"Slow," he hissed to Joseph, sawing on the reins and causing his horse to snort. At the sound, the single rear guard ripped his attention from the spectacle of his fellows leading Prince Whillim to the demanding wizards, his gaze finding the intruders even as Cristof's flung blade took him in the throat. Before the rear sentry finished tumbling from his mount, Cristof leapt from his own saddle, cushioning the man and any sound his fall might have made. Joseph crouched next to him, reins from three horses in his fist. He raised an eyebrow in silent enquiry.
In response, Cristof hastily stripped the downed man of his leathers and armour, keeping a wary eye on the rest of the party in the near distance. Without a word, Joseph helped him don the make-shift uniform, saying nothing when Cristof pressed the ring into his hand. Cristof didn't need it any longer.
"Stay back," the assassin instructed as he finished dressing, the words less than the whisper of a gentle breeze. "One approaching will raise less notice. If they remain distracted, I might have a chance. If I fail, find the King and tell him what happened."
The chance of either of them escaping alive narrowed with every second squandered, but Joseph didn't waste any time with arguments. He merely frowned, then nodded and handed Cristof his reins, giving the assassin a quick salute, fist to chest, as he mounted.
"Luck," Joseph murmured when Cristof nudged his horse forward.
He'd make a decent recruit for Prichard, Cristof had thought, then blanked his mind to everything but the task before him.
He rode sedately past soldiers who didn't glance beyond his clothing. After all, who would sneak through lines guarded by wizards? For a brief moment as he approached his goal and Whillim met his eyes with a glint of recognition, Cristof feared discovery, tightening his hold on his weapons. Then the Prince turned away, but not before Cristof saw the swell of relief play over the battered man's face. He could almost feel pity for Whillim.
"Nearest road lies yonder," Whillim used his chin to point. The wizards followed his gesture, and Cristof struck.
Feet already free of his stirrups, Cristof plunged the blade in his left hand into Whillim's neck, pushing off from his horse as he reached for a replacement weapon. Leaping for the back of the beast beside the Prince's, leading with the wickedly curved blade in his right hand, Cristof aimed for the tender spot where Nathan's raven hair met his broad shoulder.
His dagger never landed.
Momentum carried him into Nathan, the force unbalancing the startled wizard. Even while Cristof and Nathan fell from the back of Nathan's horse, Cristof twisted, throwing his last dagger at Tyrandel. The assassin had time to note the blade glance harmlessly off the rotund man despite his perfect aim before Cristof smashed into the ground, a disturbingly fit and flailing wizard beneath him. Cristof wasted no time dwelling on his own astonishment. Danger flourished around any man with shield enough to stop a knife edge from biting into flesh, whether that shield came from armour or magic.
Cristof raised himself enough to grab one fist in the other and slam his elbow into Nathan's exposed throat with all the force he could muster. It felt like slamming into solid stone, but it did cause Nathan to gag, if only for a moment. Cristof let fly with a flurry of fists and knees until a crushing grip took hold of him, freezing his motions. No hands held him, he realised with a certain amount of trepidation, only the iron cords of magic. Whether from the furious wizard under his weight, dark blue eyes flashing nearly black with thoughts of murder, or from his large companion now yanking Cristof away with sausage-like fingers wrapped painfully in his hair didn't matter; they had rendered Cristof helpless.
Or nearly helpless. He could move his mouth and grit his teeth, feeling the rounded edges of his last defence with his tongue against his cheek. He needed only proximity to implement such a final act.
Tyrandel hauled Cristof upright, holding him still with his power and that fist ripping at his hair. Nathan scrambled to his feet, hands jerky as he pulled his dishevelled tunic straight. Half a dozen swords ringed them, each bared blade pricking Cristof and helping to pin him in place. He might have laughed at the absurdity of the soldiers believing they had any influence over the next few minutes had fear not locked his throat as tight as a wizard's magic held his limbs.
"Who by Kalima is this?" Nathan roared. One of the soldiers, an older man with a scar marring the left side of his face from temple to chin, better armoured than his compatriots, stared briefly at Cristof.
"Not one of mine," he growled. "Leathers look like Orlan's though."
"An intruder waltzes through your men, and the best you can say is, not one of mine?" Tyrandel asked, voice deceptively mild though his pale eyes, nearly lost above the red pudge of his cheeks, glowed with an eerie anticipation. Cristof had a very clear view of those disturbing eyes as the wizard pulled his head back using his fist in Cristof's hair as a lever.
"An assassin creeps into our ranks while you lot choose an open field to stop and argue with a pathetic turncoat, and you want to blame me?" the soldier countered, unwisely in Cristof's opinion. Tyrandel's eyes narrowed and he pulled Cristof close, hand moving from Cristof's hair to the side of his neck. He held Cristof tight against his side so that their cheeks pressed together and the pair of them faced the soldier. The placement might have looked intimate in a couple, but Cristof suspected Tyrandel used it to intimidate. The soldier blanched, giving Cristof a first-hand look at the efficacy of such intimidation.
When Tyrandel spoke, Cristof felt the vibration through his whole body, and he shuddered in revulsion.
"Take care with your words―"
"Enough!" Nathan snapped. Cristof felt Tyrandel stiffen, but the corpulent man deferred to his peer. The tall wizard stepped closer, staring intently at Cristof. "You've cost us our guide, such as he was. You will take his place." Cristof managed a snort of derision. Nathan's eyes narrowed. "But first," the wizard went on as pressure crawled into Cristof's skull, "you will tell us who you are, what you planned by this mad foray, and who else lurks in hiding."
"I don't think I will," Cristof rasped, fighting the urge to do just that. He had survived torture before, but never one induced by magic. Tyrandel petting the side of his face as he hummed softly while keeping Cristof utterly bound by his power didn't help. The assassin feared he had little time left.
"How did you plan to escape your ill-conceived attack?" Nathan crooned, fingers of magic digging into Cristof's brain like daggers fresh from the forge. Nathan's handsome features began to grow hazy in Cristof's sight under the onslaught of his invisible assault, but they loomed close enough for one last attempt. Cristof dare not allow himself to answer any question the man posed save one, and only one thing would keep his secrets and possibly take his foe with him.
Cristof felt for the small ball of poison he held under his tongue, rolled it between his teeth and bit down hard.
"I didn't," he answered, then spit as much of the freed venom into Nathan's face as he could, his saliva mingling with the deadly substance already numbing his lips and sliding down his own throat.
Nathan gurgled in horror, falling back with hands clutching his throat. Tyrandel threw Cristof aside with a curse and flopped down next to his companion.
Limbs thrashing, breath bubbling with foam and blood, Cristof fell to his side, the magic binding him released. He stared defiantly at his victim, a fierce elation almost making the sacrifice worth the pain. Through a narrowing tunnel of greying sight, Cristof saw Tyrandel splay his chubby hands over Nathan's face, then watched with a sinking heart as Nathan stilled not in death, but in relief, the acid of the poison fading from him as Tyrandel worked his magic.
Cristof blinked burning eyes smeared with bloody tears, thought he saw a distant shape take to horse and gallop away unseen by anyone else.
Ride fast, ride hard, he thought at Corporal Joseph. Someone had to warn King Stefan and all of Dalasham of the incredible defences of the enemy. But even as the poison ate the last of his sanity, consuming flesh and organs, Cristo
f knew he had failed completely. He had taken away Nathan's access to Whillim, ended any danger the Prince might pose to the King, but in the end, it didn't matter. The power of magic would spread unstoppable into Dalasham, wielded by the harsh hands of wizards somehow impervious to any weapon. What could possibly stand to oppose that?
Cristof shuddered one final time, then went still, his last breath a rattling gurgle that eased into silence.
Chapter 22
"Can you do it?" Em asked, staring intently at a whey-faced Destiny.
After her conversation with Princess Mantinou, Em hadn't managed much additional sleep despite her exhaustion, her mind continuing its whirl of thoughts, questions and possibilities instead of finding rest. Many of those ideas seemed foolish when dawn found her and she had tried to commit them to paper, but some bore closer scrutiny. She had left Destiny a brief note to ponder the most promising.
One thought, though, had circled in the back of her mind, a nearly substanceless notion that only sprang to life fully-formed as she had stumbled from the sitting room to the Council Chambers. Even more than altering Constance's spell to remind Dalashamites of their own magic―how to use it, how to guard it, how to keep it―this idea might accomplish the impossible. It might give them a real chance against Nathan. If Destiny or Norbert could fashion what they needed.
"Craft an amulet to make my brother forget he has magic?" Destiny sputtered.
"Nathan and Tyrandel both," Em nodded. "Marcus tells us an arrow or sword wouldn't penetrate their defence, but could something placed about the neck cut through where steel would not?"
"It's an interesting proposal," Norbert conceded, his fingers rubbing his chin in thought. Destiny stared up at him with brows winging high.
They had retreated to their usual sitting room from the Council Chambers, but they hadn't moved far past the entrance before Em had blurted out her idea, which seemed to have startled Destiny enough that the wizard had fallen into the nearest chair while the rest of them gathered around her.
Destiny had created her Focus to alter a memory. Em had somehow transformed the cold, unfeeling stone of the Destiny Seat into something new, something which drew welcome, not aversion. She wanted to know if they might take a piece of the darkened quartz and fashion a new kind of Focus, one that still affected memory, but in a different way. Em didn't have the first clue on how to construct a talisman, but the memory of the affability the Destiny Seat had shown her had wrapped itself around the notion of an amulet and refused to budge from her mind. Perhaps an idea borne of a desperate need to believe they might truly find a weapon to keep Dalasham safe, but Em refused to discard it as nonsense. That Destiny, curled into one of the chairs nearest the door, and Norbert standing beside her, hadn't dismissed the possibility out of hand gave Em hope.
"You do realise what you're asking, don't you?" Destiny finally posed quietly. Em held the other woman's intense cobalt stare. "Set aside for the moment whether I can refashion a segment of my Focus and imbue it with the proper essence to strip a powerful wizard of the knowledge that he holds such magic, let alone that I have less than two days in which to accomplish this. How do you propose someone get past all their soldiers to within touching distance of either Nathan or Tyrandel, close enough to actively slip through their magical defences and throw an amulet around their neck? You don't think they'd cut down the first person to try?"
"We draw them in by giving them what they want," Em replied evenly.
She saw Prichard shift from the corner of her eye, heard Darien's indrawn breath behind her, but she didn't shy from either. Forcing herself to stillness in the face of Destiny's explosive curses as the lady wizard leapt from her chair, however, took more effort. Before the terror lurking beneath Destiny's obscenities could swarm to the fore and drown them all, Em hastened on, lest the poor woman think Em actually wanted to sacrifice her.
"If Nathan thinks he has an opportunity to lay his hands on Destiny and Marcus both, he might let his guard down. That doesn't mean we actually allow him to do so."
In the moment of silence that followed, Em watched with surprise as Ambrose ghosted back to stand next to Bartok beside the door. When had he moved close enough to intervene should Em need protection? She fancied she could still feel the fading presence of his warmth at her back, though she hadn't noticed it until she found herself bereft of its comfort. Before thoughts of her guard could distract her further, Em pulled her gaze from his pale stare and addressed the agitated folks surrounding her.
"If King Stefan engages Nathan's troops in a field we choose, a field where it looks like Destiny and Marcus stand lightly guarded in the rear, might not your brother try to slip through, take you unawares? Only, instead of finding a captive wizard and a cowering Girl, he'll face a disguised Norbert and a very competent Destiny, armed with amulets to make him vulnerable to attack?"
Norbert gaped at her while Destiny's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. Prichard smiled encouragement with a nod, silently applauding the basics of her plan. Inside, Em quaked with nerves. It sounded like some tactic from a novel, maybe an audacious trick from the histories, but Em keenly felt the danger in her proposal. She didn't read fact or fiction here, couldn't escape consequences with the turn of a page, nor appreciate the comfort of actions that didn't concern her, or that stood at a great distance; Destiny's and Norbert's lives hung in the balance of this foolish idea. She waited for someone to argue against such a perilous undertaking.
"What do you think you're doing?" a voice bellowed in Bashite from the hall, making more than Em jump.
She hadn't realised that the door had stood ajar until someone hurried in, followed by a very small entourage, and then slammed the door with her back, holding it closed and peering into the room with wide and exotic eyes.
Em could only stare as Princess Mantinou drew in a startled breath at the swords suddenly pointed her way, blades swiftly blocked by those of her two guards as her maid-servant cowered beside the heaving royal. Ambrose and Bartok didn't retreat from the threat, but neither did they press any advantage.
The pounding on the door broke the silent tableaux, followed by the booming voice of Representative Prince Tolnar calling for his niece. Remembering Mantinou's clandestine thirst for knowledge, the girl's quick intelligence, and most of all, not knowing how much she had overheard, Em found herself striding for the door. She touched Ambrose's arm gently. After a quick glance at her, he lowered his sword, Bartok hesitantly following suit. Em pretended to ignore the still bared blades of Mantinou's men as she firmly moved Mantinou aside so that she could answer the demands of the man on the opposite side of the door.
"Emily―?" Prichard ventured. She silenced him by softly pushing him aside too.
Positioning herself so that Tolnar would see only her at first, Em opened the door. She dropped a hasty curtsey, eyes downcast, praying the man would not look beyond her to see Destiny huddled in her chair, adding a fervent desire for Destiny to keep her tongue and not draw attention.
"Prince Tolnar," Em murmured subserviently from her lowered position to the furious man standing before her. She peered up through her hair, noted the Bashite glance at her, then stare as though unseeing over her head. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn as I know you may not hear my words,"―truly, Bash had less regard for women than any country she knew―"but know that your niece has honoured one so unworthy as myself to help her better grasp the Dalsh language. She did not wish to trouble your exalted self with a task so far beneath you, so she enlisted my aid as one of such low stature that none would remark on any shortcomings in a Bashite's education. I regret that you must stain your senses with my tardiness in admitting the Princess to this humble room that we might begin our lessons. Should you require to hear these tidings from a true voice and not the unheard whispering of a foolish woman, this man who will guard our persons and our virtue can unsully your ears with his words." She reached back, grabbed Ambrose's arm perhaps more desperately than necessary, and pus
hed him in front of her. Mercifully, Ambrose kept any astonishment from his expression, facing Tolnar with a stoic countenance. Em silently thanked him.
Tolnar's straining jaw eased only slightly in mollification.
"I understand my niece has found a tutor," the man addressed Ambrose through gritted teeth, his darkened face making the red of his hair more obvious. "I will thank you for your discretion and expect her returned forthwith to her chambers upon the completion of her studies."
"Of course, Highness," Ambrose replied with a bow. Tolnar frowned, wariness writ plain upon his face, then turned on his heel and swiftly strode away. Ambrose closed the door firmly, glanced at Em with a heavy sigh, then turned to their unexpected guests. Em followed his regard, meeting the dark, slanted eyes staring in astonishment from the beautiful face of Princess Mantinou. She noted with some relief that Mantinou's guards had resheathed their weapons and stood flanking their errant charge.
"Why you defend me?" Mantinou asked, head cocked to the side in curiosity.
"It seemed prudent before tales spread that we'd prefer to keep quiet," Em replied, surprised by the bite in her words.
"How did you know how to appease him?" Norbert piped up from next to Destiny, who merely regarded Em in silence.
"I studied the cultures and customs of those of Dalasham's allies who would attend King Stefan's coronation, not wanting to give any offence should someone visit the library."
"I remember your angst that someone would discover you, barely twelve years old, and abandon Dalasmar in a fit of pique," Darien said with a small smile. "You hid whenever you heard a foreign accent until the whole affair came to a close."
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