by Kesia Lupo
‘Stand down, Justice. Call off your men,’ she demanded. But nobody moved. ‘Very well, if that’s how it has to be. Guards!’ Constance cried. A shout from the captain sent the men on the battlements hurrying down to the courtyard and gathering around her, their short green cloaks and peaked helmets casting strange shadows in the fiery dawn light. Their longswords were ugly, heavy weapons but unmistakeably sharp and businesslike against the soft curls of the mist. She remembered Xander’s words on the stoic loyalty of the city guard to those who wore the badge of the Protectorship. Clearly, even though she was revealed as a mage, the rule persisted. Thank the gods.
Winton straightened his spine and drew his own longsword, standing at Constance’s side. She felt a tug of pure relief and affection in her belly. ‘You owe me an explanation, Sister,’ he said under his breath. She nodded in response.
‘Lord Irvine?’ she said, with as much confidence as she could muster. Please, please, trust me, she thought.
After a short, agonising delay, the Swordmaster drew his slender twin blades, and so did those of the blue-clad men whom he had gathered on his way. Other men had joined on both sides, hearing belatedly of the fighting about to start. ‘Stand down, Lord Justice,’ said Irvine. ‘You know you cannot win against us all.’
The Justice’s lip curled, and he kept his blade raised.
Constance trained her eyes on the physician as she readied her cane. He is my priority. Irvine’s men and the guards can take the others.
A heartbeat of silence, then chaos broke loose.
The Justice attacked first, a shouted command launching Barbarus at Constance’s torso. But she leaped to one side, felt the whoosh of the dog’s bulk pass her stomach as she fell hard on the ground – and the hound sank its teeth into someone else’s leg. The man shouted out in agony, and Constance felt hot blood spray against her cheek. She staggered to her feet but kept low. All around her blades sang in the churning cloud. A metal tang soured the air – was it her imagination or did the storm spin faster? She felt sick, the man’s blood trickling over her lips.
‘Get back!’ Xander was beside her, hauling her up and pushing her towards the relative safety of the courtyard’s perimeter, as if she were a child.
She pulled out of his grasp. ‘Hey—’
‘Just go, Constance!’ His face was wild and angry, and he ignored her struggles. Once she was out of the way, he turned back to the fray.
She felt warmth flush her cheeks. She wasn’t about to let others fight her battles in her stead. She turned to survey the fighting, spied a red flash from the corner of her vision: Thorn. She edged closer behind a bank of cloud and spelled an attack towards the physician. Purple light flashed, casting crazy shadows in the storm.
She had thought her aim was true, but instead the physician had disappeared completely.
Her mind raced as she shrank into the shadows and scanned the courtyard carefully, trying to pick out Thorn among the fighters. Had she missed? Or had he fallen? No, it couldn’t be so easy to defeat a disciple of Jok, the warrior god … Could it be a trick?
The Justice himself fought with the strength of several men, and fended off three of Irvine’s retinue at once; in a flash, he’d killed two with a single strike across their throats, blood arcing across the courtyard in a spray of vivid red. She heard Barbarus growling, tearing at someone’s flesh.
And then one of the Justice’s black-clad men was before her, sword raised – she felt a stab of fear at the hatred in his face, the sheer determined fury. He wanted her dead.
As he struck, she met his blade with her cane. A bright purple flash repelled the iron. She braced for the next strike – no time to spell an attack of her own. The man was bulky, tall. She defended herself a second time, but was pushed back against the battlement wall. The next time, her cane flew from her grasp. She cried out, her left arm trembling. Damn this thing!
The Justice’s man grinned, his teeth streaked with red. He raised his sword again, lunging for her wildly.
Use it, she thought with sudden clarity.
She screwed her left hand into a fist and retaliated with a sharp blow to the head. Her velvet glove caught on his helmet, tore, exposing the metal beneath. He staggered back, doubled up and dazed, dropped his sword, his face pale with shock as he realised what had been revealed: an arm purely wrought of metal. She flexed the fingers, feeling how smoothly her magic filled and commanded the limb, its complex mechanics working soundlessly inside the silver shell. The man gurgled wordlessly, gaping, and she worked his shock to her advantage. A boot in his face sent him toppling on to the ground, helmet clattering aside. He tried to raise himself, his mouth now twisted into a scowl, but Constance snatched up the sword with her right hand and brought the point down hard into his neck, no hesitation.
Pink blood bubbled in the man’s mouth. Darkness spread from the wound like a lengthening shadow.
She stepped backwards, her chest heaving, and threw the sword to the ground with a clatter.
Constance cradled her left arm close, pulling the ripped material of her glove over the exposed metal beneath. Keep it hidden. As she gazed down on the dead man, she felt a surge of power and disgust fighting for dominance. Her throat filled with bile, but she swallowed, bent down and scooped up her cane. As she rose, a wave of glittering red sent her hurtling on to her side, as if struck by a gust of furious wind. Thorn. She whipped aside the next attack, bringing her cane around in a searing arc of purple light. The glove flapped from her left hand uselessly – no time to hide now.
Thorn ducked under her attack, straightened. He was fast. He stood in a practised fighting stance, his twin daggers ablaze with red fire. He’d shed his brown physician’s coat with its pockets of tools and herbs and medicines. Now he was broad-shouldered and light-footed, his dark tunic fitted tightly. Cords of muscle stood out beneath his clothes.
He spun his right dagger and red magic arced through the roiling cloud. She waved her cane, sending the attack ricocheting into the castle wall. Mortar crumbled. He was testing her, she knew – and combat wasn’t her strength. You’ll have to outsmart him.
‘How does it feel, doing the Justice’s dirty work?’ she asked casually. He spun another attack with his dagger, but she deflected, shaking with the effort of trying to make it look easier than it actually was. ‘You’re a long way from home, warrior,’ she tried. ‘What does your god think of all this? I didn’t think Jok was one for sneaking around like a coward.’ Another attack – deflected. He was probing her defences.
‘Shut up,’ he hissed. His eyes flickered to her metal arm and she saw them widen fractionally.
‘Oh, he does have a mind of his own!’ She feigned delight, flexing the metal fingers of her left hand. ‘And here’s me thinking you were a dumb piece of muscle, a little magic puppet for the Justice to jerk around.’
Thorn’s face twisted as he spelled five consecutive attacks – and this time, he wasn’t just testing her. She spun her cane, deflecting each one with the purple bulb of magic at its head.
‘You know nothing about me,’ Thorn snarled.
‘So tell me. I’d love to know why any mage would work with someone who hates magic as much as the Justice. Isn’t it a bit demeaning?’
This time, he threw one of his daggers. It whistled through the air, straight at her head, sending red sparks flying. She stepped aside – barely in time. The blade opened a burning gash on her forehead before it spun around in the air and flew back into Dr Thorn’s hand. The pain was nearly unbearable – but she felt gloriously, thrillingly in control.
‘Ouch,’ she said mildly. ‘Somebody’s going to lose their temper.’
And that’s when he did. A wild fury of attacks battered her defences, one after another – nearly overwhelming her in a scarlet wave. She grimaced as she threw a shield up, reinforced it as a crack started to spider along its length. He wasn’t concentrating. In the tiny space between one attack and the next, she sent the smallest pure violet arrow throu
gh to his chest, aimed directly at his heart. He gasped.
The attacks stopped abruptly.
He crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
Constance was too weak to stand any longer. She sank to her knees, feeling them bruise as she fell clumsily. She knelt there quietly while the storm cloud swirled around her. The fighting felt curiously distant, muted. She wasn’t right, her ears ringing, but she had wits enough to switch her velvet glove from her right arm to her left. At first glance you couldn’t tell it was on the wrong hand. If Thorn was dead, her secret was safe.
He lay a few feet away on the slick cobblestones. His chest barely rose and fell. She felt a flash of annoyance. She hadn’t meant to let him live. She wondered dimly whether to finish the job, but the fighting was quietening, and she didn’t want to be seen killing a prone man in cold blood. Besides, she wasn’t sure she had the energy.
Looking up, she saw her father, left alone in his own circle of darkness. As a child, she’d thought he was indestructible – but nothing was, not any more. Her nose filled with the iron smell of battle as she pieced herself together, wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve. The cut on her forehead was sore, but the heat of the physician’s magic had already sealed the wound.
The fighting was dying down as, one by one, the Justice’s men found themselves outnumbered by the city guard and Xander’s men, and threw down their blades. Barbarus the hound had been knocked out on the ground – breathing, but blood staining his muzzle and a bad wound joining the scars on his flank. Constance stood up unsteadily. A band surrounding the Justice continued to trade blows with increasing desperation. Winton sparred with the Justice himself, his face etched with rage – and they seemed evenly matched, Winton swinging his heavy longsword in wide, powerful arcs as the Justice parried with a shorter blade, the cords on his neck standing upright in effort. But Constance watched as Xander, a long graze across his forehead, slid through the remaining fighters like a shadow. And then he was at the Justice’s back, a dagger at his throat.
‘Set down your swords!’ he cried.
As suddenly as it had started, the fighting stopped. At the sight of the Justice captured and several of their comrades killed, the remaining black-liveried men dropped their weapons with a clatter on the ground. The Justice’s face was white with fury as he let go of his blade. Dr Thorn had raised himself on to his elbows, clutching his chest. Constance stepped forward.
‘Lord Justice. Jonas Thorn.’ Despite her exhaustion, her voice was cold and sharp. ‘I place you under arrest on suspicion of conspiracy against the duchy. Guards!’
Captain Trudan stepped forward. He was bleeding freely down his fingers and dripping on to the cobblestones, but otherwise appeared to be unharmed. He grabbed the Justice’s arms, tied his hands behind his back. Others bound the physician’s hands.
‘Confine the Justice to his apartments. We can do no more until we reach the King. Throw Dr Thorn into the dungeons, along with the rest of the Justice’s personal retinue,’ she commanded.
‘My lady,’ the captain stepped forward. ‘Thorn is a mage. How can we be sure he won’t use magic to escape?’
Constance rubbed her aching head. The world felt distant, faded – her thoughts jumbled. She wasn’t strong enough to reinforce the physician’s prison with spells, not yet. ‘In Thorn’s supplies, you should find sleeping draughts,’ she said. ‘Administer them as necessary to keep him unconscious.’
Captain Trudan nodded.
‘Once I am confirmed as Duchess, we will try the Lord Justice and Thorn for their crimes,’ she declared.
Gazing around the courtyard, she counted twenty or more bodies – several of the city guard, two or three of Xander’s men, the rest belonging to the Justice. ‘So much death, Lord Justice, and for no cause,’ she said, as the captain’s men led him past her. ‘I hope you’re happy now.’
He stopped, met her eyes with a burning gaze. ‘This isn’t over, mage.’ His voice was calm and low. He didn’t look or sound like a beaten man.
‘It is for you,’ she said, drawing herself up tall. In spite of her words, the hatred and determination on the Justice’s face sent a chill down her spine. She was relieved when guards surrounded the older man and shielded her from his eyes.
Constance turned to Trudan, who remained at her side as the Justice was marched away. ‘Double the guard on his rooms, Captain. We can’t let him slip free again.’
The captain bowed his assent and followed the others.
Winton stepped up to Constance uncertainly, and she squeezed his shoulder. Another person to whom I will have to explain myself, she thought, exhaustion washing over her. ‘I am so sorry, Brother. And so grateful for your faith in me. We will speak whenever you are ready.’
To her relief, he shook his head. ‘I … need to rest.’
‘Of course. I will call on you later,’ she promised, as he limped off to his rooms. He stopped next to the huge white hound, which was starting to come round, and Constance watched as he coaxed it to its feet. ‘What are you doing? That animal is vicious. It should be put to death,’ she said.
‘He’s just been mistreated,’ Winton said, running a hand along the scars on the dog’s flank. ‘You’ll see.’
He is too good for this world, she thought.
Soon, apart from the Duke’s pale body, and those who had joined him in death, Constance and Xander stood alone in the bloodstained courtyard.
‘Never have I seen such disrespect to the dead,’ said Xander, his voice as worn and smooth as old silk. ‘Are you all right? What happened to your head?’
Constance lifted her hand to the scorched wound on her brow. It felt tender, her skin hot and raised. ‘Dr Thorn,’ she said shortly.
‘Let me see.’ He examined it carefully, his face close to hers. ‘It looks worse than it is,’ he said. ‘I don’t think all this blood is your own.’ He wiped his thumb under her eye. ‘Don’t cry.’
She blinked. She hadn’t realised hot tears were running down her cheeks. She turned away, annoyed at herself, wiping her face on her sleeve.
‘You should have stayed back from the fighting,’ he said.
‘I could hardly do that. It was my battle,’ she said, her voice sharp with hurt. ‘I’m not some defenceless little girl. Without me, Dr Thorn might’ve killed you all.’
‘I know … I just want you to be safe,’ Xander replied quietly. After a pause, he continued. ‘It seems churlish to ask you to tell me the whole truth after all this,’ he said. He pushed his long hair back from his face. ‘But I still need to know. I have trusted you, Constance. And now you need to trust me.’
‘We will talk,’ she said, ‘and I will set your mind at ease.’ The salt of her tears was drying on her lips. ‘We have a lot to do. My father …’
Xander placed a hand on her shoulder, his emerald-green eyes softening slightly. ‘I’ll deal with this. You go, rest, have your wound seen to. I’ll call on you this afternoon, and you can tell me everything.’
Constance sat on the rug in her bedroom. It was noon, but felt later. In fact, it felt like she’d lived a hundred days since last night.
She had bathed, eaten, slept and changed into a soft, dove-grey gown. She’d found a pair of long cream gloves to hide her metal arm, and wrapped a woollen shawl around her shoulders for warmth. A fire crackled in the hearth. Her hair was unbound, reaching to the base of her shoulder blades.
Now there was nothing left to do but cry – and she knew she ought to, here, where she was alone, if she was going to cry at all. She couldn’t slip up again, not where anyone could see her. When she had first joined the temple of Mythris, she had cried the day’s suppressed tears in bed every night, silently, until her pillow was drenched and she fell asleep breathing through her mouth. But to her frustration, now the tears wouldn’t flow. As she gazed blankly into the middle distance, she spied the broken mirror-pendant under the bed where she’d thrown it in rage, already gathering dustballs.
She sudden
ly wished she was back in the temple again, resting her head on Emris’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. She wondered where he was, what he was doing.
Someone knocked on the door. She stood up and smoothed down her gown.
Xander stood on the threshold, dressed in clean clothes, his wound stitched and his lower face wrapped in deep green silk. Dark shadows lingered under his eyes.
‘I’ve made arrangements for the Duke’s funeral rites,’ he said, as she stepped aside to let him in. ‘Tomorrow at the break of dawn.’
‘Of course,’ Constance murmured. ‘Come in.’
‘How are you?’ Xander asked, his voice gentle. ‘Is your wound all right? I can hardly see it.’
‘It really was just a scratch,’ she said. She had spelled it closed, the swelling easing at her touch.
As she led him towards the window seat, she felt oddly distanced from herself, as if she were trapped in a nightmare. For all that had happened, she had accomplished so little of what she’d set out to achieve.
‘What of my confirmation ceremony?’ she asked, as they stood at the window.
‘It’ll have to be the day after tomorrow. It would be disrespectful to arrange it on the same day as the funeral,’ said Xander pointedly. He pulled the silken scarves from his face. He looked tired, older – two shallow lines framing his mouth. ‘It’s time you told me the truth, Constance.’
She gazed out of the window. The storm cloud had pressed up against the glass like a cat: she could see nothing else. Xander waited for her to tell her story.
‘You were right. I left because I am a mage,’ she said at last. ‘My father was the only one who knew for sure. One day, he found me trying to cast a spell – I’d discovered the instructions among my mother’s belongings. He was enraged. It was the only time he hit me.’ Except for a few days ago. She raised a hand to her cheek. ‘But for all that … he still loved me. If I had stayed, he knew the Duchess and the Justice would be my enemies. And so he told me to go to the City of Kings and never return. He told people nothing. He let it be believed that I had simply disappeared, or even that I was dead – he thought I would be safer that way.’