The healer looked around, then said, “Iolas does not feel safe here any longer. As the last of the Triad, he is returning to Quellassar to name two new members of the sacred trinity. It is an obligation he has been putting off for weeks.”
“And the attack gave him reason,” Ceredon muttered.
“Indeed,” said Biden.
“When does he leave? Has he decided?”
“Three days.” The healer cocked his head, staring closely at Ceredon’s face. “My prince, do you wish for my help in returning to your room? You have grown pale.”
Ceredon shook his head. “I am sure my friend Boris can manage. You must have things to do.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am.”
“Very well,” Biden said. “I must check on your father. But I will be back to look in on you as well. Try to remain in your bed from now on. I will send two guards to keep watch over you until morning.”
Ceredon nodded to the healer, who then ambled away, heading for the main entrance to the palace. He shook his head, feeling his insides tense. Iolas could not be allowed to perish by any hand other than his, but he could not be allowed to return to Quellassar either. Ceredon would need to take care of him in the next two days…which, given his condition, would be a near impossible task.
“What was that about?” Boris asked.
Ceredon looked at the young soldier and shook his head. “You weren’t the only one delivering bad news this night,” he said, leaving it at that.
“Oh. I see. What will you do about this ‘bad news’?”
“Honestly, my new friend? I have not a clue.”
Two days later, Ceredon set his plan in motion. Lord and Lady Thyne had visited him briefly, and before they left, Orden had dropped a scrap of paper into Ceredon’s hand. Scrawled on it were five words:
Two days—light a fire.
Ceredon hoped he was strong enough to pull it off and that he understood what it meant. Luckily, Biden had come to him with a new concoction of wickroot, ground coffee, and ground poplar seeds to help ease his agony. The potion was strong, and the pain wracking his body subsided less than an hour after the bitter fluid had slipped down his gullet. In fact, it was as if his flesh had been made numb. Even the ache of his mending bones was reduced to a dull throb. That, combined with the jug of strong brandy he had requested earlier in the day, made him feel better than he had in ages.
He waited for the song of the whippoorwills to begin, the irksome whooping that signaled the witching hour, before slipping out of bed, a box of tindersticks clenched between his teeth. Dragging the jug of brandy behind him, he crawled across the floor. Once he reached the window, he rose up on his knees, ripped a piece of cloth from his nightshirt, and stuffed it inside the mouth of the bottle. When it was firmly in place, he struck one of the tindersticks against the flint, setting it alight. He held the flame to the cloth, and it caught quickly. It took a few moments for the fire to gain force, and then he threw the jug from the open window as hard as he could. He watched it soar through the air, unseen by the Ekreissar who paced below, until it struck the ground. The jug shattered, the fire igniting the brandy inside. Spigots of flame shot in all directions, and the guards began to shout. Then came the whoosh of arrow and the battle cry of the insurgents. Steel clashed and rangers bellowed out orders. Ceredon ducked from the window before any could see him, then crawled to the door.
He rose unsteadily and opened it.
The guards turned to him quizzically. “Prince Ceredon?” one said.
“Do you not hear that?”
The walls of the palace were thick and almost soundproof.
“No,” one of the guards said.
“The insurgency is attacking! Your brothers need you.”
“Huh?”
Ceredon hobbled to the side, opening the door wider. “Go, see for yourself,” he said.
The two guards rushed into the room and peered out the window, from which emanated a red glow and the unmistakable sounds of conflict. They turned to him and nodded, then rushed into the hall.
“The rebels are attacking!” they shouted to the other guards. A dozen booted feet thudded against the crystal floor as the Ekreissar raced down the stairwell and disappeared from view. Only one remained behind in Ceredon’s room.
“Should you not join them?” he asked.
“My duty is to watch over you, my prince,” the ranger replied. “You are injured. Should any insurgent climb the walls, you would be an easy target.”
The guard turned toward the door, readying his khandar. Ceredon had expected this turn of events, though he was surprised that only one of them had stayed.
With the guard’s back to him, Ceredon stealthily grabbed his walking rod and raised it above his head. He took a few hobbling steps forward and, just as the ranger began to swivel in his direction, brought it down as hard as he could. The wood thumped against the side of the guard’s head, and Ceredon heard a snap as the fragile bones of the elf’s temple broke. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he collapsed backward, thudding on the crystal floor.
Ceredon stood over the felled ranger, giving him another two violent whacks to make sure he stayed dead. The elf’s face was a bloodied mess when Ceredon painfully bent over and slipped the dagger from his belt. When the body was found, it would be plainly obvious what had happened, but Ceredon did nothing to cover his tracks. He no longer cared to hide his involvement, even though he knew what that might mean for him. Killing Iolas was all that mattered.
He took a deep breath and tucked the weapon into the rope around his waist, before hopping on one foot into the hallway and then dropping to his hands and knees. Luck seemed to be smiling down on him. Not only had Iolas moved to the seventh floor of the palace from the sixth—“to consolidate our protection,” he had said—but every other part of his cobbled together plan had come together perfectly. He just hoped the rebels could hold on for a little while longer.
The door to Iolas’s chambers swung open, and Ceredon flopped to the side in a panic. He groaned and held his side, hoping that the old elf hadn’t seen him crawling down the hall. Iolas was beside him a moment later, holding up his head with hands twisted from the weight of nearly five hundred years on Dezrel.
“Ceredon, my prince, what are you doing out of bed?” he asked. Ceredon glanced up at him, saw the way his eyes were flicking from one corner of the hall to the other. “What is that noise outside? Where are the guards?” Iolas asked, panic creeping into his voice. “There were supposed to be guards!”
“Insurgents…attacking…” Ceredon said, feigning injury. “Fires spreading…outside.”
Iolas’s face went even whiter than it normally was.
“Come, young prince,” he said, grabbing tight to Ceredon’s nightshirt and pulling him along the crystal floor. “Come into my room, and we will be safe there together.”
One of us will be, Ceredon thought.
Iolas might be old, but his strength was impressive. In no time at all, he had dragged Ceredon the thirty feet or so into his quarters and slammed the door shut. After barring it from the inside, he bolted for the opposite side of the room, cracking open the blinds to peer down at the courtyard. From his position on the floor, Ceredon could hear the guards still running and shouting below them and the clang of steel, but the sounds were less urgent than before. He didn’t have much time, though he allowed himself a moment to pray that Tantric hadn’t lost too many men.
“It seems quiet out there now,” said Iolas. He glanced at Ceredon and offered a nervous smile. “Perhaps the rebels have moved on.”
“Perhaps.”
Grinding his teeth, Ceredon dug his knuckles into the hard floor and pushed himself upright. This time pain did come, and he grunted against it. Iolas turned to him as Ceredon forced his body to stand.
“Stay on the ground,” the older elf said. “You will be safer that way.”
Iolas turned his back, and Ceredon sat up, pulling the dagger from within h
is breeches. The blade reflected the light bouncing off the emerald walls, which he had not expected. Iolas caught sight of the glimmer and spun around.
“My prince, what are you doing?”
Ceredon staggered to his feet, stalking the old elf with the dagger.
“I am correcting a wrong,” he said, huffing. “Correcting a great many wrongs, as a matter of fact.”
Iolas moved away from him, his back to the wall. He hopped up on the bed, then jumped down on the other side, and Ceredon mimicked his movements, like a desert cat playing with its prey.
“Stop this, Ceredon!” Iolas said, panic in his voice. “If you kill me, you are done for. Everyone will know.”
“I don’t care,” Ceredon snapped back. “I tire of games, I tire of the quest for power, I tire of the gods and their useless pissing match. What I do now, I do for revenge. Conall, Aeson, and now you. You say death to traitors, Iolas? I agree completely.”
The elder elf’s mouth went slack. “My cousins…”
“Yes,” Ceredon said, and then lunged with the dagger, forcing Iolas to scamper over the bed once more.
“But why?” Iolas pleaded. “We are your people…your family!”
“Family?” Ceredon barked, unable to suppress a laugh. “My family would not murder children. My family would not enslave an entire race. No, you’re no family of mine.”
He lunged again, and Iolas ran from the bed. Ceredon noticed him eyeing the door, and he silently hoped the old elf would try for it. If he did, his struggles with the bar would give Ceredon time to fall upon him. As things were, this was taking far too long.
“This has been your plan…all along…,” Iolas said, backing toward the opposite side of the room.
Ceredon lurched after him, not saying a word.
“The delegation from Stonewood escaping…skirmishes with the rebels…the constant traps and ambushes. Those were you, as well?”
Ceredon dug his broken foot into the floor, pushing himself onward, getting ever closer.
“Answer me, Ceredon,” Iolas said. He had reached the far wall and was trapped beside the closet door. “I deserve that much.”
“Yes,” Ceredon growled. “All me.”
He lunged, dagger leading, its killing edge aimed for Iolas’s throat. Iolas screamed and threw his hands up to block the blow. The blade sank into his forearm, causing him to shriek all the louder. Blood spurted when Ceredon ripped the dagger free, splashing against his cheeks, dripping off his chin.
“Now, damn you!” Iolas bellowed in the common tongue. “He has confessed! Do it now!”
Before Ceredon could react, the closet door burst open, striking his left arm as it swung violently outward. New rivers of agony flooded him, and he collapsed to the floor, howling. He lost his grip on the dagger, which skittered across the floor. From the closet emerged three armored humans bearing the sigil of Karak who descended on him, showering him with fists, thrusting the back of his head against the crystal floor again and again. The whole while, Iolas shrieked.
Then came a loud cracking sound, and the room was bathed in light.
“Stop!” a familiar, terrible voice shouted. Those who had beaten him backed away, allowing him to rise on his elbows. Blood dripped from his lips, and his entire body was awash with torment.
“You hit…like human girls,” the newcomer spat.
Black boots entered his vision, the right foot tapping. Ceredon could hold himself up no longer. He collapsed onto his side and craned his neck to see the face of Clovis Crestwell staring down at him. The human’s features appeared larger than normal, and his eyes glowed a brilliant crimson. It looked as if something alive were squirming beneath his scalp. Ceredon began to laugh at the absurdity of it, clutching at his newly cracked ribs with each painful guffaw.
“Please…a healer…help me…,” he heard Iolas whine.
Clovis’s twin voice spoke again, only this time the gruffer layer, the one that sounded much less than human, took precedence.
“Get the sniveling fool out of here. And you had best silence yourself before I decide you look too tempting not to have a taste, old elf.”
Ceredon stopped his laughing and watched as two soldiers dragged Iolas from the room. The wicked gash in his arm left a trail of blood on the floor behind him, and Clovis ogled it like a starving man eyeing a roasting chicken. The red-eyed human then returned his attention to Ceredon. He smiled, revealing a mouth that was too wide, filled with too many teeth.
“You know not whom you deal with,” the man said, only to call him a man would be sacrilege. His cheeks shifted, his ears bulged, and his forehead retreated. His every feature was in a constant state of flux, and his voice now seemed to hold no human qualities whatsoever. Ceredon squeezed his eyes shut, certain the potion he had taken was giving him illusions.
“You will learn,” that bestial voice spoke into his ear. “I will keep you alive, and you will watch them suffer for what you’ve done.”
A sharp blow landed in the center of Ceredon’s face, bringing stars to his vision. A moment later, his world went black.
CHAPTER
40
Thousands of women packed the streets of Rat Harbor. They formed a stinking horde on either side of the road as they craned their necks to watch the armor-clad soldiers march past.
Matthew waited for the soldiers in front of the same theater where he’d met with the Conningtons months before. The location was symbolic as well as strategic; if they were to accuse him of treason, which was his fear, it seemed appropriate for it to happen in front of the very place where that treason had been hatched, while keeping Karak’s representatives off-guard by meeting in a place of filth rather than the relative luxury of his estate.
Catherine squeezed his hand, and he passed her a worried glance.
“All will be fine,” she said, winking.
“How can you be so confident?” he asked.
“Because you are powerful and strong, and a worthy leader for this city.”
“Ha! A city of women and children. What a bounty.”
She smiled. “Remember who you’re speaking to, darling. And chin up. Here they come.”
Matthew turned toward the approaching soldiers, and the three billowing red cloaks who led the charge. He took a deep breath and shook his head to ease his nerves. An elbow jabbed into his left shoulder.
“Stop fidgeting,” Bren said. “You look too damn nervous. Might as well hang a sign above your head that says, ‘I done bad things.’”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one set to lose his head if this goes wrong.”
“Shush, both of you,” said Catherine.
I don’t know you at all, thought Matthew, a thought that had rarely left his mind since Catherine’s confession. Though she had returned to being the demure and doting wife he had always known, he could now see the layer of strength hidden just beneath her frilly garments and rouge-painted cheeks. He wondered if that strength had been there all along, and he had simply been blind to it.
The cloaked figures drew closer, and now Matthew could see their faces clearly. They were the same ones who had arrived months before to secure use of his river barges, their red robes bearing the roaring lion of Karak. They walked with their heads down and their hands clasped. The soldiers followed behind dutifully, more than two hundred of them. Matthew’s grip on his wife’s hand tightened. He peered at his remaining eighty-six sellswords, who formed a line on either side of the street in front of the gathered women, then at those standing beside him, which included his maids Penetta and Lori, and finally back to the soldiers. Moira was nowhere to be found, and his men were outnumbered more than two to one. If talks went sour, they were in trouble.
The three acolytes stopped before him, as did the soldiers, leaving ample room between them and their holy leaders. The middle acolyte lowered his hood and lifted his eyes, while his two compatriots kept theirs downcast. The one in charge was no older than sixteen, though he carried himself
with poise far beyond his years.
“Master Brennan,” the acolyte said with a slight bow. “May Karak bless you on this fine day.”
Matthew nodded in return. “Yes, Noel, you are well met,” he said, hoping he remembered the name correctly.
“It is Noyle,” the acolyte said, his frown deepening. “Though I must ask you why we have gathered here in the slums rather than at your home. If I were a distrustful man, I would think you were attempting to hide something from us.”
You are no man, thought Matthew, but his lips recited the words Catherine had told him to say.
“We have nothing to hide. Holding our business here is symbolic. We are all beggars in the shadow of Karak, and I wished to demonstrate that humility to his most trusted servants.”
He bent his knee then, as did Catherine and Bren.
“Stand up, Master Brennan,” Noyle said. “Your respect is noted.”
Matthew stood once more, his knees popping in the process. Noyle stared at him, his doubt obvious in the rise of his eyebrows and the twitch of his youthful nose. In the silence that followed, it seemed the murmuring of the crowd of women climbed tenfold.
Noyle blinked first.
“You received our letter,” he said. “Have you brought all we requested with you?”
“We have,” Matthew replied. “I present to you the last eighty-six of my men, those who have guarded my estate diligently. They are yours to do with as you wish.”
“Good.” Noyle turned to address the two lines of sellswords. “You have been given a great honor, chosen to serve in the army of our Divinity and protect the ideals of the almighty Karak.”
The sellswords grumbled and shook their heads.
Noyle looked back at Matthew. “These men are to be sent up the Rigon, to join the force that has gathered in the elven city of Dezerea.”
“How will they get there?” he asked. “You conscripted our barges during your last visit.”
“At this moment, one of your barges awaits at the mouth of the Rigon. Our own representatives will escort them on their way. Now, onto the matter of our other requests…”
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