Rodrigo fumbled with the horn at his belt, shock slowing his reflexes. He finally wrenched the instrument free and flung it to his lips.
*
Serephina looked up as the horn’s call reverberated through the castle. The light meal she’d just consumed turned immediately to lead in her stomach. All around the private dining room, heads jerked up and turned, eyes narrowing on the far doors. Hands slowly lowered utensils and goblets. Conversations halted mid-sentence, their topics forgotten.
At the head of the table, Duke Alvar slowly pushed back his chair and stood.
The doors were flung open, the wide space dominated by Mufahti. The barbarian wore a savage grin, dark eyes steady on the duke. “They come,” he said.
Chairs screeched against the stone floor as the occupants of the table stood. Serephina held a fluttering hand to her stomach and met the gaze of Lady Fiannan, who smiled and gave an encouraging nod. As the duke, Arturo, Ignacio, and Diego strode with purpose from the room, Serephina paused, anxiety rippling through her, shortening her breath.
“I will stand with you,” Isidora offered quietly.
Serephina swallowed. She tried her tongue, which was painfully dry, and finally worked her voice free. She meant to thank her for the offer, but said instead, “I’m so sorry, my lady.”
The stunning blue eyes darkened a little. Isidora walked around the table and when she was close enough, reached to capture Serephina’s hand. “I know,” she murmured, squeezing her fingers gently. “There is no one else.”
Until that moment, Serephina had not been fully aware of her own expectation of Isidora’s loathing. She had been prepared to bear it, had rationalized it in her mind so that it did not matter what the lady thought or felt, only that she gained what she needed. Now that it was compassion being offered her, she realized that she did care, more than she’d thought possible.
Perhaps it was that there existed a quality to Isidora that reminded Serephina of her father, a wholly illogical sense that nevertheless made her long for a friendship, for a closeness she’d never known with another woman. Overwhelmed by sudden feeling, she felt a strange, prickling sensation in her eyes.
She realized, with surprise, that she wanted to cry.
The doors opened again, revealing Arturo, but whatever he might have said was halted by the looks on the women’s faces. He stepped inside the room and bowed. “My ladies, I apologize for the interruption.”
Serephina glanced at Isidora, drawing strength from the urging in her eyes. “Arturo,” she said haltingly. “I beg a word with you.” His dark eyes moved between their faces before coming to rest on hers. He said nothing, only walked forward and touched one knee to the ground. His gaze lifted, stalling on Isidora, who smiled softly.
He looked at Serephina and said, “I am yours to command, my queen.”
Serephina’s fingers tightened compulsively around Isidora’s. “I would have you lead my army, Bellamont.”
He bowed his head, shoulders falling briefly before squaring again. For several moments he was silent, so still it appeared he did not breathe. Finally, he murmured, “As you wish.”
She released the breath she’d been holding, feeling slightly dizzy as the worst of her anxiety lifted away. “Rise, then.”
Arturo stood and offered his arm. The warmth of Isidora’s fingers faded as the lady stepped back. Serephina could not bring herself to turn, for fear of glimpsing sorrow or worse on her face.
Instead she spoke to Arturo, “I wish for the Lady Fiannan to accompany us.”
His eyes snapped to hers, and for the briefest instant, it seemed they glowed. Then he blinked, and it was just the firelight reflecting in his irises.
Taking a steadying breath, Serephina spoke aloud that which had been germinating in her heart and mind for weeks, “We go to war for more than my crown, Bellamont, for more than securing House Caville’s royal line. We fight to make right the grave injustices suffered by this country under rule of the High Cleric,” she took another breath, “and my father, the king. We answer as well to the grievances of the lost race of Alesians. We fight for Lady Fiannan, your wife, and all those who bear ties to the Isle of Dusk.” She smiled ironically. “I think it fitting that she stands beside me, the two of us together, sovereigns without thrones.”
Arturo’s expression was rigid, though the look in his eyes was raw. “Do you truly mean that?” he asked.
Serephina nodded, feeling again the damnable prickling in her eyes. “Yes, Bellamont, I believe I do.”
His grin was sudden and bright. “Then who am I to question my queen’s wishes?” he asked, then slanted a glance at Isidora. “Either of my queens, I should say.”
Isidora made a noise between a groan and laughter. Serephina felt a laugh bubble to her throat and work its way free. “Shall we, then?” she asked, turning to gesture Isidora forward.
She came, smiling, to clasp Arturo’s free arm. He bent his head, murmured softly, “Did you hear her, my love?” and Serephina saw the modest nod of her head.
Arturo escorted them from the room, his gait steady and unhesitating down an empty hallway where torches flickered brightly. They crossed the large, austere antechamber, hung from ceiling to floor with ancient tapestries, each depicting slightly different renditions of an identical theme. Colored artfully in Damáskenos’ standard threads of green and gray, the scenes dated back to the fortress’ founding, and detailed engagements of war. The significance of the tapestries was not lost on them, teasing their vision as torchlight danced across their surfaces.
Neither was the tone of the room lost on Diego or Ignacio, whose expressions were grim as they waited before the massive, iron-bracketed doors. At Serephina’s curt nod, the men pulled the doors open and stepped into the night. Arturo didn’t linger on the threshold, but immediately drew them forward onto the first of the wide steps.
The first thing Serephina noticed was that although the wide, cobbled yard was thick with people, it was strangely silent. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, and when they did she saw that near the drawbridge, Mufahti and his men stood in a loose circle around a group of six figures. Five were veiled-ones, while the one standing just before them wore a concealing hood.
These were not the first of the infamous tribe of assassins Serephina had seen in her lifetime. In her youth, Armando had procured several tutors from the bloodline to teach her the rudiments of their trade. They, however, had not worn veils. As she grew older, she’d come to understand that they had been spies, likely discovered by Armando and delivered an ultimatum. Once the lessons were finished, she’d never heard or seen them again.
Those who wore the ritual veils had exotic whorls of dark ink outside their eyes, radiating across the temples. It was hard to tell sex beneath the voluminous black robes. The longer she studied them, however, the more she was able to discern small, telling distinctions. Three were nearly the same height and weight, but two were shorter, and one among the last had narrow shoulders, thicker eyelashes.
Arturo’s lips didn’t move as he whispered, “Four men, one woman.”
Serephina nodded. “All my training did not go to complete waste,” she breathed.
He made a small noise. “Then you must know, your majesty, that their silence is deference. They wait for you to present yourself.”
Lifting her chin a fraction at the deserved rebuke, Serephina took the one step necessary to draw forth the future into the present, and proclaim herself a queen among men.
And as she took that step, all in the courtyard witnessed a strange convergence of light, which blazed from the golden circlet on her brow. Some believed it a purely natural effect caused by the torches mounted nearby, while many others felt deeply it was a benediction from the Gods. No matter the difference in opinion, in those moments thousands of silent prayers drifted up from Damáskenos and into the night s
ky.
Rodrigo Vasquez, standing with his son among the refugees of Vallejo, saw the flash and thought of his wife’s wedding ring by candlelight. Some distance away, Duke Alvar closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of Armando de la Caville, and hoping that somewhere, somehow, he was watching. Mufahti and his six brothers touched their fingertips to their chests in a simultaneous gesture of which only they knew the meaning, while the five veiled-ones sighed with one breath.
Standing anonymously in the crowd, Hadrian Visconte sighed as well, and for the first time since his father’s maiming felt his faith shed the chains of the Church and awaken. He uplifted his face to the God’s light, reflecting off millions of stars, and offered again his life and soul into service of Anshar. The ache of his heart eased at once.
Isidora Fiannan, standing behind Serephina, did not see the full effect of the circlet’s glow. She felt it instead as a wave of heat, then coolness, radiated down her body. Beneath the collar of her gown, the amulet of the Gods was a shivering current against her skin. The sudden tension in her arm made Arturo look at her, and in her eyes he saw endless landscapes of stars, spinning and falling through midnight blue.
He touched her face and her eyes were her own again, full of wonder. “Shenlith says They are listening,” she whispered, and he knew she spoke of the Gods.
The knowledge, strangely, did not upset him, for though she spoke plainly of an ancient dragon burrowed beneath the land and sibling creatures of divinity, he felt only the rightness of her words.
There were only two, among the many thousands of souls gathered in and around Damáskenos, who were in the exact position, looking in the exact place, to witness the heavenly face of the Goddess.
The Nameless and the Child of Time stood on a narrow, snowy ledge high in the Kilcaran range. They had been following the progress of the veiled-ones into the valley below when both had been seized by the same need. Turning about sharply, their heads jerked up, gazes locked on the same space of dark sky, far east over Dunak.
It lasted no more than a heartbeat, and clouds obscured much of the sight, but for one instant, they felt upon their faces the light of the moon. Neither spoke; what they felt in that moment—as the Goddess looked upon them—was too terrible to voice.
Pandion began to keen softly. The Nameless felt an unfamiliar stirring of the need to comfort and be comforted. She took his slight body against hers, holding him until he quieted.
*
Ezekiel ibn Dukari was one of those to witness the flare of light on Serephina’s brow and think that torchlight had played a fanciful, if significant trick. Though not an overly zealous man, he was still prince of Dunak, and he offered silent thanks to the Gods that They should so clearly mark the trueness of his path.
When several moments had passed, he took a cautious step forward, eyeing the ebony skinned warriors around him. The largest man turned dark eyes his way, though Ezekiel could read no message in them. Beyond the barbarian stood the Duke of Damáskenos, who nodded acceptance of his passage.
Each step Ezekiel took across the silent courtyard seemed prolonged, all the days and nights of walking compacted so that his lungs ached, his muscles screamed as he approached the young queen.
Young she was, with not a line on her fair face, whose fragile beauty was framed by errant strands of thick hair. Her eyes were dark and luminous as she watched him, seeking his features beneath the hood of his cloak.
Just when he knew he could not walk another step, the queen took half a step forward, bringing her to the lowest tier before the cobbled ground. He sunk to his knees, too tired to react as the impact jarred him, and threw back his hood. She was a queen, and he a prince, and so he kept his head bowed, listening to the beat of his heart as he awaited her words.
“You have traveled a great distance,” she said at last, voice clear and deceptively light. “Why have you come?”
Ezekiel was so surprised by her question that he looked up, and in doing so, was overcome by the sudden knowing that he would gladly stay on his knees for all time, staring up at her face. So diminished was his control that he did not know what expression he wore, but he saw its effect as the queen inhaled sharply.
He bowed his head, fought to regain his mind. “I am here to offer you an army,” he said, hearing his voice sound shallow in his ears.
Slippered feet moved into his line of vision as she descended the last step. “I did not ask what you have brought,” she said darkly, “I asked why.”
Dear Anshar guide my tongue, he prayed. “I do not know,” he said aloud, and his proclamation rippled outward, stirring murmurs through the crowd.
Serephina looked up sharply and the voices fell silent. As she turned her attention back to the man kneeling before her, not a few in the courtyard likened the power in that one glance to memories of Armando’s stare.
“You have not come to conquer Tanalon, to add our wealth and trade to your desert?” she pressed mercilessly.
It was far easier, he decided, to speak the simple truth than summon pretty words. He was much too tired for diplomacy. “Certainly not.”
Serephina made a noise of blatant disbelief. “You’ve brought the finest tribe of assassins at your back to help me gain my stolen throne?” Her voice was rising in volume with each word, though the tone of it was still coolly controlled. “You wish me to believe that you will not turn against me in my time of greatest need, rear up and take what is mine?”
Ezekiel was now feeling the cold press of stone against his knees. His back and shoulders were afire from maintaining his obeisance. No longer caring for protocol, he lifted his head and eyes to her lovely, stern face.
“I want nothing from you, your majesty, except a hot meal and a bed.”
The entire courtyard held its breath as Serephina blinked in shock. Ezekiel had barely begun a litany of private curses when she laughed. The sound, so abrupt and unfeigned, rippled through his senses so that he did not immediately see her outstretched hand. Her fingers twitched at him.
“Rise, Ezekiel ibn Dukari, eldest prince of Dunak,” she said, smiling down at him, dark eyes glistening with mirth. “On behalf of House Caville, I welcome you to Tanalon.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
As it happened, the first of Ezekiel’s needs to be met in Tanalon had nothing to do with his rash request for food and sleep. Moments after the queen’s laughing welcome, the short, portly duke and two of his barbarian guards ushered him and the veiled-ones into the castle.
In the bustle of movement, Ezekiel had looked back, once, to see a tall, darkly handsome man take Serephina’s arm. Then the massive doors were yanked closed, and the duke was striding beside him, plying him with an endless catalogue of questions as they walked through wide, elegant hallways.
Ezekiel managed to give replies, though he would later question their coherence. He was solidly grateful for the soundless wall of veiled-ones at his back, for in his present fatigue he imagined he would walk readily into a jail cell, unknowing until a lock turned behind him. Luckily, the duke seemed bent on gaiety, exclaiming at one point that his stables smelled fresher than his newest guests.
At this, Ezekiel managed only a bemused nod. He wondered if such directness was a characteristic of Tanalon’s nobility; in Dunak, such a statement could lead to a blood feud. Certainly he would never allow any of his brothers to go unpunished after voicing such a crude comparison between his person and horse manure.
The duke must have sensed somewhat of his thoughts, for he grinned, saying, “I am a crass old man, your highness, and in no way a model of Tanalon’s hospitality.”
Ezekiel had no reply, though he thought he could sense relief from the veiled-ones, and, though he might have imagined it, a snort of humor from one of the barbarian guardsmen.
At long last, the duke led them up a short flight of stairs, at the top of which was a brief hallway ending in large
double doors. A smooth-faced man awaited them, of indeterminate middle years and lean, lanky build, which he bent low before the duke. He straightened, blinked indifferently at Ezekiel and his companions, and finally offered another bow, though not as low as before.
“Here we are!” proclaimed the duke. He stepped forward to clap the impervious servant on the shoulder; the man swayed a little though his features remained pleasantly blank. “This is Gerard, my chief chamberlain. Anything you might require, he will be only too happy to accommodate. Isn’t that right, good man?”
Gerard gave another slight bow. “Yes, my lord,” he said, and his voice was like the rest of him, calmly detached.
“Good, good,” the duke nodded, then faced Ezekiel. He gazed down the length of him, from his disheveled and knotted hair to the mud-caked hem of his cloak. “First order of business is a bath for you and your companions. When you are finished, ring for Gerard and he will escort you to the feast we’ve prepared for your welcoming.”
The duke’s eyes then narrowed, and Ezekiel had his first glimpse of the shrewd intelligence of the man. The sharp gaze flickered toward the veiled-ones and back. “Your army will camp beyond the moat tonight. I would have us speak candidly, and in the presence of the queen and her advisors, before welcoming them into Damáskenos’ halls.”
Ezekiel bent his torso, then straightened, doing his best to hide his consternation. A feast, followed by a council with the queen, was hardly a soft bed. He only hoped his frayed concentration wouldn’t cause another embarrassment this evening.
“As you wish,” he told the duke. He glanced a question at the veiled-one nearest him, he who was the former Master of Knives. The man nodded. Ezekiel returned his attention to the duke. “It is done.”
The duke smiled. “Enjoy your bath, your highness,” he said, and strode back down the stairs. The two barbarians spun smartly and followed.
Gerard cleared his throat, “This way, please,” he said, and led them through the doors into an antechamber conjoining two more doors. The room was austere, though the floor was swept clean and the bench set against the opposite wall was cushioned for comfort.
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