The Duke paled. “We believed our actions in the best interests of Bittermarch! We felt you had taken too much control, Your Highness! You disbanded our ducal militias in favor of a national force directly under your control. You sided with the House of Light on almost every issue. Our way of life was threatened!”
“Names!” the Queen demanded.
“No,” Duke Longford said, straightening in his chair.
Davon strode over and hauled the Duke up to his feet by the lapels of his coat. “By the Flame, Duke Longford, I care not for you or your treasonous friends, but speak to me now and tell me that Arianne Hightower knew nothing of this scheme.”
The Duke swallowed hard. “She knew nothing.”
With a push, Davon dropped him on his chair.
The Queen closed her eyes in relief for a moment before affixing them on the Duke again. “At least tell me this: are the names Justus Paige reported in open court accurate?”
“Yes,” the Duke said, face defeated. “They are.”
“And what of the extinguishing of the Eternal Flame?” the Queen pressed. “What do you know about that?”
“I swear on my life that I knew nothing of it. I had no idea of my brother ever being the servant of Primal Water.”
Queen Filippa exhaled and the strength with which rage had imbued her fled, her face turning weary and wan. “Well, I guess we can all be grateful that the weapons you so stupidly let fall into the hands of our enemies won’t work at the moment, though if the Eternal Flame isn’t restored, who wins or loses this war won’t matter in the least. Winter will kill us all. Undersheriff Higgins!”
The Lord High Sheriff’s second in command waited by the door and strode into the dimly lit drawing room, casting a glance at the sheet under which rested the body of his former leader. Higgins was lanky and tall, more intellectual in character than the man he once worked for.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Find a deep hole and stick Duke Longford in it. Don’t throw away the key, but I wouldn’t mind if you lost it for a while. You will have a lot of work to do in the coming days rounding up some important people.”
“And don’t forget,” Davon added, “to have the courts clear Lady Hightower’s name first thing tomorrow.”
“As you wish,” the Undersheriff said with a bow. “Duke Longford, come with me, please.”
“I am sorry, Your Grace,” the Duke said, shoulders hunched. “This was my scheme, my error in judgment. Be lenient with those that I persuaded to join in this folly.”
“Be gone!” the Queen growled.
The room fell silent as the once proud Duke Longford left in disgrace and under guard.
Davon shook his head and rubbed his burning ribs. “With your permission I will reconnoiter north of Bellshire tomorrow, my Queen. I can do it faster than your scouts.”
The Queen nodded. “Take your rest tonight, Davon. Have you sustained some wound?”
“I am well enough to travel,” he said, though his ribs didn’t fully agree.
“I think not,” she replied. “Have the doctor look at it before you go. If you aren’t fit, then I will send others.” Her eyes searched the darkness around her, the blue moss providing poor light. “Now where did that walking stick get off to?”
“I will assist you,” Davon said. “You should take your rest. The morning light will bring better fortunes, I hope.”
She grunted and Davon pulled her from the couch, careful of her left arm, which hung in a sling. She shuffled awkwardly, seeming so frail, eyes dull and tired.
“Just get your bearings for a moment, Your Grace,” he admonished. “You’ve had quite a shock to body and soul. If my ribs didn’t ache so badly, I would carry you.”
She smiled. “King Ostris used to enjoy carting me around. He would always try to catch me unawares and pick me up. He was a hearty man, even more than you. But you are like him in many ways, Davon. The good ways.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. That is high praise indeed.”
They stepped out into the pitch black of the hall, two soldiers falling in behind them as they picked their way toward the Queen’s chambers with only the blue light to guide them. As they neared the door, the Queen faltered and Davon scooped her up. His ribs protested and he sucked air through is teeth. She was lighter than he anticipated, however, and the burden proved little inconvenience once he had her settled.
The Queen’s tired eyes fought to stay open. “You love Arianne, don’t you?” she said, voice woozy and distant.
“I do,” he said.
She smiled. “Good. Good. Just as it should be. She will need you a great deal in the coming days. Help her, Davon. Marry her soon. Promise an old woman that you will do it.”
“I will.”
She exhaled, and the tension drained from her, her face falling into peaceful repose. A soldier opened the door to her room and Davon took her inside.
Davon said, “I will send for your Lady’s Maid to prepare you for bed.”
“No,” she said. “Just put me in bed and cover me up.”
Davon placed her slight frame on the mattress, wrangling the blankets until they buried the old monarch in warmth. He retrieved the glowing moss from her hand and placed it on the table next to her.
“Thank you, Ostris,” she said, eyes shut and face slack. “He is good, just like you.”
Davon smiled. Dreaming of her husband.
“Don’t wake me for breakfast, dear,” she continued, voice weak and distant. “I want to sleep in.”
Chapter 46
“Davon, wake up.”
It was Arianne’s voice, and were it not for the light of a morning sun he could sense behind his eyelids, he would have figured himself stuck in a dream. If Arianne were in it, it was likely a good one. He had been so bone-weary after the toils of the last two days that he had fallen into his bed inside the palace without so much as removing his boots.
A hand took his. “Davon, wake up, my love. We need you.”
We? He forced his uncooperative eyes to open, squinting. The curtains of his window had been pushed aside, sunlight bathing everything in a warm hue. He blinked to clear his vision and squeezed the hand in his. Arianne. She sat on his bed, flanked by Ki on her right and Ta to her left. Elaine stood behind, face troubled and threatening to burst into tears.
He inhaled to clear his lungs, broken ribs punishing him for the effort, though they didn’t seem as painful as they had been the day before. With effort he pushed himself to a sitting position, fending off the sleep that still drugged his thoughts. By the slant of the sun, it was well past mid-morning. He needed to be off to scout northward.
“Really, Brown Man,” Ki said during the silence, “you should not sleep so deeply in times of trouble. The door squealed like a wounded boar when we entered and you didn’t so much as twitch. I could have skewered you in your sleep.”
Davon put his other hand over Arianne’s and looked her over. Her dirty face and unkempt hair told the tale of a long, late march. And someone had cut off the very bottom of her dress. The twin sisters fared better, though he knew their conditioning gave them greater resilience.
“It seems the three of you need to trade me places on the bed.” Davon craned his neck around to get a better look at Elaine. “And how are you, Miss Brighton?”
“Awful, Baron Carver,” she said, lip quivering. “My parents have been arrested. The Queen is dead, and Arianne tells me that I shall have to call you brother instead of husband.”
Davon stood slowly, heart pounding. “The Queen is dead?”
“Yes,” Arianne said, tears welling in her eyes. “They found her this morning. She passed in her sleep.”
He could hardly believe it. “This is awful! What a dreadful time to lose her!”
Lord Ember dead. Queen Filippa dead. Powerful nobles arrested on charges of treason. A massive army bearing down on them from the north. He paced the room oblivious to everyone for several moments, his mind trying to grind out
a useful way to deal with the crisis. But a sob pulled him from his ruminations. Arianne. The Queen was her dear friend.
He returned and sat by her, pulling her to him while she mourned. Elaine dissolved into tears, and Davon raised an arm, inviting her to him and embracing her as well. He found his own cheeks wet, and several minutes passed under the cloak of sadness. Ki and Ta looked on gravely.
“We must tell him,” Ki finally prompted.
Arianne pulled away and wiped her eyes. “There is something you need to see at the Flame Cathedral, Davon. It is extraordinary. It has to do with your carvings.”
Davon looked at her neck and wrist. Her carvings were missing. He turned to Ki and Ta. “And your birds?”
“Gone,” Ta answered.
“And my sabercats,” Elaine blubbered.
Davon rubbed his neck. “Where did they go?”
Arianne rose and took his arm, wincing as she stood. “It would be easier to show you.”
“Are you well?” Davon asked her.
“My feet are bruised and blistered beyond recognition. I’m afraid the shoes in which I chose to face death are not very good for walking to Bellshire in the middle of the night. Ki has already applied a salve, but it will take time. I would ask you to change into a sabercat so I could ride you if I didn’t think it would scare the mob.”
Davon pulled open the door, the sunlight in the building a welcome relief from the oppressive darkness of the night before. “A mob?”
“Yes,” she answered, “both come to mourn the Queen as well as gather round the Flame Cathedral.”
They left the palace proper, the gathered crowds thronging the palace and the Flame Cathedral. The crowd reminded Davon of something he had forgotten. “Arianne! Your name has been cleared.”
She smiled. “Yes, I know. I spoke with the undersheriff when we arrived early this morning. It is the only good news he had for us.”
“Has the Queen’s will been read?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she replied, fiddling with her hair. “It will be presented in the House of Lords this afternoon. I think they’re still trying to determine how many nobles they will arrest. If the Queen has chosen someone who was one of the conspirators, the succession will come to a vote. Since most of the nobles implicated in the traitorous scheme are from the north, it is quite possible our new monarch will be from the south.”
They pushed through the noisy throng, making their way up the steps to the Flame Cathedral. The crowd here was thicker still, and the guard had to push and shove to keep curious people from the building proper. Ki and Ta elicited a lot of wide-eyed looks from the men and women alike, though the two sisters just smirked at the attention. The door to the inside of the Cathedral was open, and members of the House of Light spoke to one another inside, eyes alight with wonder. Mr. Goodwin leaned against the door, beckoning to Davon and his party. Davon presented his palms to the guard, and they let him and his companions pass.
Davon smiled and shook Mr. Goodwin’s hand. “How are you, Mr. Goodwin?”
“I’m not dead, so not as good as I would like. Good morning, Lady Hightower and barbarian one and two.” Mr. Goodwin’s drawn face looked like it had spent the night camped at death’s door, though a lively white rose stuck through his lapel to mock exhaustion of his frame. His face brightened quizzically when his eyes fell on Elaine. “And who is this little ray of sunshine?”
“This is my sister,” Arianne explained. “Miss Elaine Brighton.”
“Forgive me for staring,” he said. “You remind me of someone, Miss. Do you like flowers?”
“Yes, of course,” Elaine answered meekly.
Mr. Goodwin pulled a flower from his lapel and handed it to her. “Then do me the honor of caring for this one. It certainly will be more at home with you than me.”
“Thank you,” Elaine said, taking the rose.
Such a tender act from such an irascible man took Davon aback for a moment. While Elaine seemed a little embarrassed, Mr. Goodwin’s countenance brightened, the slack lines on his weary face disappearing as if he had just rested for several hours.
Mr. Goodwin coughed. “Well, drag yourself in here, Baron Carver. This is all your fault, I’m sure. We’ve found all the members of the House of Light that we could, though no one knows what to make of this.”
All the Flametouched men and women that could be gathered had assembled in the chamber where Joris Pulsipher’s now flameless cooking pot sat on the stone platform. But the pot was not empty. Piled high within it were his carvings all jumbled about in a heap.
Davon released Arianne and walked forward tentatively while the gathered Flametouched hushed into silence. He stooped down before the pot, thoughts mired in amazement. They were all there. Queen Filippa’s Arrow Asp staff. The sabercats. The candles. The finches. Mr. Goodwin’s flower. Arianne’s jewelry. Everything he had carved and gifted. Everything but one.
“How did they get here?” Davon asked.
“They came of their own accord,” Arianne explained, stepping forward. “They practically pulled their owners here, and if the owners wouldn’t come, they dragged themselves. Are they all here?”
“All but one,” Davon answered. “I carved something for the late Lord Ember—”
A gasp of astonishment cut him off as the crowd parted. Walking toward the platform was the likeness of Lord Ember that he had carved and gifted to him what seemed an age ago. It was barely eight inches tall, but it strode forward fluidly without haste as the Flametouched looked on.
“You carved these?” a dark-haired woman from the crowd asked Davon.
“I did. It was my gift.”
“And what is their purpose?” she pressed.
“I thought they were merely gifts,” he answered, standing. “I cannot be sure of what this means at present.”
In utter silence they waited as the stately figurine of Lord Ember completed its long walk toward the pot burgeoning with carvings. Davon stepped back, taking Arianne’s waist and pulling her next to him. A warmth was filling him, an anticipation of something good just as powerful as his dread had been the night before. His heart beat with the vigor of youth, a flood of joy washing away all the worry and darkness that had overcome him that morning.
The figurine arrived at the pot and jumped, catching the rim and pulling itself up. It ascended to the top of the pile, standing on the back of one of the sabercats. Slowly, it raised its arms and Davon felt the warmth within him rise to the level of burning. Arianne glanced at him and then pulled away, hand on her mouth.
The figurine burst into flame, astonishing everyone. The carvings beneath the tiny Lord Ember took up the fire, the conflagration in the pot rising in the air until it was as tall as Davon.
A fiery tendril shot out like a whip, hitting Davon squarely in the chest, burning through his coat and shirt. The force knocked him down, but there was no pain, only joy. One by one the memories of gifting each carving flashed through his mind along with the emotion of the one who received it. The chamber faded for a moment as peace and contentment suffused him to the point of bursting. It was as if every pain was purged, every mistake a forgotten memory.
“Davon?”
Arianne again. He opened his eyes. She knelt by him, holding his hand. The strength of the joyous feeling faded, but the cleansing of the fire remained with him. He came to his feet and took stock of himself. His ribs had healed. He felt rested. He felt at peace.
Arianne stared at him in wonderment. “Are you well, Davon?”
He took her hand. “Never better.”
“You were glowing for a moment,” she said. “Come see.”
She led him forward to the pot where the Eternal Flame again burned cheerily in its humble home. They joined the crowd reverently watching its tongues of flame flick about in the morning light, grateful for the return of what they thought forever lost.
Arianne released his hand and began fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. Davon felt the red rise in his cheeks.<
br />
“I am unharmed, Arianne,” he assured her.
“I know.”
She pulled away the shirt. There, on top of the three sabercat scars was seared the mark of the Eternal Flame.
Arianne spun him around. “This man is no longer Baron Carver, but Lord Ember, chosen by the Eternal Flame. If you are Flametouched, kneel before him.”
And they did. Davon felt sick.
One of the undersheriff’s goons belted Melchor in the face. The Creetisian spy grimaced at the blow. The recently killed Lord High Sheriff had possessed a more powerful swing, he was sure. The goon’s bonier fist hardly carried enough weight, though after an hour of pounding and threats, Melchor thought his body might have simply become accustomed to the pain. Creetis routinely used more sophisticated torture techniques. What the Bittermarchians offered could hardly call itself more than a back-alley beating behind a tavern.
His vision still blurred and swam. The snake’s venom, even an incomplete dose, had nearly crippled him. His stomach felt like someone was inside him mashing it with a booted foot. That hardly mattered now that it was empty, though the dry retching still hurt his throat and head when his stomach demanded more convulsions. The small stone room where they violently questioned him smelled of his vomit, vomit that the rotted hay on the floor did little to absorb. His leg had swollen into a puffy black and blue wreck. It throbbed, feeling like the fluid inside it might explode out of the skin at any moment. He would be thankful if it did.
“Was the Creetisian Ambassador in on this scheme of yours?” the undersheriff—Higgins, was it?—asked for the sixteenth time. Melchor was counting. It helped him endure the pain.
The policy of the Creetisian Fists was never to answer any question under duress, so as he had for the last hour that morning, he simply grinned until the goon punched him again. This blow compressed his midsection. The dull pain actually helped mask the spasming discomfort of his stomach, for which he mentally thanked his bloody-knuckled tormentor.
“Did you know Baron Longford? Did you work with him?” the undersheriff demanded. Melchor believed this only the eighth time this particular question had come around. His swollen tongue tried to lick the caked blood off of his lips, but his dripping nose kept supplying more. At least the blood kept his mouth moist. His spit had long since failed him. Even if he wanted to spill all his secrets, he wasn’t entirely convinced his throat could produce more than raspy grunts.
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