm down. Parsillion is asking you what you want to do with the two men.”
“Depends. Who sent you?” Jerrol asked, inspecting the red headed councillor. Jerrol watched the man’s mouth, but he pressed his lips together and just glared up at them both. Jerrol almost laughed out loud. This was not the place for interrogation, and he was running out of men.
“Parsillion, drag them out to the cells. They can join their friend. We’ll talk to them later, if they’re still alive.”
The councillor jerked, pain lining his face. “You can’t treat us like that. We have rights.” Zin’talia relayed his words to Jerrol. “King Benedict just said he was a traitor, and traitors don’t have rights,” she
reported.
Jerrol nodded at Parsillion. “You heard the king. Take them to the cells. They are spoiling the party.”
Parsillion bent down and grabbed them by their collars, and, ignoring their protests, he dragged them out of the room. The guests watched round-eyed and open-mouthed. A maid darted in and mopped the floor clean of blood before retreating, eyes wide.
“Sire, apologies for the interruption. Please, ladies and gentlemen, continue with your entertainment.” Jerrol grinned at the king’s raised eyebrows. Prince Anders gaped at him in horror as he backed out of the room. Bryce had followed Jerrol into the doorway, but upon observing Bryce’s dishevelled state, Jerrol escorted him back out. “I don’t think you’re dressed appropriately for a party,” he said as he shut the door behind him.
“Look who’s talking. You look worse than me.”
Glancing down at his dusty clothes, Jerrol brushed a hand through his hair and came away with shards of glass and clods of dirt. “Oops,” he said. He steered Bryce into the empty antechamber and, easing him to the floor, helped him out of his jacket. Ripping Bryce’s shirt sleeve off, he used it to bind the deep cut down his arm.
Bryce glowered at him. “Definitely can’t go to the ball now,” he said as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Zin’talia faithfully relayed his words. Jerrol patted him over, checking the dampness on his tunic. He ripped it open. Wincing at the sight of more blood, he grabbed some napkins stacked on a trolley by the wall and pressed them against the wound in Bryce’s side. “Hold that,” he said, pressing Bryce’s hand over the napkins before darting up the stairs. “Birlerion, Bryce is downstairs injured; get someone to look at him, will you? I’ve sent the roving patrols out to the perimeter, and Jennery has gone for reinforcements. You have the king and his guests.”
Birlerion nodded. “Yes, sir. Captain, are you alright?” he asked, frowning at the dust-covered apparition before him.
“Fine. I’ll be better when my hearing returns.” Jerrol waved as he dashed back down the stairs. He patted Bryce on the shoulder. “Help is coming,” he said, and then he was gone.
Bryce opened his eyes to an empty room and shut them again, wincing as he eased into a more comfortable position. He opened them again in surprise a few minutes later as a soft gasp preceded the sound of swishing skirts and gentle hands cupping his face. “I was sure it was you,” Lady Olivia said. “What have you done to yourself?”
Bryce gripped her hand. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re safer with the king.”
“Nonsense, you need help now,” she said as she lifted the napkins and refolded them before pressing down hard against his side.
“Olivia,” beseeched Bryce.
Olivia smiled down at him and kissed him on his cold lips. “If you think I am losing you as well, then you are mistaken.”
“Then we’d better make sure we fix him up,” a breathless voice said behind them. Olivia looked up to see a short man in healer garb enter the room. He dumped his bag next to them and then gently moved Olivia out of the way. “I haven’t much time. Let’s patch him up for now until we can look at him properly. I’m sure you can make sure he stays here and rests, can’t you?” The healer peered at her over his glasses. His bushy eyebrows rose as Olivia blushed.
Bryce gritted his teeth as the healer probed. “Make sure you catch up with Captain Haven,” he said between his teeth. “He got caught in that blast; he can’t hear a thing.”
“That would explain much. I thought he looked a bit off-kilter when he was in the ballroom,” Olivia said.
Bryce grinned in sympathy. “How’s the king coping?” he asked, more to take his mind off what the healer was doing than from wanting to know. He hissed as a sharp needle jabbed him.
“I think he’s frustrated at being cooped up in his ballroom. The Sentinals were having to talk to him quite firmly about staying put. But then he had to set an example for his guests. We were all surprised when we found out there was another Sentinal up in the gallery. Captain Haven wasn’t taking any chances, was he? Good thing, too,” she finished thoughtfully. “Who would have thought those men would try and kill the king? It just doesn’t bear thinking of.”
“Right, drink this.” The healer handed Bryce a vial before standing up. “Keep him still; this is only a temporary fix. That draught should dull the pain, and he’ll probably sleep. I’ll get him carried into the infirmary as soon as I know this situation is under control. My aides are scattered right now.” He nodded at Olivia, grabbed his bag, and flitted out the door.
Olivia looked down at the man now lying on the floor. His face was pale, his eyes closed. Gathering up his discarded jacket, she draped it across him. Carefully, she lifted his head and rested it in her lap. She stroked his face, soothing the lines of pain away. She was prepared to wait until the healer returned.
Taelia was confused. She had felt so safe and content in Jerrol’s arms, and now he had gone off into danger again to protect the king and all of them; who protected Jerrol?
She had been in two minds about attending the ball, but Torsion had persuaded her. He said she couldn’t miss out on life just because Jerrol was busy elsewhere. She still hadn’t forgiven Torsion for the way he had treated Birlerion, but he had been right, as usual. If she hadn’t come, she wouldn’t have had those few blissful twirls around the dance floor.
She had smiled as Torsion had taken his place, but it hadn’t been the same. She had chatted and danced all evening, waiting for Jerrol to return. He hadn’t. Torsion had been attentive and entertaining, but he wasn’t Jerrol.
Torsion was always there, ready to guide her steps, hold her hand, talk to her about anything, but he never thought she could manage on her own. He seemed to think she needed him to help her with everything, whereas Jerrol believed she could do anything, and he let her get on with it, dropping into her life whenever he was passing. Which wasn’t often enough, she admitted to herself.
Then there had been that brief flurry of activity in the ballroom. She had heard the thrum as the arrows split the air, the thud as the bodies hit the ground, the cries of alarmed guests.
Torsion had wrapped his arms around her, shouting that she was safe with him. Of course, she was safe. She had tried to push him away, but he was much stronger than her. He had released her as Jerrol burst into the room and cleaned up the mess and left again. Jerrol hadn’t spoken to her, hadn’t checked that she was alright. He had just assumed she could cope.
Taelia wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or annoyed.
Jerrol spent the night cleaning up. He breathed a sigh of relief as all the guests safely left. All signs of fighting were discreetly hidden; it could have been a typical evening. Landis and his men had excelled themselves and paid the price for it; half his men lay in the extended infirmary. Jerrol thought it was a miracle they hadn’t lost any of them, yet.
Darllion had brushed off his injuries as scratches but agreed to head off to bed so he could relieve Parsillion in the morning. Birlerion was also supposed to be off duty but he was guarding the king, giving Fonorion a well-earned respite. Bryce was in the infirmary in the capable hands of Lady Olivia, and it didn’t look like she was letting go of him any time soon.
The king had finally retired in the early hours of the morning after instructing Jerrol to provide a full report later. Jennery had confirmed that Nikols had the fires out at the warehouses. Two were destroyed. The roof of the third warehouse had collapsed.
Nikols had sent up two units of men; one to help herd the captives down to the cells in the Justice building, freeing the Palace of the duty of caring for them, and the other to relieve Landis and his men. The staff were busy cleaning up both the damage and the aftermath of the party.
Jerrol was asleep, sprawled across the desk in the commander’s office. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but the fact that he was disturbed by someone collapsing into the chair opposite him confirmed that he had been sleeping. He opened bleary eyes and stared across at the equally
exhausted man seated in the chair opposite. The man spoke. The buzzing in his ears had eased, and he could tell that the man was talking, but the sounds were all merged like he was underwater.
The man stood and came around to Jerrol and placed his hands either side of his head. He stared deep into his eyes and then his ears. Jerrol’s memory clicked into place; Healer Francis had made his way around to him.
“The buzzing’s stopped,” he said. Francis winced, and Jerrol’s lips twitched. “Sorry,” he said, lowering his voice. “Can’t hear you or me.”
Francis nodded and wrote on a piece of paper. “Headache?”
Jerrol gingerly nodded.
Francis wrote: “Blurred vision?”
“Not so much now, was earlier,” Jerrol admitted.
Francis wrote: “Had much sleep?”
“You woke me up.” Jerrol had no difficulty translating the healer’s expression.
Shaking his head, Francis reached into his bag and pulled out a glass bottle. He wrote on the paper, “Go to bed, take draught. ALL OF IT. Sleep. I’ll see you when you wake.” The healer glared at him, and Jerrol gave in as gracefully as he could and went to find a bed.
23
Chapterhouse, Old Vespers
The next morning, the Deane called Taelia to her office. She stared at her in silence for so long that Taelia shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Taelia,” she finally said. “What is going on?”
“With what, Deane?” Taelia asked in confusion.
“I am not blind,” Liliian said with a twitch of her lips, “But you certainly are. And I am not talking about what you can or cannot see with your eyes. If a man looked at me the way he looks at you I would be joined with three children by now, and don’t tell me you don’t know how he looks at you, because you look back at him in exactly the same way. Don’t let him ride off again without clearing the air with him.”
Sentinals Rising: Book Two of the Sentinal series Page 19