by Traci Chee
Fearing infection, those who could still walk fled from the north, but they brought the plague with them, and one by one, the lands of the south began to fall.
Only Corabel, the great walled city on a hill, was untouched. To protect his own citizenry, Lord Ortega Corabelli gave the order to close the gates, and behind his high stone walls, he waited for the White Plague to release its grip on the land.
As the seasons turned, citizens from Gorman, from Shinjai and Ken and Alissar swarmed to the city, but the king would not relent. Refugees died by the thousands, and their funeral pyres choked the sky with smoke.
One day, as the lord stood on the ramparts with his daughter Zunisa, an old woman called up to him, pleading with him to open the gates for the sake of her grandson—the only member of her family untouched by sickness.
The lord refused.
The woman spat in the dirt. “Then I lay a curse on you, Ortega Corabelli. I curse all who share your blood, and all who share their love. All will suffer for the coldness of your heart. Not until your family has been stripped of everything will the curse be broken. Not until you, like us, are bereft and begging for mercy.”
For six more months, the plague took life after life, and the rolling green hills around the city grew black with ash. It wasn’t until the rains receded and summer returned that Corabel finally opened its gates.
By then, tens of thousands of people had died.
In exchange for aid, Ortega Corabelli demanded allegiance from the other provinces and, faced with the choice to kneel or perish, the rest of the major houses agreed.
Thus, the kingdom of Deliene was formed: with black and white for its colors, and a curse upon the bloodline.
Not a month after he became king, Ortega Corabelli and his wife became the plague’s last victims.
The newly crowned Queen Zunisa tried to provide for the people her father had neglected. In honor of the dead, she ordered the plains to be planted with thousands of white poppies. She established medical schools to train healers and doctors, and set up hospitals for the sick.
But before her twin boys were ten years old, she died of consumption she’d contracted while visiting a sanatorium.
Again and again, members of the bloodline floundered and died: victims of murder and sickness and suicide. They died in childhood and childbirth, in fires and hunting accidents. Wives and husbands, childhood sweethearts, mistresses and kept men, all perished, for the love of a Corabelli could kill you.
In each generation, there was always someone who lived long enough to continue the Corabelli line, and their children, too, carried the curse.
Until at last there were only two: Lord Roco Diamar of Shinjai, whose parents were lost at sea, and Eduoar Corabelli II, who was called the Lonely King.
CHAPTER 10
How to Kill a King
Arcadimon’s Master, Darion Stonegold, always said there were three ways to kill a king: You could face him with all the force of your military might, and in the end, one of you would fall. You could stab him from behind like a coward, cringing in the shadows. Or you could kill him slowly, from the inside out, so he wouldn’t even know until it was too late. If you did your job right, he might even thank you for it.
These were the differences between Soldiers, Assassins, and Politicians. All of them performed their duties in the service of the Guard, but only Politicians did it with a certain flair.
And flair was something Apprentice Politician Arcadimon Detano had in spades.
Peering into the floor-length mirror, he smoothed an errant lock of hair and took a step back to examine his ensemble. Like everyone else in Shinjai Province, he wore mourning white—spotless and impeccably pressed—with a vest the color of ash and a cravat that matched the forget-me-nots he’d ordered for the funeral pyre. Sharp, attractive, composed—that was how he needed the provincial nobility to see him. He needed to inspire their trust . . . and ultimately, their allegiance.
After all, the death of Lord Roco was an integral part of Phase III of the Red War—bringing Deliene under the control of the Guard.
Which meant he was nearing the one thing he’d been dreading for years.
Killing the Delienean king.
Clicking his polished boots together, Arcadimon strode across the plush carpet toward the king’s chamber, which adjoined his own.
At the threshold between their rooms, the captain of the guard stood with one hand on her sword, looking severe in her black uniform. She was small, shorter than Arcadimon by a head, but strong and quick as a steel spring. He’d seen her defeat entire squads of opponents even when she was outweighed, outnumbered, and outgunned.
She was the best bodyguard any monarch could have asked for, but she was going to fail. Because the assassination of the king would not come from an opponent, but from a friend.
Arcadimon beamed as he approached the open door. “You’re in fine form today, Captain Ignani.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Wish I could say the same, Detano. My reflection’s missing from your boots today.”
“Really?” He looked down, pretending to be appalled. “Must be the angle. I can see myself fine.”
“If you get any cheekier, you can see yourself out.” But she stepped aside for him all the same.
Arcadimon winked at her. Ignani had been Eduoar’s bodyguard since he and Arcadimon were children playing together in the castle at Corabel, and was more familiar to Arcadimon than his own mother, which was why she never suspected a thing.
It was his proximity to the king, in fact, that made him an ideal Apprentice Politician. The Guard had needed someone young, someone close, someone with a margin of talent for Illumination.
They had needed Arcadimon, who, thanks to his father’s post in Corabel, had been one of Eduoar’s childhood companions for years.
He slipped into the king’s room, where Ed was standing by the windows, watching the trees sway in the wind. Eduoar had always been handsome—with that golden skin, that thinness and height, those sad Corabelli eyes—and standing there with the sunlight in his dark hair and the buttons of his shirt undone, exposing his chest, he was every inch a king.
But if you looked closely, you could see his illness in the hollows of his cheeks, in the loose fit of the shirt he’d had tailored not a week before.
Seeing Arcadimon, he brightened. His weariness ebbed away like a tide from a beach, leaving nothing but pristine sparkling sand behind. “Arc,” he murmured.
“Hey.” Arcadimon grinned. Something inside him eased, the way it always did when he was with Ed. Like breathing deep after a long time struggling for air. “You ready for today?”
“Not really.” Eduoar began fumbling with his buttons, closing up the channel of exposed skin Arc couldn’t help but stare at. Today would be the king’s first public appearance in over a year. He was supposed to deliver the eulogy for his cousin, the recently deceased Lord Roco Diamar of Shinjai, whose death had left Eduoar the only living Corabelli. The cousin Arcadimon had just killed, albeit indirectly, with a few well-placed bribes and a dram of poison. Roco had always had a fragile heart. It had been easy to make his death appear an accident.
It had been his duty—as killing Eduoar would be his duty. There could be no relatives left in the royal bloodline when Eduoar was gone.
Arcadimon didn’t enjoy it, but they all made sacrifices for the greater good. Assassins, he’d heard, had to execute their immediate family to earn their bloodswords.
“Child’s play,” Darion had said dismissively. “Assassins spend years cultivating their emotional distance. By the time they’re sent to kill their kin, they’re as good as strangers. You, on the other hand, are a Politician, and you have a much more demanding task. You will have no distance from your victims. You will make them trust you. You will make them love you. And here’s the fine edge we walk, Apprentice: You will make them think
you love them in return. You will say whatever you must, do whatever you must. But it must always be an illusion. These are not your allies. They are not your friends, your kin, your lovers. They are your targets, your tools, your enemies. Sentiment will compromise the mission, and it will get you killed—if not by your rivals, then by me. Do you understand?”
Arcadimon did. And for the last eight years he had crafted a mask of charm and compassion so fine, so lifelike, that he had fooled not only the entire Delienean court, but his own family and closest friend.
“You’ll be fine,” he said to Eduoar. “You’ve got me.”
“What more could I ask for?”
Although he didn’t have to, Arc stepped in to finish buttoning Eduoar’s shirt. Beneath his hands, he could feel the king’s protruding collarbones, the faint heat of his skin.
Arcadimon drew back abruptly, covering himself with the easy chuckle he’d cultivated over the years he’d spent clawing his way to power among the lesser names of the Delienean court. He’d been inducted into the Guard when he was fourteen, and since then, his Master had guided him as he gained control of the messengers and the newsmen, two of the most powerful guilds in the kingdom, earned the loyalty of most of the minor houses and some of the major, and put himself in position to seize the throne.
“I can think of plenty of things even a king might want,” he said lightly. “A cure for warts—”
“I don’t have warts!”
Arc continued as if he hadn’t heard, ticking off items on his fingers: “—a flying horse, a way to drink coffee without burning your mouth—”
“There’s already a way to do that,” Eduoar said. “It’s called waiting.”
From the doorway Ignani grunted—her version of a laugh.
“Lukewarm coffee?” Arc made a face. “I’ll take the burning, thank you very much.”
The king smiled as Arcadimon retreated to the sideboard, where he laid the back of his hand against a clay kettle to test its temperature. Finding it cool to the touch, he plucked a silver flask from the inner pocket of his coat and poured the cold tea into it. Then he tipped a few amber drops from a glass vial into the flask before capping it again and shaking it vigorously.
Neither Eduoar nor Ignani moved to stop him.
They thought it was medicine—a special tonic distilled from the bark of a tree that grew only in Everica. His Master, Darion, had presented him with the first vial three years ago. “The Administrators have never concocted a better poison,” he’d said. “In small doses it’s harmless enough, but once administered, the only way to alleviate its symptoms is the poison itself, and prolonged use will cause fainting spells so frequent our little king won’t be able to go a few hours without collapsing.”
Unlike the draught Arcadimon had ordered administered to Roco, this poison wouldn’t kill the king—not even withdrawal would do that—but it had made him unfit to rule. In the past year, Eduoar had been bedridden more days than he’d been well, locked up in his lonely tower while the seasons swept through his kingdom like a fog from the sea.
And Arcadimon Detano, his childhood friend and most trusted adviser, had stepped in for him. Arcadimon had overseen the courts and councils. Arcadimon had kept the kingdom running, turning himself into a leader they could follow.
As he slipped the vial back into his pocket, Ignani nodded at him approvingly.
Beneath his confident smile, Arc felt a twinge of guilt for fooling her, for fooling all of them.
Sometimes he wondered what his life would have been if the Guard hadn’t found him. Would he and Eduoar have remained friends beyond childhood? Would they, perhaps, have been something more?
Arcadimon shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Sometimes his mask of affection was so convincing he fooled even himself. But he was a Guardian before he was a Delienean, adviser, or even friend. He wouldn’t waste time dwelling on what might have been.
Eduoar had gone back to staring out the window, idly twisting the signet ring, bearing the Delienean crest, on his finger.
Arcadimon straightened his white jacket and checked his reflection once more: not a curl out of place, not a stray thread to be seen.
“Speaking of coffee,” he said, “you don’t think they’ll mind me taking a mug on the road, do you?”
Ed turned from the window, a wry smile twisting his features. He plucked the flask from Arcadimon’s fingers. “It won’t go with your outfit.”
Arc scoffed as the king took a sip of his poisoned tea. “Coffee goes with every outfit.”
• • •
Accompanied by the provincial nobility, the minor lords and ladies, and Captain Ignani on her black warhorse, Arcadimon and Eduoar began the slow march around the Lake of Sky, the mirrorlike lake at the center of Shinjai Province. Above the tree line, the Szythian Mountains rose sharp and black as dragon backs, tipped with scales of late-summer snow.
At the sight of the king on his gray horse, the mourners began muttering as they tossed white flowers onto the dirt roads.
The Lonely King. The only one still alive to carry the Corabelli Curse.
If you didn’t know the king as well as Arc did, you might not have noticed, but as their whispers reached the funeral procession, the sadness appeared in Eduoar’s eyes again, threatening to spill over.
Arcadimon allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. After all, with both the messengers and newsmen under his thumb, he was responsible for spreading rumors about the weakness of the Lonely King, victim to the same melancholia that had consumed his father.
However, he had to admit that spreading the rumors now, freely, in the king’s hearing, was crass. Almost vulgar.
He drew up alongside Eduoar. “Bet you wish you had that coffee now,” he said.
“Coffee would do nothing to stop them from talking, unfortunately,” Ed replied.
“Sure it would.” Arcadimon adopted the clipped cadence of his newsmen. “Clumsy king stains beautiful new jacket! Or, Generous king brings coffee for all!”
“If only we’d thought of that sooner.”
“Yeah, a little more foresight on our parts, and we would’ve been marching to nothing but adulation and slurping.” Arcadimon flashed him a smile.
Eduoar swallowed, the lump of his throat visible behind his white cravat, and lifted his chin. The simple show of bravery reminded Arcadimon of the last funeral they’d attended here—the one for Roco’s parents, lost at sea.
He and Ed had been eleven; Roco, nine. After spending a few hours sneaking sips of cordial, they’d wandered off to the Tree of Dreams, the sprawling oak at the center of the castle grounds. Roco used to say that if you slept under it, the branches would catch the nightmares before they reached you.
They’d lit candles inside glass jars and hung them from the highest limbs.
“One for my mother, one for my father,” Roco had said. “One for Aunt Miria.”
Eduoar’s mother, dead from cancer of the pancreas less than six months before.
They’d all lain there, watching the candles flicker out one by one in the dark. “Once the people you love start dying,” Roco had said, “they don’t stop.”
“That’s why we’ve got to love them while they’re here,” Arcadimon had said.
“Especially in our family,” Ed had added.
And Roco had answered, with solemnity beyond his years, “We’re Corabellis. For us, love and death are the same.”
Now, riding along the rim of the lake, Arc leaned over and with his gloved fingers touched the back of Ed’s hand. At the contact, a shiver went through them both, as if they’d been drenched in ice water. The king lifted his gaze, and for a moment, Arc was sure he knew.
For a moment, Arc wanted to tell him.
Hand in hand, they rode on, leaving crushed petals and broken stems in their wake.
•
• •
At noon, the procession returned to the castle at Edelise. They deposited Roco’s body on a floating bier anchored to the marble terrace, where the waves lapped over the polished stone. As members of the procession dispersed across the patio like white foam, Arcadimon flitted among them, dropping a compliment here, a veiled insult there, couching his threats in smiles. In the following days, they’d be meeting to elect Roco’s successor, the next leader of Shinjai, and he needed to ensure the person they chose was the person he chose—someone who would support his regency when the time came.
Deep in conversation with one of the minor ladies, whom in other circumstances he might have considered taking to bed—he liked a good tumble with a girl as much as a boy, after all—he watched Lady Dinah approach Eduoar.
The leader of Alissar Province, Dinah Alissari had an old name, an empty vault, and the political mind of a rump roast, which had made her loyalty extraordinarily easy to come by.
“Alissar is deeply sorry for your loss, Your Majesty,” she declared. The rings on her fingers glittered as she dipped an awkward curtsy. “He was your only family, after all.”
Eduoar inclined his head. “My mother’s side of the family is alive and well, I’ll remind you. Some of them are even here today.”
“Oh, don’t be coy, sire. You know I meant your Corabelli family.”
“As if I could forget.” Eduoar’s courteous expression wavered like sunlight on water, revealing darkness beneath.
Arcadimon bristled at Dinah’s foolish prodding. Everyone knew the Corabelli line was ending. Eduoar didn’t need it flaunted in front of him, especially not by a bankrupt cow. Politely, Arcadimon extricated himself from his own conversation and began making his way toward the king.
“It’s a shame he never had children,” Dinah continued. “If only he’d had an heir, we wouldn’t have to go through this tedious business of electing his successor.”
“Roco told me once he’d never have children,” Eduoar said. “Not with his blood.”
“You don’t believe that nonsense, do you, sire? When are you going to get married?”