Noll, Skathi, Zaharis, and Colborn raced alongside the Legion Captain. Beside them, Endyn, Duvain, Corporal Rold, and the rest of the survivors of Saerheim.
Captain Lingram ground to a halt in front of one of the Ebonguards, a tall man with a thick black moustache and a trimmed goatee. “Captain Snarl and his Grim Reavers are the Prince’s handpicked warriors.” Steel rang in his voice as he gestured to the silver pendant bearing the Prince’s mark. “If you doubt the evidence of your eyes, go speak to the Prince.”
Aravon nearly rounded on the Legionnaire Captain—they had no time to waste letting these Ebonguards verify his bona fides with the Prince, not with Lord Eidan ready to strike. Even these few seconds of delay could give the traitorous nobleman a chance to turn on Prince Toran. To order his mercenaries to slaughter Aravon’s family and every other civilian around them.
But if he charged now, the Ebonguard would see him as a threat to the Prince, and he’d have a fight on his hands. In his current state, exhausted and struggling just to remain on his feet after that mad dash, Aravon wouldn’t put the odds in his favor.
“Please,” he said. “The Prince’s life is in danger. I have to warn him.”
A moment’s hesitation as Captain Seech locked eyes with Captain Lingram, then he nodded. “Open it,” he barked to his Ebonguards.
Aravon broke into a run before the door was halfway open, darting between the Ebonguards and into the grand chamber beyond.
Nowhere else in the world—on Einan, Fehl, or even the fabled halls of Aegeos—could rival the beauty of the Royal Ballroom. The circular chamber stood at the heart of the Palace, built around the gleaming, glassy eight-sided Icespire. A soft blue glow emanated from that massive gemstone tower thrusting up from the ground, rising two hundred feet into the air. Light streamed through the domed crystal ceiling and flooded every inch of that round room with the cerulean brilliance.
A strange power crackled in the air of the Royal Ballroom. Veins of blue light seemed to thread the stone beneath Aravon’s feet, setting the ground humming. It was said on the brightest of days, those lights pulsed and twinkled like the stars high above. Now, at night, the threads had grown dim, but the brilliance streaming from the Icespire itself glowed as bright as the moon on a cloudless night.
Aravon raced along the circumference of the room, circling the Icespire. Though it stood two hundred feet tall, the Serenii-built monument was a mere fifty feet wide—an architectural impossibility for even the most experienced builders on Fehl and Einan, proof of the Serenii’s mastery of their magical crafts. The Royal Ballroom spanned fully three hundred feet in diameter, space enough for massive crowds to marvel at the Serenii’s masterpiece up close.
At that moment, the people crammed into the grand chamber appeared far more fearful and anxious than awestruck. The hundreds of bodyservants, scribes, cooks, maids, and Royal Librarians flinched and cried out as Aravon and his companions burst into the vast room. They scattered like hens before a runaway carriage, clinging to the walls and each other for safety. Given the turmoil flooding the city—indeed, the enemy that had just been defeated just beyond the Palace’s doors—they had every right to be afraid.
But Aravon had no time to assuage their fears. He had to get to the Prince, had to warn him of—
His blood ran cold as he caught sight of the Royal Family. Princess Ranisia and the Prince’s three children, two daughters and a young son, stood surrounded by men clad in patchwork chain-and-plate mail and dark grey cloaks. Twenty mercenaries of Eventide, hands resting on their swords, faces set in stern masks as they surrounded the Prince’s wife and children.
No! Horror twisted a dagger in Aravon’s gut. He saw no sign of the Prince—had Lord Eidan already ordered his execution, or lured him elsewhere in the Palace, away from his protectors, to put a dagger in his back? With the Ebonguards defending the Palace from the Eirdkilrs, Lord Eidan’s hired mercenaries were the only armed warriors in the Royal Ballroom.
Then he caught sight of Prince Toran. The Prince stood by the grand chamber’s southern door, locked in quiet conversation with a pair of Ebonguards. He, too, wore lamellar armor to match his Ebonguards’, the black Odarian steel plates gilded with gold and silver thread swirling in ornate patterns across the chest and shoulders. At his side hung a longsword of the sort used by Legion cavalry.
Aravon’s eyes scanned the figures around the Prince. No sign of Lord Eidan, not even among the Eventide mercenaries.
Time slowed to a crawl as confusion whirled in Aravon’s mind. The traitorous noble’s absence bewildered him. Why would Lord Eidan go to such great lengths to bring mercenaries into the Palace but not strike down the Prince at this crucial moment? Or simply do it himself, with the Prince virtually undefended?
Only one explanation made sense: Lord Eidan had no intention of killing the Prince himself. He had proven he was the sort to operate in the shadows, to pull strings and manipulate events in the Princelands while letting others do the dirty work. His man in Rivergate had murdered Turath, the Duke’s agent. Otton the mercenary had been hired to poison the Duke. Even Emard and the mercenaries of Eventide had been left at General Traighan’s house in case he returned—under the pretext of watching for some unnamed threat.
So little of the treachery could be traced back to Lord Eidan. Lord Aleron Virinus was dead, his mansion burned to the ground—and with it, any evidence of his connection to Lord Eidan and the Shalandrans. The dead Otton couldn’t reveal who had hired him. Though countless deaths darkened the spymaster’s soul, his hands appeared spotless.
Only the letter Aravon had found in Lord Aleron Virinus’ study—now sitting in his pouch—and the testimony of the unconscious yet still alive Emard could even hint at a tenuous connection to his duplicity. Even that was flimsy proof; Lord Eidan could explain away his and Lord Virinus’ relationship with Lord Morshan as “the Princelands’ business”, and pretend genuine concern for Aravon’s family.
The spymaster had played it clever. All Lord Eidan’s actions had ensured that others took the blame for the treachery and murders. Sending the Eirdkilrs to burn down the Virinus mansion while they captured the Princelander miners. Smuggling in Eirdkilrs to lower the Deepshackle rather than using his own people. Even the story he’d told the Eventide mercenaries about a vague threat to General Traighan’s family could be explained away. With the Northbridge down and the Ebonguards cut off from any hope of reinforcements from Azure Island, there should have been nothing to stop the Eirdkilrs from reaching the Palace. He had no need to ensure the Prince’s death personally—he could slip away in the turmoil and blame it all on the Eirdkilrs.
But why? The question rang in Aravon’s thoughts. What does he stand to gain?
Few in the Princelands knew the House of Eidan even existed, and he wielded no power, at least none that the nobility ever saw. He operated in the shadows, a network of spies and intelligence-gatherers that operated throughout not only the Princelands, but south of the Chain. He’d been the one to provide up-to-date information to the Duke during his visit to—
The Duke! Aravon’s breath froze in his lungs. The image of Duke Dyrund’s signet ring flashed through his thoughts. Otton the traitorous mercenary had stolen it from the Duke’s finger, hidden it in his pouch. To what end, Aravon hadn’t figured out until that moment.
His conversation with Noll in the Wrinkled Pig sprang to mind. “Eighty or ninety years ago, one of the Dukes—I think it was either Lightmoor or Westhaven—died, and it was believed he left no heirs behind. But then someone showed up with the ducal ring of office and a letter claiming that he was the illegitimate son the Duke never been able to acknowledge in life. And it was signed by the Duke himself!”
Of course! The pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Lord Eidan means to replace Duke Dyrund as ruler of Eastfall.
That signet ring and a letter from the Duke, doubtless forged with expert skill, would bestow the Duchy of Eastfall on Lord Eidan. With Duke Dyrund dead, the Prince s
lain in battle, and Icespire itself in ruins—perhaps even in Eirdkilr hands—he would be in command of the most powerful duchy on Fehl. And if Lord Eidan truly was working for Tyr Farbjodr, the Eirdkilrs would have free rein of the Princelands’ eastern coast.
The plan sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine. It shouldn’t have been possible—after all, what true son of the Princelands would turn on the Prince? The fact that Lord Eidan hadn’t used his Eventide mercenaries to bring down the Deepshackle or set them on Prince Toran proved that they were loyal Princelanders. Hired by a traitor, yet not foolish or insane enough to side with the Eirdkilrs or do anything that weakened the defense against the savage barbarians.
But if Lord Eidan had chosen the Eirdkilrs’ side, it meant he had a plan beyond unleashing them on Icespire. His absence meant he’d enacted whatever contingency would enable him to escape the destruction of the city.
Everything became crystal clear in that moment. Lord Eidan was hiding or fleeing. Aravon had to find the traitorous nobleman, had to ensure he stood trial for his crimes and gave answer to the Prince. The information he’d have on the Eirdkilrs’ plan for Fehl and the Princelands would prove invaluable in the war to come.
“My Prince!” Aravon’s shout rang through the Royal Ballroom, accompanied by the thundering of his booted feet on the glowing stone floor.
Prince Toran glanced over his shoulder, and surprise twisted his handsome face. “Captain Snarl?” His voice boomed with the confidence earned through years of command—both as an officer of the Legionnaire in his younger years, and nearly two decades as Prince. “What are you—”
“Lord Eidan!” Aravon’s voice came out hoarse, his throat raw from Asger Einnauga’s grip. But he ignored the pain. “Where is he?” His eyes never stopped moving, never stopped scanning the Royal Ballroom in search of Lord Eidan—and his family.
Surprise gave way to confusion on the Prince’s features. “Lord Eidan?” His brow furrowed. “What could you want with—”
“He is the traitor, My Prince!”
Prince Toran’s eyebrows shot up, disappeared beneath the rim of his helmet. “Impossible! House Eidan has served the Princelands for fifteen generations. Surely you are mistaken.”
“I wish I were, My Prince.” Aravon’s gaze darted around, and panic began to sink icy claws into his mind as he could find no sign of Mylena or his sons. “And I swear by the Swordsman that I will explain everything as soon as I can. But first, I need to find Lord Eidan and m—” He swallowed hard; he’d been about to say “my family”.
Understanding dawned in the Prince’s eyes. “Of course.” He gestured toward where the Eventide mercenaries stood guarding the Royal Family. “General Traighan’s daughter-in-law is…” He trailed off. “Odd, I could have sworn she was with Ranisia.” A dark frown twisted his lips. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her in a while, with all the chaos of…”
The Prince’s voice faded into the background, drowned out by the terrified thump, thump, thump of Aravon’s heart. His gaze went toward the Eventide mercenaries and the Royal Family, caught sight of familiar faces: Engen the majordomo, Tinasa and Averia the caretakers, Leemia the cook, Whillem the steward. All the servants that lived and worked on General Traighan’s estate, but no sign of Mylena, Rolyn, and Adilon.
A dagger of ice drove into Aravon’s gut and an iron fist squeezed at his heart. No! Lord Eidan had fled to escape the slaughter within the Palace, and taken Aravon’s family with them.
Fear pushed back the icy chill flooding his veins, and Aravon crossed the distance to his father’s servants in ten long steps.
“Where are they?!” he demanded. “The woman and her sons!”
The white-haired Engen seemed stunned by the masked figure shouting at him, and he recoiled, clutching at his bony chest in surprise. The other servants, too, were too shocked to give answer.
Aravon rounded on the nearest mercenary. “Where is your master?” he roared. “Tell me or I gut you where you stand!” He leveled his spear at the man.
The mercenary bristled, half-drawing his sword.
“Captain Snarl!” Prince Toran’s voice thundered through the Royal Ballroom.
Aravon tore his eyes from the mercenary, but his retort died unformed as he caught sight of the light blazing on the Prince’s face, the worry darkening the eyes of the four Grim Reavers that had pursued Aravon into the Palace.
Prince Toran turned to the Eventide mercenaries. “Answer at once! Where is Lord Eidan and General Traighan’s family?”
One of the mercenaries, a broad-shouldered, stocky woman with threads of grey in her dark brown hair, bowed to the Prince. “He spoke of sending a message for reinforcements to the Violet Fens and Oldcrest, Your Majesty.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Last I saw him a quarter-hour ago, headed upstairs to the roof.”
“And the General’s daughter-in-law?” Prince Toran demanded, shooting a sidelong glance at Aravon.
The woman exchanged a nervous glance with the mercenary at her side. “Nam and Moruss went with her. Lord Eidan said he wanted them to make sure she was safely out of the way in case the Eirdkilrs got into the Palace. I thought nothing of it at the time, but—”
Aravon didn’t wait to hear the rest. “Which way?” he demanded of the Prince. “Which way would he go to send a message?”
The Prince’s arm snapped up, and he thrust a finger toward the western side of the Royal Ballroom. “There! But C—”
Aravon broke into a mad dash, the sound of his pounding heart drowning out the Prince’s words. The glow of the Icespire had grown suddenly chilly, filling him with icy dread. Lord Eidan had his family. At that moment, nothing else mattered.
Across the Royal Ballroom he ran, bursting through the doors and out into the empty, lantern-lit corridors beyond. A staircase halfway down the nearest hall caught his eye, and he raced toward it, dashing up the stairs two and three at a time. He didn’t look back to see if his men followed—at that moment, nothing but Mylena and his sons mattered. He’d face an army of Eirdkilrs or traitorous noblemen alone if he could get them back.
The stairs seemed to go on forever, rising into the darkness, climbing toward the roof of the massive four-story Palace. His lungs ached, his muscles burned, and exhaustion blurred the edges of his vision, but he refused to slow even as fire slithered like molten lava through his legs. He couldn’t stop, not even to take a breath, until he found Lord Eidan and ensured his family was safe.
Dread set acid surging in his stomach as he reached the top of the stairs, found the trapdoor to the roof open. Stars glimmered high in the pre-dawn sky, and the Icespire bathed the Palace rooftop in a brilliant blue glow.
Aravon’s boots splashed through something thick and sticky. He paused only long enough to glance down at the pool of blood, the two mercenaries that lay with their arms snapped, skulls and chests crushed, swords still sheathed.
Then Aravon caught sight of the single structure built atop the roof: a wooden building thirty feet long and ten wide, with barred windows set into solidly built walls. A figure knelt in front of the structure’s barred door, fiddling with a lantern.
Fury blazed within Aravon’s chest. He’d recognize Lord Eidan’s slim build, prominent cheekbones, hooked nose, and ornate robes anywhere. Even as he raced the fifty feet separating the rooftop entrance from the kneeling nobleman, Lord Eidan’s long, slim fingers twisted the knob that opened the lantern’s shutters and raised the flame within the glass bulb.
Lord Eidan must have heard the sound of Aravon’s pounding boots, for he turned and held the lamp high. “Stop right there!” he snarled in his deep, booming voice, so at odds with his scholarly build and aquiline features. “One more step, and your family goes up in flames!”
Chapter One Hundred
Aravon skidded to a halt ten paces from the nobleman. The stink of lamp oil thickened the air around him, and the flickering golden lantern light shone on glistening trails of moisture splashed across the wooden wall.
Footsteps thundered on the roof behind him, and Lord Eidan’s gaze slid past Aravon toward the newcomers.
“Stop!” The nobleman’s shout echoed loud. Painted in the blue glow of the Icespire, the gold of the lantern, and the harsh red of the burning city, he appeared some monstrous specter of doom. Traitor, slayer, and murderer. “Stop where you are, or I swear I will drop this!”
“No!” Aravon threw his hands wide.
“Then order your men to stand down, Captain Snarl!” Lord Eidan sneered the name. “And before any of them thinks to shoot me, know that if I drop this lantern, the woman and children locked inside will die in flames long before you can reach them!”
Aravon tore his eyes from the nobleman, only for a heartbeat. Solid wooden walls and a heavy barred door met his eyes, but the faint sound of a crying child drifted out to him. Horror drove a dagger into his gut. “No!” he shouted again. He glanced over his shoulder, found Noll, Zaharis, Skathi, and Colborn had followed him. Even as his fingers formed the silent hand signal to hold position, his gaze darted back to Lord Eidan. “There is no need for anyone else to die, Lord Eidan. Not you, and not them!”
Fury twisted Lord Eidan’s slim features. “But don’t you see, Captain Snarl?” He spat the word like a curse. “You’re the reason they’re going to die!”
The words struck Aravon like a blow to the gut. “What? What are you—”
“You and your cursed Grim Reavers!” Lord Eidan jabbed a finger at Aravon. “You were all too damned stubborn to die when you were supposed to. Now, he’s not going to stop until the Princelands burn!”
“He?” Confusion twisted Aravon’s face. “Who is…?” He trailed off, as realization dawned. “Tyr Farbjodr.” The leader of the Eirdkilrs.
“I tried to stop him from killing everyone in the Princelands,” Lord Eidan shouted. “I tried to give him what he wanted, to use the ghoulstone to buy him off. But you and your damned men had to impede his plans time and again.” He shook his head, his expression growing grim. “Now there’s no stopping him, no dissuading him from his path. The best I can do now is give him what he wants and find a way to survive.”
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 82