by Moira Katson
“All the more reason to let me redeem myself.”
She knew Almeric—she was not surprised when the dam burst. “You failed more times than I can count,” he spat at her. “And that’s only the chances I heard about.”
She was on her guard at once. “And what does that mean?”
“I’m a palace guard, Alleyne. D’you think they don’t know abut His Majesty’s secret little visits?” He saw her flinch and his face twisted. “And how many more have there been that no one saw?” he asked softly, venomously. “Are you already his wife? Are you his mistress?”
“Almeric.”
“You made this plan.” His voice was ugly. “You had me stay in the city, you were the one who never doubted, never wavered—and then the first time he smiled at you, you gave it all up.”
Her head jerked as if he’d slapped her. It stung all the more for the truth of it. She had wavered in that moment, she could not deny it.
“What am I to think, Alleyne?” He would not stop, he was relentless. “Were all those years a lie?”
“No!”
“So is it that you wanted him … or did you discover how much you liked silk and jewels, and how much you would give to have a crown on your head?”
“It wasn’t like that,” she whispered helplessly.
“It’s one or the other, Alleyne.” He saw the denial in her eyes and his face hardened. When he spoke, his voice was like nothing she had ever heard from him. “Don’t think of lying to me. Everyone in there is saying no other woman even had a chance, that you snared him the first time you met.” His face darkened. “Alone in his chambers, if I recall.”
“Almeric, listen to me—”
“I had to listen to them joking about it! About how he looks at you—as if I couldn’t see it myself! He’s sick with it, and you …” He spun away. “You think that’s real?” he asked her at last. He was still, his voice was soft and deadly. “You think it’s anything but infatuation? Remind yourself what he did to Nerea.”
Anger beat in her blood. “Nerea may have conspired against the throne.”
He gave a shout of laughter. “May have? You did!”
She froze. He was right—and she could only hope he wouldn’t hear the implication in her words, that it was different with Nerea, that Darion—though he would never admit it—had known on some level what Nerea was, and that he might love Alleyne. She waited, hoping, knowing she should divert her brother and not knowing how, and she saw his face harden.
“You did think it was real,” he said quietly. “You stupid little—” He broke off, looked away. “And you? Do you love him, then?”
“No!” What other answer was there?
“Alleyne …”
“I never asked for this!” The words were ripped from her. “It was you plan, not mine, and I told you I didn’t want to do it this way. But I will, Almeric.” She was pleading now. “I will. I know it must be done.”
“And you know I can’t trust you to do it.” He shook his head. “Stand aside.”
“No.”
He hesitated only a moment before he unsheathed his sword. “Stand aside, Alleyne.”
The moment she let him end this, she would break—and the moment she defied him, she would lose him. She needed no magic to see the path stretching away from her, fractured, breaking her into pieces. “There’s another assassin in the palace.” She met his eyes desperately. “Let them do it. We can go. We can go now, and never come back.”
“No.” His face was like stone. “He has to know. He has to know what you were.”
Horror gripped her. It was the one piece she had wanted since the first haze of fear cleared and terror gave way to anger in her child self, and it was the one piece she could not bear now. “No. Please, no.”
“Yes.”
“Almeric, I beg you—”
“Stand aside.”
She drew the hem of her skirt up, slid her knife free of its sheath. She was shaking. She could not win this, and they both knew it. When he drew his sword, it had been a reminder, not a prelude. But even when he gave a disbelieving laugh, she did not back down. “I don’t want to fight you.” She forced the words out.
“Then stand aside.”
“I ...” I can’t do that, either. But she could not say the words. This was Almeric.
“Alleyne.” He gestured with the sword, shaking his head.
She could see the futility as clearly as he could. He wore the armor of the Palace Guard. He carried a sword, he had been training for these weeks and she had not—and he had always been better. She knew she could not win.
She also knew, with a strange sort of despair, that she was not going to stand aside.
“Will you not let me do this?” she asked him.
“You know I cannot. We cannot risk another failure.” His face softened at last. “Alleyne, listen to me. Whatever this is, whatever madness, it will pass and you will be glad of what I did tonight.”
“It was mine to do.” There were tears in her eyes.
“Why?” He flared up at last. “I lost my parents, too, didn’t I? I lived on the streets, too. I was in just as much danger as you were.”
“More.” He might not say it, out of whatever misguided sense of fairness or protectiveness had led him to lie to her all those years. But she had seen the lies, and she knew the truth. “I know only a little of what you did for me, and even that put you in more danger. But think what Maman and Papa would say—”
“No.” He lifted the sword, this time in earnest. “No more. Alleyne, stand aside. I’ll not hurt you, I would never hurt you.”
He meant it, and that was her opening. She closed fast, before he had a chance to ready his guard, and her fist caught him in the jaw. He staggered back. Half of lying was deciding to lie, and fighting was the same. He had not decided, and she had. Darion was hers to kill. She would finish this herself.
Almeric might have chosen not to kill her, but he had anticipated this last, desperate stand. He moved with the blow to leech the power from it, and righted himself. His fingers brushed his jaw.
“All right.” There was no expression in his voice. He threw the sword and watched her flinch at the sound. “No weapons,” he told her simply. “Just us, Alleyne.”
He did not expect her to win. The thought flashed through her mind and she tossed it away. Of course he would not. She did not, either, and she must purge that thought from her mind. She held her hand out, and dropped the knife.
This time, he was the one who closed before she could react. His body slammed into hers and carried her down onto the floor with bruising force. His legs tangled with hers, trying to pin her, and she thrashed. Chaos had always been her first instinct in grappling.
It could only carry her so far. First rule is not to get cocky. Margery’s words came back to her. And ye do the best ye can t’only play the games you can win. Alleyne had always assumed Almeric’s strength and size was an insurmountable obstacle, but it need no be, if she could be unexpected enough. They’d never grappled much—“you can’t win, Alleyne”—and if she could just play off that …
There wasn’t time for her to be in her head. His fingers found her throat and pressure began to build. She gasped, lost precious seconds as reflexes dimmed. Nine seconds once his fingers began to squeeze, eight, seven …
“Alleyne.” There was grief in his voice; his fingers eased.
She gasped for air desperately.
“Alleyne, don’t you see—”
All of her strength went into the blow. The blade of her hand hit the side of his neck and he went limp on top of her. Tangled in her skirts, she struggled to shift her brother’s body enough to slip out from under it. She had to get to Darion.
Before the other assassin struck.
Panic gave her the burst of strength she needed. She turned Almeric onto his back. His breath was deep and even. He wouldn’t wake until it was too late.
Do you know where you went wrong?
; No chances. She tore strips off the edge of her gown and bound his hands and feet, stuffed another wad of fabric in his mouth for a gag. It took most of her strength to drag him across the floor and hide him in an alcove.
As she propped him up, though, she could not help but brush her fingers over his cheek. “Almeric?”
He didn’t stir.
“Almeric, I’m so sorry.” She leaned her forehead against his for a moment, biting her lip against tears. “Someday I hope you’ll understand.”
She wanted to stay, but that would only delay the inevitable. She had to end this, and she had to end it now. She had spent her whole life planning for tonight. She stood, looking down at Almeric. What was it he had said? That the madness would pass.
She had to hope he was correct. She gathered the knife and the sword and left, a ghost in the moonlit corridors.
Chapter Forty-Five
The guards had been forewarned of her presence, and thankfully the clank of their armor gave her time to stow the sword behind a curtain and tuck her knife into its sheath before she rounded the corner. They waved her through with deep bows, and she ducked her head and fairly ran past them, afraid that they might see the disarray, or the guilt that ran through every inch of her. They had let their Emperor’s killer through; they would remember that all their days.
Near Darion’s apartments, she had the sudden, superstitious thought that now might be when the other assassin chose to strike as well. If they were there, she could not tip her hand by coming in visibly disheveled and armed. She took the time to straighten her dress and try to arrange her hair. There was not much chance of success—all the more so now that she had ripped her dress—but hopefully her disarray would not be too noticeable amongst all the other flounces on her gown.
She did not prepare herself to enter the room. She knew herself well enough to know that she would turn and run if she gave herself even a moment to think. She put her chin up, plastered a smile on her face, and slipped into …
Silence. She looked around herself in confusion. Darion was not here yet. She checked the corners, peered into his bedchamber. There was only a pitcher of wine and two glasses, set out neatly on one of the tables, and the steady light of the mage globes. There was no sign either of the Emperor, or of the other assassin.
Of course there was not. She shook her head at her own foolishness. And yet …
She checked again, more thoroughly this time. There was nothing behind any of the curtains, and no one in the bedchamber at all. She searched with increasing worry, first looking out the windows and along the outer walls, then throwing open the wardrobe. There was no one, not even a sign that anyone had been here at all.
In good time, Jarin’s voice whispered in her ear.
Tonight. Somehow, she knew. She knew.
She was running for the great double doors when they swept open and Darion came in. The sound that escaped her at the sight of him—unharmed, unshaken, still resplendent in red and gold—was half a sob.
He paused, staring at her. One finger lifted, no more, and the two Imperial Guardsmen with him melted away and shut the door behind them as Darion regarded her silently. He swayed slightly. He was, she realized, a little bit drunk.
“My uncle said I should come to spend time with my lovely bride,” he said at last. His mouth twisted, but the smile—such as it was—faded as she saw him mark her racing pulse and the terrified stillness. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” She tried to calm her heart, and begin the speech she had practiced on the rooftops of her makeshift homes, in the dead of winter and the heat of summer, always with her eyes fixed on the golden domes of the palace: I am Alleyne, daughter to—
“Dance with me.”
She startled at the sound of his words. “What?”
He swept his cloak from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor, held out a hand. “Dance with me. I would like to, one la … “ His voice broke. ”I would like to.” His hand was motionless.
To do so would only delay the inevitable, but she was weak. She had always been weak when it came to him, and she hesitated only a moment before joining him. Shame brought heat to her cheeks and she swallowed hard when he pulled her close. There was no courtliness in his movements now, none of the show he put on for the court: his hand splayed in the small of her back, heedless of propriety, and his warmth seeped through the thin layers of silk and linen between them.
They moved together slowly, their feet tracing whisper-soft arcs on the floor. This was no performance, but he could not be ungraceful if he tried. He had been trained to move since he could hold a sword, and he guided her just as surely through the steps of the dance. Her dress swung out as they whirled, and he brought her hand close to clasp with his, over his chest. His body was warm, solid, but there was something she had never seen in his eyes before: fear.
“Darion—”
“No words.” He leaned his forehead against hers. His fingers pulled at hers to lay her palm over his heart.
She let her eyes drift closed and her body relaxed against his; she stilled her thoughts by force. There was no sense in thinking about what was coming—she had been thinking about it for thirteen years. She would enjoy this, and remember it, as if casting the memory in copper to preserve it forever. The dance had a rhythm not unlike fighting, and yet she followed easily where Darion led her. She could feel his breath stirring against her neck and lifting his chest. Her head tipped to nestle under his chin. The scent of jasmine from the gardens seemed almost a part of Darion’s warmth, the feel of marble under her indistinguishable from the moonlight, all of it melting together into one perfect moment. She would remember this as long as she lived.
She would never want to remember tonight. Her breath caught and she jerked away.
She expected him to draw her back, keep hold of her hand, but he let her go. His face was suddenly hard. Alone in the night air, dizzied by the sudden change, she shivered, watched him turn away to pour himself a glass of wine.
The wine. Her heart seized.
“Don’t!”
He wasn’t listening. He was staring, incredulous, at the wine on the floor, the cup shattered where she’d dashed it from his hand. His eyes met hers.
“It’s poisoned.” She was shaking like a fly-stung horse. Her eyes caught the sudden wariness. “No, not—that is, I heard something. Days ago. Weeks, now. The night you first saw me.”
His eyes darkened at the memory. There was pain there, and she did not know why.
“There was a plot to kill you,” Alleyne whispered. “Tonight, I think. I don’t know how, but it was to send us to war with Rasteghai. Jarin …” She hesitated. “Jarin was one of the conspirators. I don’t know the others. One was a lord, at least. They said they already had an agent in the palace.”
He did not say a word, and her voice trailed away into silence. He wasn’t moving, hadn’t reacted at all.
“Darion?” Her voice sounded lost, even to her own ears.
His mouth had twisted. “And here I thought you were the assassin.”
Her heart gave a strange sideways leap. “Me?” she managed.
“Yes.” He went to the window, gazed out over the gardens with their twinkling lights. He gave her a brief glance over his shoulder before letting his gaze return to the cypress and moonlight. He frowned. “And you’re wrong about Jarin. He’s the one who told me there was a plot to sow war.”
She bridled, but forced herself to keep her peace. The most compelling evidence of Jarin’s betrayal would implicate her. She thought back to what she had overheard that night. Jarin might have been moved to speak by guilt—that fit with the anguish she had heard in his voice. But she would bet every coin in the treasury that his participation continued on. She would bet her very life that as much as he hated the Emperor, and for whatever reason, Jarin could not rest easily with his betrayal of the man who’d become his friend.
“Alleyne.” His voice was quiet.
She heard her name
only distantly, turned to look at him. “Yes?” And then she realized what he’d said, the name he’d used.
The name she had just admitted to.
And here I thought you were the assassin.
The world seemed to drop out from under her. “You knew?” she whispered.
“I knew.”
Her eyes closed against tears. There was only one question: “How long?”
He did her the favor of being honest, at least. “In the garden, when you spoke of your parents. I had known from the first that I had seen you before. That was when I put the pieces together. Anyone who knew your parents would have recognized them from what you said that day.”
Rage kindled in her chest, white hot. “You knew,” she spat at him. “When you spoke of them to me, you knew who I was. You wanted to sway me, change my mind. You never truly regretted it, did you?”
“I did!” His voice was a sudden roar.
“Liar.”
“For the love of—think for a moment, woman! If I’d wanted you not to kill me, I’d have had you arrested.”
That stopped her in her tracks. She could make no sense of it. “Then … why didn’t you?”
“So you could do it,” he said simply.
“What?” The breath left her in a rush.
His eyes burned. “Their deaths haunted me,” he said quietly. “I prayed every night that you escaped, I had nightmares of your face for years. I saw it in the eyes of the court every time I scared them, every one of them wondering if I’d come for their children, too.”
“Darion—”
His fist balled. “Now you say my name?”
“Your Majesty— ” She recoiled as he dashed the jug of wine from the table with an angry sweep of his arm.
“Four hells, you think I wanted to love you?” He was shaking. “You think I wanted to love the one woman in the world I could never have? This is my hell, Alleyne, this is the gods’ punishment for what I did! I accept it. So do it. Do what you came to do and be done with it and let me be free of this.”
She couldn’t breathe. She tried to speak and no sound came from her lips.