The goon readied his fist for another blow, but the Undersheriff raised a hand and pulled him up short. “Hold. Let him spend a little time with one of his conspirators to see if that will loosen up his tongue.”
The lanky undersheriff and his thug left the cell. While his blurry eyes couldn’t be sure, the light from the small grate on the wall indicated that morning had long since come. He hardly cared. He had failed in his mission, though he held out hope that the Creetisian army from the north would finish the work for him. They had no love of nobles or monarchs, and they were under orders to spare none of them alive.
Melchor squirmed in the firm, wooden chair, testing the strength of the bonds around his raw ankles and wrists. Pain lanced up his limbs as the rough ropes scratched burning grooves into his skin. The goon might not be able to throw much of a punch, but he tied a good knot. Exhausted, Melchor slumped, letting his head hang and his cramped muscles relax. With an envenomed leg twice its normal size and a stomach that would immediately eject any substance put into it, his chances of escape were slim. How long would they keep him alive? Would they even give him a trial?
He doubted it. With war afoot, they would likely order a very public execution and be done with it. Melchor knew his only hope was that Creetisian forces would seize control of Bellshire and free him. How long that would take, he could only guess. Still, members of the Fist did not talk when tortured, and the undersheriff of Bellshire might find a Creetisian operative of more use drowned in the river than silent in a cell.
The door creaked open. Two of the sheriff’s men entered and hoisted his chair off the ground, carrying him out. They were far burlier than the bony-fisted goon. Why hadn’t Undersheriff Higgins turned them loose on a Creetisian spy? Maybe that was coming next.
But that wasn’t the plan at all. The undersheriff’s men took him down the dark dungeon hallway to a separate cell, setting him down inside. A corpse slumped in the corner where a weak shaft of sunlight could illuminate its bloated features. Undersheriff Higgins was already inside.
“Here’s your good friend, Baron Longford,” the undersheriff said, trying to be snide. He wasn’t good at it. “Enjoy his company for a while. He won’t be going anywhere. Not only is he dead, but only Baron Carver can carry him around. Strange. You know anything about that?”
Only Baron Carver could carry the corpse? More Bittermarchian superstition. As for Baron Carver—Melchor wanted to tie that man up in a dark cell for an hour or two. Then the goon could watch and see how a real interrogation was done.
The retinue left, clanging the door shut. Melchor grinned, caked blood cracking and flaking from his lips as he did. Such infantile tactics. Did they really think that a member of the Fist could be broken using the ‘look at the corpse of a co-conspirator’ technique? He had probably seen more corpses than all the sheriff’s men combined. The undersheriff was clearly an amateur.
Melchor squinted at his new cellmate to get a better look. His eyes simply would not focus properly. But this could not be Baron Longford. He was far too big. Or maybe his blurry eyes simply inflated the size of the corpse in the corner. The Baron’s face didn’t seem quite right either, but it was too unclear to make a determination. Curse the Queen’s Arrow Asp. He hadn’t quite figured out how she had managed that little piece of trickery.
Resigned, Melchor closed his eyes. There was nothing to do but wait for the booming of cannon shot and the staccato of gunfire to signal that his fellow Creetisians had arrived. How he longed for that sound. Perhaps in the thick of battle the undersheriff would forget about him. Maybe the effects of the Arrow Asp’s poison would fade more quickly than he thought they would and return his body to working order.
He exhaled, bruised muscles and ribs aching with each in an out of his breath. He thought he heard a trickle of water from somewhere. How he could use a drink! Even if his stomach just launched it back out, it would at least get the taste of blood out of his mouth. While bile was certainly no great improvement over blood, the variety would do him good.
The pain in his leg lessened, bringing relief. It was as if he had planted the swollen appendage into a cold mountain stream. A tingling, cleansing sensation crept up his body, soothing his hurt and unclenching his stomach. His eyes flicked open. What was happening? He blinked. His vision no longer swam or blurred. It was the Baron Longford opposite him, his pale, lifeless face angled toward the light. Melchor would have sworn the corpse bigger just moments ago. A clean stretch of floor between him and the Baron caught his attention. The dirty straw had been washed aside, a channel of water seeming to flow from the Baron toward his foot.
His bodily pains continued to fade, but an uncomfortable pinching sensation briefly stung his chest and his palms, jolting him upright. Then he began to swell. At first it felt unpleasant, like there was too much water and too little skin to contain it. But the feeling was replaced by one of power, of unconquerable strength. The ropes at his ankles and wrists snapped. The form fitting servant’s garb he had donned as a disguise ripped asunder, no longer able to contain his bulging body.
Hands now free, he stretched, bringing them around so he could see why his palms had stung before. There, on his palms, was inscribed a wavy line. The same line ran across the center of his bare chest. He stood, dumbstruck. It was impossible! The Primal Forces were a lie!
A rat skittered out from under a mound of moldy hay, sniffing the air as if sensing some kind of change.
Crush it.
Melchor turned his head about, wondering where the command had come from. It almost sounded like his own voice. No one was with him save the dead Baron. There was a soldier outside the door, he was sure, but the order to crush the rat seemed to come from inside him.
Crush it, and I will show you a way out of this prison.
It was inside his head, but it wasn’t him. Was it madness? Poison? The Primal Water? Did the elements speak? Would they help him? He shook his head to clear it. Maybe the Arrow Asp’s poison had finally addled his brain and sent him into the arms of insanity. Still, he was free and he no longer hurt.
Do it now!
The rat sniffed about the Baron’s corpse. With a quick step and a downward stamp, Melchor crushed the vermin, the crack of its snapping bones barely audible beneath his massive foot.
Good. Now do not cry out. There is one last ritual.
A host of rats, ten at least, flooded out of a small grate in the wall. Melchor watched transfixed as they scurried over and surrounded his now bare feet. Then all at once they dove in and chewed at his ankles. More than any beating he had taken before, the awful chewing of the rats on his flesh prompted him to cry out. But he stifled it, and in a moment it was done, the rats retreating back through the grate. He lifted his legs, expecting to find blood and ripped flesh, but instead a grouping of odd runes surrounded his ankles.
Now hurry. There is more that must be done. Your victory is still within reach.
Melchor realized that the dead Baron’s clothes were unusually big for the corpse they covered. Melchor stripped them off of his body. Crazy or not, he would get away from this prison if he could, and if some strange voice in his head wanted to lend aid to his cause, he would take it.
Chapter 47
Davon slung his rifle over his shoulder and cinched closed his leather ammunition bag. There was little time to lose. He stood inside the office of the late Lord Ember—now his office—and tried to collect his thoughts. The country suffered. What paltry army they had left in Bellshire scrambled to man defenses on the north of the city, but it was inside the heart of the of the city where terror threatened to carry the day.
“You should stay,” Arianne begged him, rubbing his arm. “They will read the Queen’s will in a few hours. Then you can best decide how to act. The people need Lord Ember now.”
Davon smiled at her. Ki, Ta, and Mr. Goodwin all looked on, standing by the window in the spacious room. Elaine napped on a couch by a massive bookshelf.
“No, Arianne
,” Davon said, running a finger down her worried face. “Lord Ember or no, the people still see me as Baron Carver, the man who faked his own death to escape his wife. They will not follow me until they can forget that.”
“They may have to follow you anyway,” Mr. Goodwin said, leaving the window to join him. To Davon, the old man seemed more spry and strong than he had just that morning. “From what I’ve heard from Arianne, the Queen was very fond of you. It may be that you are to be the next King of Bittermarch. She did not know you would become Lord Ember before she made the will. The law states that if the same man or woman is both Lord Ember and the monarch—”
“Yes, I know,” Davon cut him off, not wanting to hear what came next. If the Queen appointed him as monarch while he was Lord Ember, the Houses of Light and Lords would be dissolved, their political power nullified, and Bittermarch would be ruled with absolute power by the one so chosen. “I doubt the Queen would have chosen me,” Davon continued. “She knew my precarious reputation among the nobles. But what we need to concern ourselves with now is protection and information. I can scout with twice the speed of horses and men. I will return quickly.”
Mr. Goodwin shrugged. “I can hardly see how a few hours would make a difference. The Creetisian army will come whether you go scampering about or not.” The old rascal walked over and smiled fondly at Elaine, removing his coat and draping it over her sleeping form. “She is such a lovely, innocent creature,” he said.
Davon shook his head. Was this the same man that threatened Justus Paige with a paring knife and who had a sharp word for everyone? And Davon hadn’t seen Mr. Goodwin drink a lick of rum in two hours’ time.
“Please,” Davon said, “my mind is settled. I must do this, and quickly. In a moment, I will ask for some privacy, but first I ask this of the three of you. Ki, Ta, Mr. Goodwin, please do not leave Arianne’s side until I return. If I do not return, and if Bellshire is in peril, please take her and her sister through the wilderness to Jun’Kal and hide them.”
“As you wish, Khodo Khim,” Ki said, Mr. Goodwin nodding in affirmation.
“Thank you. Now, if I could have a private word with Arianne, please.”
Mr. Goodwin smirked. “I somehow doubt there will be many words involved.”
“I should hope not,” Ta said as she and Ki retrieved their spears from the corner. “There has been far too much talking already.”
Arianne blushed, and the three of them left. Elaine stirred as the door closed, but returned to her slumber.
“I really hate being parted from you,” Arianne said, taking Davon’s hands.
Davon smiled at her. “It won’t be for long. Please stay away from trouble. Ki and Ta will draw some unwanted comments, but they are warriors. If you can manage it, scrape up a guard to be with you at all times. And avoid the walls and high places. And don’t sit by windows. If the—”
“No more, Davon,” she said, stepping forward. “I understand.”
He wrapped her up, drinking her in one last time. He kissed her and she him, lost in the sweet closeness until Davon’s anxious heart prodded him to move. Tears slid down her cheeks and he kissed her forehead.
“I love you,” he said. “I will return before you know it.”
Arianne smoothed her blue silk dress as she sat in the House of Lords waiting for the will to be read. The bath and fresh attire did wonders, though the bottoms of her feet still felt like someone had beat them with a spiked stick. As Davon had ordered, Ki and Ta followed her everywhere like two sabercats watching after a lost cub. The white haired women flanked her on the bench, frowning at the press of bodies and surging noise of nervous voices.
The guard had confiscated their quartz tipped spears at the door after several minutes of argument about admitting them at all. Only after Mr. Goodwin used some colorful language to inform them that Lord Ember had ordered the twins to stay with the Lady Hightower did they relent. While Davon had rightly worried that the Aua’Catan might draw ‘unwanted comments,’ the stark contrast between two women of the wild and the powdered and primped ladies of the nobility hardly drew comments at all—everyone was speechless. The jaws of ladies and lords alike dropped as if pulled down by an anvil.
“How I long to put my head in a lake,” Ta grumbled. “This is insufferable. Could you not hold your council out-of-doors?”
Arianne could understand. The combination of the afternoon heat and the press of bodies turned the House of Lords into a furnace.
“Just wait till they start talking,” Mr. Goodwin quipped. He sat next to Elaine on a bench just behind them. “Then the whole place fills up with hot air.”
Ki turned, face puzzled. “Explain this.”
“Never mind, barbarian girl,” Mr. Goodwin said. Elaine giggled.
Arianne shook her head. Mr. Goodwin did appear in an odd good humor. She would almost swear he had lost a few wrinkles and recovered some black hair from the gray. He seemed protective of Elaine, which worried Arianne. What connection did he have to her? Still, the girl seemed to appreciate his company.
A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Arianne’s face and she removed a paper fan from her sleeve and worked the air toward her face. While it provided little relief, it gave her something to do. Who had Filippa chosen? Davon? Thinking back on her conversations with her old friend, she knew that Filippa had loved the man and wished him to lead. But Davon was right; the people were not ready to accept him yet. With the former Lord Ember dead and Duke Longford in disgrace, there were no obvious favorites left. The Westgate Jail was filling up with most of the notable northern candidates, so someone from the south made sense.
At last, Baron Oliver Dibet, the House Speaker, entered from a side door followed by Mr. Redd holding the sealed envelope containing the will. Lord Dibet was a Baron from the south, his spirited wife also a favorite with Filippa. The assembly instantly went silent.
“At last,” Ki said under her breath. “They must finish this before we all die.”
The Baron stood at the stained walnut podium, raising a gavel and pounding out three strikes.
“Why did he do that?” Ki asked quietly.
“A call to order,” Arianne whispered back.
“But everyone’s already listening.”
Arianne shrugged as Ki whispered something to Ta, who grinned from ear to ear. Perhaps they found Lord Dibet’s outrageous mustache a cause for humor. The monstrous thing nearly reached to his ears on either side.
The Baron Dibet straightened, placing his hands on the edges of the podium. “Lords and Ladies of Bittermarch, we come together to read the will of Her Excellency, the late Queen Filippa, ruler of the realm and Flametouched. As a practical woman, she would not wish us to belabor these proceedings while war rages at our doorstep and traitors fill our jails. So I shall be brief.”
“See,” Ta commented to Ki, “they can be reasonable.”
Clapping broke out and someone yelled, “Out with it!” The Baron banged the gavel again and silence fell.
“The Queen’s will was placed in the care of her personal attorney, Mr. Redd. It was signed by the late Queen and witnessed by the notaries eighteen days ago.”
Murmuring ran through crowd, and Arianne’s mind spun. It was Davon, then. For what other reason would she have changed the will so recently? Or perhaps she suspected even then who the traitors were and was forced to change it.
Again the gavel fell. “I now give way to Mr. Redd for the reading of the will.”
The silence was so complete that Arianne could hear the rasp of the paper as Mr. Redd broke the wax seal and removed the document from its envelope. The old attorney’s hands trembled slightly as he unfolded the single page and placed it before him on the podium. He cleared his throat and affixed his spectacles.
“To all my subjects in Bittermarch, I, Queen Filippa, appointed monarch of Bittermarch by my late husband, King Ostris, do mandate that upon my death the burden of leadership of this fair nation shall fall to Lady Arianne Hale,
Widow of Lord Cornton and Viscountess of Hightower.”
Arianne couldn’t breathe. Mr. Goodwin was chuckling behind her, Elaine’s gasp loud enough to conquer all the others in the room. Ki and Ta threw her a strange look, and every head in the room swiveled so that searching, surprised eyes could find her. In those eyes she found warmth and coldness, jealousy and curiosity. In some of those glares waited disgust and even treachery. Blood drained from her face and she blinked, trying to get her mind to accept what she had just heard.
Ki leaned in and whispered, “I think the duty of protection Davon laid upon me has just become more difficult.”
Mr. Redd pounded the gavel over and over, beating down the tumult and yelling, “There is more!” Silence achieved, he turned his gaze back to the parchment. “Lady Hightower shall hold this office until such time as she chooses to marry, and if and when that blessed event occurs, her husband shall assume the title of King until his death.
“This is my will and cannot be contested. The terms are effective immediately, and all will render obedience and honor to Queen Arianne from this moment forth or be considered traitors to the Kingdom of Bittermarch. She will be presented to the Eternal Flame within three days’ time.”
The tumult in the room rose to a fever pitch, a swirling rumble of delight and outrage and shock. Arianne stared forward, waiting for someone to wake her up. Queen until she married? Husband to assume the throne?
Mr. Redd retired from the pulpit, Baron Dibet taking his place. “Queen Arianne of Bittermarch, please rise and approach the podium to take the oath.”
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