The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  Messages on the Wind

  Brea followed Ealian into the palace. It was a relief to finally walk back through the wide doors. Despite all that was happening, she was about ready for her bed. The last few hours had been… tiring.

  The Gateman hadn’t helped her mood any; asking her to prove who she was. Prove? How could either of them prove anything? Neither she nor Ealian had spent more than a few hours in the palace. Fortunately, a footman had recognised them—her, mostly—and with a sour look, the Gateman had let them pass—but only after a lecture on how to behave in the palace which, considering the current state of affairs, seemed a ridiculous waste of time.

  That had been the last in a long line of annoying occurrences: getting lost, getting soaked to the skin, Ealian and his… Ealianness! All she wanted now was a bath and bed. And, of course, news of how the battle had been going. She wasn’t sure which should come first.

  They swept along the corridor at a fast walk, past open doors that led into large rooms where people were talking, eating or arguing about one thing or another. Indeed, everyone seemed to be arguing, even the maids. The battle had them all on tenterhooks. If they were not arguing, they were pacing back and forth with stern, anxious looks on their faces—especially the nobles, most of whom had retreated to the safety of the palace, leaving their homes in the Lampton unoccupied. They were probably worried about their possessions, Brea thought.

  She blinked at the blank walls as Ealian led them further into the palace. “Are you sure it’s this way?” she asked his back.

  She heard the boy sniff. His shoulders shook with silent mirth. “There you go again,” he said over his shoulder, “questioning my sense of direction.”

  “I wasn’t… All right, yes, I was questioning you. I don’t think the Princess’s rooms are this way. I remember seeing purple flags hanging in the hall outside her apartment, not blue.”

  “That’s the western entrance,” Ealian told her. “We came in through the east doorway.” He pointed in front of them. “It’s just up here, past the stair to the kitchens and up the wide steps.”

  “How do you—” Brea suddenly realised why Ealian appeared to know his way around. “Is that you, Alacin? I wish you two would stop doing that. What happened to Ealian?”

  Alacin chuckled. “Oh, but it’s so much more interesting if we don’t tell.” He gave her a cheeky grin over Ealian’s shoulder. “As for Ealian, he is sleeping, or maybe thinking.”

  Brea sniffed; it was all right for him… nodding off to sleep whenever he felt like it. And what did he have to think about?

  She wasn’t sure which of them was worse; Ealian, who despite sometimes appearing confident, was immature and unsure of himself; or Alacin, who while being funny and knowledgeable, was sometimes too confident. Of the two, Alacin was easier to get along with, but talking with him sometimes felt like talking to Altor the old Cuis’gan. After all, Alacin and Altor were probably the same age. The truth was, Alacin made her nervous. Still, it wasn’t Alacin who had kissed her; that would have been awkward. She hadn’t realised just how awkward, until the relief of knowing it had been Ealian washed over her.

  “I’m guessing you’ve been here before,” she asked, moving up to his side and giving him her well-practiced sideways glance.

  “I lived here for seventy years, back when the first Juno Penarch ruled. It hasn’t changed much.” He looked around at the wall-hangings and up along the corridor. “A little dreary, perhaps, compared to what it was like back then. Those Penarchs certainly enjoyed their fancy tapestries.”

  Brea wondered what it must be like to have lived in two different ages. The Penarchs—back when they were powerful, not the last few who were no more than puppets to the nobles, according to Tor—had ruled all of Moyathair, from the Southern Isles, to the Rash’moran heights in Northern Larabon. What must Alacin think of the way things had turned out, the wars, the division, the treaties and segregation of races? For some reason, Brea felt suddenly ashamed.

  They walked along in silence, until…

  “Don’t you want to question me about anything?” Alacin asked.

  Brea knew all too well what he meant by “Anything.” And she wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to tease her. No, Alacin could torment Ealian if he wanted to—and he probably did—but if he started on her, she would say she was glad it had been Ealian who kissed her, and not him. That would soon shut him up. Yes, it would be a mean thing to say, but he shouldn’t tease, by Ein’laig.

  “What was Bailryn like when you lived here?” She changed the subject.

  Alacin gave her a wry look but didn’t push the topic of kissing back on her. “It was much the same as it is now. The palace, that is. The city has changed a lot. For one thing, The Wickham didn’t exist; the Penarch would never have allowed such a place to grow on the city’s outskirts. It wasn’t as busy as it is now. And the harbour…

  Alacin prattled on, but Brea wasn’t listening. She had stopped and was now staring at the dead guard, lying inside a doorway on the other side of the corridor.

  She felt a hand drag her away.

  “Come on. Don’t just bloody stare at it,” Alacin growled through gritted teeth. “Hurry up; they might still be around here somewhere.”

  “Who might?” Brea said, and then scolded herself for being stupid.

  Assassins.

  Assassins had breached the palace security, again. Brea caught up with Alacin, who was marching towards the stairs. She stumbled, trying to keep up with him. “How do you know they’re not down this way?” she asked him.

  “I don’t,” Alacin admitted. “But I do know, if there are any guards about, they’ll be in the corridor outside the royal residence.”

  “Of course,” Brea said. She quickened her step.

  Would this day ever end? She thought they would be safe once they passed through the palace gates. But once more she felt the twinge of fear burning her throat. The palace suddenly seemed cold and dark. She found herself wishing there were some of those brightly coloured tapestries hanging on the walls. Every corner was a potential ambush, every noise an assassin. A tingling like a thousand pins itched along her spine as her imagination turned every shadow into a threat.

  They rounded the corner, and she saw another dead guard at the foot of the stairs. Brea could hear noise coming from outside, and stopped to look through a window.

  “Come away!” Alacin growled, tugging at her elbow.

  Brea pulled away from him. “They’re fighting outside.”

  The small courtyard by the Dock Gate was full of men. Barely half were palace guards, the rest looked like Black Hand.

  “I thought they had all gone?” Brea said.

  “So did I.”

  Alacin leaned out the window. “They’re heading for the east door.” He pulled himself back into the corridor. Brea heard him swallow hard. “Well, that explains how the assassins managed to get back into the palace. I’m going to warn the guards. You should—”

  “No, we should both head for the kitchens. The guards will know by now. You don’t need to go,” Brea insisted, pulling Alacin away from the window and back the way they came.

  “And what if they don’t? I have to warn them.” Alacin took her by the shoulders. “The kitchens are back down this corridor. Turn right at the second stairwell, and head straight down. You can’t miss it. But if you hit a hall full of barrels, you have gone down one flight too far.”

  “I’m not leaving by—”

  “Go, Brea,” Alacin interrupted. “I can move faster if I’m not worried about you. And give me your staff.”

  Brea handed over her staff. He was right; like it or not, she was no fighter, and there were no beasts in the palace who she could call on for help.

  “I’ll find a guard,” she told him. “You be careful, remember whose body it is you’re putting in danger.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him pretty for you.” He smiled, Brea thought he was trying to make her feel bette
r: it didn’t work. “Besides,” Alacin continued, “if Ealian dies, I die, too. I’ll be careful.”

  And with that, he was gone, running up the stairs towards the royal residence. Brea listened as the sound of his footsteps faded. She suddenly felt very alone.

  “Second right,” she whispered as she turned back to the corridor. She trod quietly, keeping to the dark side of the passage, away from the oil lamps. “Second right, and down the stairs… down the stairs.”

  She heard a noise. Turning, she ducked just in time; the assassin’s blade passed over her head. Letting out a squeal, she shouted for Alacin before running off as fast as she could.

  Suddenly thankful she had not worn her heavy boots, Brea hitched up her skirt and sprinted down the dark corridor. The assassin’s footsteps were loud behind her, but she was increasing her lead, slowly.

  Absently, she found herself remembering something Lance Solaman had once said: “If someone’s chasing you, keep your eyes front; looking will only slow you down.” She wondered how the Innkeeper of the Whistling Shepherd could have learned such a lesson.

  However Lance had acquired such wisdom, she decided it would be best to take his advice. Dipping her head, she could hear her heart beating in her ears as she forced one long stride after another. To her right, she could hear the fighting down in the courtyard. Shouting for help would be useless; any guards on this floor would likely be on their way down to the dock gate—if they weren’t already dead.

  The assassin’s footfalls seemed further away. Brea ducked through an open door—then quickly slammed it shut. The latch was flimsy; it would gain her a few seconds, at best.

  The room she found herself in was full of narrow desks. A chalkboard on a tripod stood in the far corner next to the only window. She wondered, for a second, whether it would be best to climb out onto the ledge that would no doubt be on the outer wall. Maybe she could climb down, or jump; the window was only one floor up. But then she noticed a small wooden door behind the chalkboard. She hoped it wasn’t a store cupboard.

  The door opened into a dark room. It was narrow and long; she couldn’t see what was at the far end. Stumbling over boxes, she felt her way along with shaking hands. At the end, she found another door. Low, and made of rough wood. She thought it might be a coal boy’s entrance—she’d heard there were narrow passages all over the palace, just big enough for a child to fetch and carry. Crouching, she ducked under the lintel and closed the door behind her.

  The Rabbit Run—as it was called—was in complete darkness, there was no way of knowing which way was up, only that it ran to the left. The walls felt rough, like badly cut stone. The smell of damp soil filled her nose, and fumes from what must have been rat droppings burned her eyes. More than once, she banged her head on the low ceiling. Each pace was a step into the unknown. Would there be a sharp drop? Did the tunnel lead to a dead end? Bile bit at her throat. She felt sick with dizziness. If only there were a light ahead, a crack in the wall, anything.

  Her breath caught as she heard her pursuer kicking boxes and crates. The assassin was in the storeroom. He would find the small door and then would have little difficulty catching up to her. As small as the Rabbit Run was, this particular assassin was not much taller than she was, and probably not as heavy.

  Why did I give Alacin my staff! I might have been able to beat this one. Maybe.

  Brea sat on her heels and opened her mind to the Voice. Reaching out, she found only rats and spiders. They wouldn’t hurt the assassin, but they might slow him down. She reached as far as she could, and directed the animals—all of them—towards her pursuer.

  She continued along the dark passage.

  It wasn’t long before she heard the assassin entering the tunnels. The small door slammed. A moment later, she heard him cursing in a strange tongue. The rats had found him, or maybe the spiders.

  She ran forward as best she could, one hand in front while the other used the wall as a guide. Her pace quickened when the assassin’s footsteps grew louder. He was ten paces behind… if that. Her hand found a ladder, and she began to climb.

  The ladder appeared to be endless. She had probably climbed to the third floor when her head hit a trap door. It was locked. Frantically, she banged on the hardwood. The assassin’s heavy breaths were closing in. She shouldered the trap door repeatedly until the latch gave. Pulling herself up, she managed to clear the tunnel just as the assassin’s hand reached the top rung.

  Brea found herself in a long corridor. She grabbed one of the iron lantern stands that decorated the walls and slammed the base down on the assassin’s fingers. He yelped and let go. Spinning the stand around, she kicked down the trap door and jammed the thin end of the stand into the latch. It wouldn’t hold for long; she had to find help.

  The corridor was empty—apart from the two dead guards at the far end. Brea ran in the other direction. Her footsteps seemed to ring particularly loudly, there were no tapestries in the corridor, and the sound echoed off the hard walls. There were, however, a lot of ornaments set in the recesses between the high pillars. She was in the royal residence.

  Pausing a moment, she tried to remember where the Princess’s rooms were, but there were no purple flags hanging anywhere that she could see. The smaller corridors all looked the same, each ran at right angles off the main passageway and not a one gave any indication of where they might lead. She chose the first and turned left towards where a half-dozen lamps had been lit. Surely someone was down there, else why would they light all those lamps?

  She heard voices coming from one of the rooms up ahead. Without knocking, she pushed open the door and ran in. A hand grabbed her arm. She felt a blade pointing at her neck.

  “Stop!” a voice shouted. “I know her, she’s—”

  “Brea! I thought I told you to go to the kitchens!”

  Brea squinted into the darkened room. A man was giving Alacin a stern look. It was Master Roan, the herbalist.

  Another voice spoke from behind Alacin. “If you’re coming in, then come in. Shut the door!”

  Brea tilted her head and looked at the man who had spoken. He was lying on a bed. For a moment, she thought it might be Gialyn—the man in the bed was of similar height and build—but this man was older, with reddish hair, and wore a velvet night coat.

  Brea dipped into a curtsy. “My pardon, Your Majesty, but I was being chased.”

  “And brought the assassins to us, I don’t doubt,” Master Roan said.

  The King hushed the old man. “I have no doubt the assassins know precisely where I am, Master Roan. Let the girl in, and bar that bloody door before we have any more unwanted intruders.”

  “Where are the guards?” Brea asked.

  There were three women in the room. One was Olivia. Another man stood behind Master Roan, and Alacin made up the last. There should have been guards all over.

  “Dead,” the man behind Master Roan said. “But they took those two with them.” He pointed down at a pair of corpses that had been unceremoniously pushed into a corner. “The rest of the guards are fighting the Black Hand. Or at least they were. We have had no word of their endeavours for over half an hour.”

  “They were still fighting when we passed them ten minutes ago,” Brea said, glancing at Alacin to confirm her account. He nodded and Brea continued. “There’s another assassin trapped in the Rabbit Run, I hope. How many are they?”

  Master Roan shrugged. “I doubt anyone but Vila’slae knows that, child. We must assume there’s more. Come away from the door. Go sit with the others.” He pointed at the women sitting nervously in the corner.

  Well, two of them looked nervous, Olivia looked… excited. Strange girl.

  “Someone will have to go out there and fetch the guards,” one of the women said. “We can’t be expected to sit here without protection. You, Master Hoyt, go and see if there’s anyone in the lower corridor.”

  Master Hoyt turned pale. “But… I – I’m a scholar. What if I—”

  “Ca
lm yourself, Hoyt,” the King said. “The guards will come as soon as they realise what has happened. There’s no need for you to go.”

  Master Hoyt smiled and gave the King a deep bow.

  The woman tsked, folded her arms, and made a point of staring at the wall. She must be one of Olivia’s sisters, Brea had heard they were… haughty.

  “The least we can do is block the door,” Alacin said. “Hoyt, help me move this dresser.”

  Alacin and Hoyt began to drag the heavy dresser from under one of the room’s huge arched windows. They hadn’t moved it two paces before Brea heard a scratching at the door. Alacin dropped his half of the dresser and ran across the room, thrusting his shoulder against the door.

  “Back in the corner,” he ordered Brea. “Blades out,” he said to the two men. “Scholars or not, you can bloody fight.”

  The two older men pulled daggers from their belts and stood nervously behind Alacin. Master Roan eyed the silver tray on the dresser. He grabbed it, and stuffed the round tray under his tunic.

  Alacin chuckled. “Very clever, Master Roan.”

  Hoyt looked disappoint that there wasn’t another tray in the room.

  Brea took her place beside Master Roan.

  “I told you to get back,” Alacin grunted. “Go sit with the others.”

  “And what good will that do?” she said. “If they get in, we’re all dead.”

  She heard a whimper from one of the two women as she picked up the staff which Alacin had left leaning against the wall—her staff.

  Alacin gave her an indignant look, sighed, and shook his head. “At least hold the thing ready,” he said, nodding at her staff.

  Brea held the staff across her chest and gripped the shaft tightly. She could feel her heart beating against her ribs and had to swallow away the dryness in her throat. The two older men looked as nervous as she felt. Twisting the staff in her hand, she hoped she remembered at least some of what Jorgan and Colm had taught her.

  The door creaked. Alacin bounced back when something heavy hit it from the other side. The assassins were probably using the iron lamp stands to bash down the door, Brea thought. A crack appeared at the top, and then another. It wouldn’t hold much longer. Hoyt took a step back. Master Roan grabbed his elbow and pulled him back in line. Alacin was looking up at the top of the door, his shoulder still bracing it. He shot a concerned look back at Master Roan that made Hoyt dance from one foot to the other. Brea couldn’t blame him; she wanted to run, too. But there was nowhere to go.