“Get up,” she said, sounding as exhausted as she looked. As Livia rose, she shook her head. “Understand this: you are not forgiven. But your blood won’t heal my family’s wounds. What else do you have to offer?”
“Reparations,” Livia said.
* * *
“Of course,” Livia told the conspirators, looking across the feast hall table, “it’s not just the Argalls who are due reparations for injuries done, is it? Each of you has raised your hand against your rightful pope. It’s time we discussed your punishments.”
Byvan rapped his knuckles on the table, eyes bulging, calling out to the Browncloaks. “Any of you—cut her down! Cut her down where she stands and I’ll make you wealthy beyond your dreams. Just kill her!”
“Right,” Livia said, “so we’ll start with you.”
She stalked toward him and put her hands on her hips as she looked the guildmaster up and down. Two of her guards moved to flank her. Another took a furled parchment scroll from under his cloak and passed it to Livia. She looked it over, nodded, and tossed it onto the table.
“Byvan, you’ve just been convicted in absentia by a liturgical court, convened in secret. The charge is blasphemy. While this can be a capital crime, I pled for mercy on your behalf. So the Church has settled on the seizure of your property instead. All of it.”
He stared at the decree, red-faced, his twitching fingers crumbling the parchment at the corners.
“Your estates, your bank coffers, your business interests, your horses.” Livia ticked each item off on her fingers. “Everything. As of this moment, all you own are the clothes on your back. Oh, and it’s been made known to your former friends and colleagues that if they try to lend you aid, they’ll suffer the same punishment. You are penniless, and you are very much alone.”
“You—” he stammered, “you can’t do this to me.”
“You made your fortune on the backs of the poor and the downtrodden. Now, you’re one of them. I find myself wondering if you’ll learn anything from the experience. I do hope you ate well at lunch, signore, as it may be the last meal you have for quite some time.” She nodded to her guards. “Take him. Throw him into the street.”
Byvan was still stammering, protesting, as two Browncloaks dragged him out of the feast hall. The door slammed in their wake.
The other conspirators held their breaths as she surveyed them. Choosing the next target. Her gaze fell upon Cardinal Yates.
“Yates. You fought me from day one. And while you’re as corrupt as the next man, you had a more ideological reason, didn’t you?”
He raised his chin and hardened his eyes. “The teachings are clear. Allowing a woman to take authority in the Church is utter blasphemy. You are living proof of that fact.”
“Yes,” she mused. “You love the Church. So much that as I tried to purify it, to stamp out corruption and waste, you fought me at every turn. Worked to undermine me and ensure my reforms fail, no matter how many people they might help. All so you can ‘prove’ that a woman can’t lead by pointing to disasters you’ve caused. Hypocrite.”
“You’re not the only one with the ear of the people, Livia. My pulpit has a long reach. My congregation adores me. Consider that before you do anything rash.”
“Such pride. Then again, that’s your particular sin, isn’t it? Byvan only had eyes for his money, but you want to be heard. And loved. And respected. You want to be seen as the voice of the Gardener himself.”
“What are you getting at?”
Livia smiled. “You’re not much loved inside the College of Cardinals though, are you? While the public story remains that Cardinal Vaughn went rogue, vanishing in the night, more than a few of your colleagues are convinced you poisoned him to take his seat.”
“That was his doing!” Yates said, pointing at the king. “Him and that bastard Uccello! I had no choice but to go along with it.”
“They remain unconvinced. So it was rather easy, in exchange for promising to roll back a few of my more radical reforms, to earn their assistance. You see, Cardinal, in one hour, a number of bright young men—well-regarded, good families, strong in faith—are going to present themselves before a magistrate. To reveal what you did to them behind closed doors.”
Yates’s mouth gaped. “But that’s not true! I didn’t do anything, I’m innocent!”
“The truth didn’t matter when you were smearing me, did it?” Livia said. “You will be remembered by all of Itresca as a priest who abused his office and tarnished the Church he claimed to love. Remembered, and hated by one and all. Oh, and if you’re caught, you’ll likely be hung. You might want to start running now. Fifty-nine minutes before the city guard goes hunting for you.”
“You—you can’t. Livia, please—”
“Fifty-eight minutes.”
He rose, slowly, clinging to his last scraps of dignity. His bottom lip quivering as he made his exit.
“So,” Livia said. “That’s greed and pride down. Now you, Merrion. You’re a hard one to figure out. What’s your sin?”
“I don’t believe in the concept,” he replied.
“No. Good and evil are notions for lesser men than you, I imagine. You’re in it for the thrill of the game. It’s funny, even without bags of gold or a cardinal’s commission, you’re easily the most dangerous man in this room. You have spies, assassins…resources I can barely begin to trace. It was difficult to decide how to punish you in a way that would stop you from coming back for revenge later.”
Merrion locked eyes with her. “And what did you decide?”
“This,” she said with a nod to Kailani.
Kailani strode up behind him, yanked his head back, and slashed his throat open from ear to ear.
Sister Columba screamed as Merrion collapsed against the table, blood spilling out across the rich, dark wood, pooling around his wine goblet. He twitched, gurgling, feet thumping as they thrashed against the legs of his chair. Then he fell still.
Amadeo looked on, a statue carved from pale marble.
Rhys sat unmoved. He lifted his goblet, sipped his wine, and eyed Livia dourly. “Ran out of irony, did you?”
“The spymaster and manipulator, fallen to the most simple of means,” Livia replied. “Is that not ironic enough for your tastes? No, where I ran out of cleverness—where my heart broke—was with you, Sister Columba.”
Columba shrank in her chair. The blood on the table flowed toward her in slow, long rivulets.
“You were my father’s caretaker, his maidservant, his friend. You’ve served my family since before I was even born. And now, in our hour of greatest need, with enemies all around us, you betrayed me and parroted my brother’s lies.”
“I know what I saw,” Columba said, her voice a soft whisper. “I know what you are.”
Livia lifted her open palms. “I know what you’ve been telling people. That I’m a witch. Well, if I’m a witch, Sister, where is my magic? Have I cast a hex to make my problems go away? Bewitched these conspirators with an enchanted potion? Would have made my life so much easier, wouldn’t it?”
“I…I know what I saw,” she said again, though her voice had begun to waver.
“Despite what you’ve done, despite what you tried to do to me, I can’t bring myself to hurt you, Columba.” Livia shook her head. Her anger fading, voice gentle. “I’ll always be thankful for the years we had together. I’ll always remember the good days. Right now, though? I just want you gone. If you favor my brother’s lies, then go to him. I’m sure you’ll be welcome in his home.”
She nodded to two of the Browncloaks. “Take her—gently—and put her on the next boat to Verinia. I never want to see her again.”
Columba didn’t speak, eyes downcast, as they gripped her shoulders and marched her out of the feast hall.
“And one remains,” Livia said, turning her gaze upon Rhys.
“It’s to be regicide then, is it?”
“No. Destabilizing the Itrescan government, when we’re on the ver
ge of healing this schism in the Church, would be disastrous. The simple fact is I need you in power, to back my authority.”
Rhys gave her a smug smile. “I’m so glad you realize that.”
“Just as I hope you realize that a blade now hangs over your head. I have Browncloaks on your staff, King Jernigan. Cooking your meals. Folding your bed linens. And watching you like hawks. The moment you think about repeating this folly, you’ll pay for it with your life. Oh, and you’re not getting away without your own punishment. Your wife, incidentally, sends her regards.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Say what you’re going to say.”
“Reparations. I’ve already canceled the order of inquisition and ordered the release of the Argall prisoners. You will pay a blood price for the boy who died on my coronation day: his weight in gold. And you will return all of their confiscated lands, plus expand their borders by one acre.”
He swirled the wine in his goblet. “Just…one acre?”
“Yes,” Livia replied. “They’re already calling it ‘The Fool’s Acre,’ and that’s how it’ll be marked on the maps. A visible token of the great King Jernigan’s submission to House Argall. And a permanent reminder of the day he challenged them—and was utterly defeated.”
His lips tightened into a bloodless line. He clenched the wine goblet with white-knuckled fingers.
“That thorn you’re feeling in your side right now,” Livia said, “is your pride. And I believe it will continue to sting for a long, long time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Something tells me there won’t be quite so many obstacles in my way from here on out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Days passed and the cold turned bitter as the supplies in Mari and Nessa’s wagon dwindled to crumbs. Low on rations, low on horse feed, and they didn’t have the time or the energy to scavenge for more. They just kept moving, relentless, staying ahead of the Imperial forces and the hunters they knew were somewhere behind them.
The nights, though, were warm. Some nights Nessa continued her lessons between the furs, Mari proving to be an eager and enthusiastic student, and sometimes they’d just embrace and sleep in blissful peace.
Mari didn’t wake up screaming anymore. The nightmares had fled. Or perhaps Nessa had banished them. Either way, the shadow of the witch’s murdered apprentice had finally left them in peace.
“There!” Mari said, pointing as the wagon maneuvered down the snowbound logging road.
Nessa jolted from a doze, her head resting on Mari’s shoulder. “Hmm?”
The stockade wall of Winter’s Reach rose up in the distance, mighty and unbroken, at the end of an open road lined by crucified corpses.
“Still doing that, I see,” Nessa murmured, appreciating the handiwork as they rolled past a rotting body nailed to a crossbeam. A sign hung around the dead man’s neck, scrawled with the word “Thief.”
“Veruca always did like showy punishments.”
“About that,” Nessa said. “Given that you fled the city on a pirate ship captained by a man she expected you to kill, and the last time I was here my teacher brainwashed her…Veruca might not be happy to see either one of us. We should keep a low profile.”
“Good point. I’m not keen on a reunion, anyway. Do you know where the Misery is?”
Nessa nodded. “See those mountains rising up behind the city? There should be a concealed back gate and an old road leading down to the mouth of the mine. We slip in, I’ll secure the Misery, and we’ll meet up with Vassili and Despina. With luck, we can get out of town before the Imperials arrive.”
“Nessa, we have to warn them about the invasion.”
“Why?”
Mari tilted her head. “Because they’re going to kill a lot of innocent people if we don’t.”
“Cattle, Mari.”
“People, Nessa. They have the right to defend themselves. Besides, think about what the Empire did to Belle Terre. To our people. Are you really all right with letting that happen here, too? If nothing else, let’s help Winter’s Reach give the Imperials a black eye.”
Nessa crossed her arms, frowning.
“I suppose you’re right. Fine, we can warn them. But that’s as far as it goes. I want us all out of harm’s way before the siege begins. Once we rendezvous with the others, we’ll use my Cutting Knife to get back home the easy way.”
“And then?”
Nessa sat back on the perch, a tiny smile playing on her lips.
“And then,” she said, “the four of us go on a hunting expedition. Trust me, it’ll be fun.”
As their wagon approached, a watchman in a guard tower shouted down and the tall gate groaned wide, bound and sturdy logs shoving back the piled snow.
“We’re free merchants,” Nessa said quickly, “looking to get in on the lumber trade. That should get us past the guards.”
There wasn’t any need for a cover story, though. Not when a squad of Coffin Boys rushed out, casket shields clattering on their backs, and surrounded the wagon.
“Which one of you is Mari Renault?” one demanded.
Nessa and Mari shared a glance. Mari shrugged and held up a hand. “Me.”
“We need your help,” he said, “right now. Come with us.”
“You need more than that,” Mari replied. “The Imperials are coming. Two companies of infantry, and an assault by water too. They mean to retake the Reach.”
He tugged at his hair, wincing. “Now? This is the worst possible…damn it all! Look, Bear’s gone mad. He’s holding Mayor Barrett hostage in the Hall of Justice, and he’s demanding to talk to you. He said you’d be coming.”
“Can’t you go in and get him?”
He shook his head. “We’ve been trying for days. There’s some kind of hex over the building. Anyone who nears it gets so nauseous they can barely move. One of my men pushed it and puked up his own guts. Bear says he’ll only let you in. You, alone.”
“I’m sure Veruca’s fine,” Mari said. “For the moment, at least. This is more important. You’ve got to warn the city, rally the troops and get them ready for the invasion.”
“They won’t listen to anyone but her. The mayor runs this city with an iron glove, which is fine until she’s not here to give the orders.”
“Ah, the joys of dictatorships,” Nessa muttered. “Mari, I must reclaim the Misery, right now. If the Dire arrives before I have it…”
“I know.” Mari took a deep breath. “Which means I have to go and rescue Veruca alone, so she can get a defense plan underway. Do you…do you think I can beat him?”
“Bear?” Nessa arched an eyebrow. “Mari, you are my knight. I believe in you.”
Then she took Mari by the collar and yanked her close, her voice dropping to a throaty growl.
“And that man has given me great offense. I crave his death. Will you deliver it?”
Mari’s eyes narrowed. She took a slow, deep breath.
“Yes, my liege.”
“Good.” Nessa drew her into a fervent kiss, a few scant seconds of passion in the cold. Then she pulled away. “Never forget who you are or who you serve. Now go, and tear that traitor to pieces. I’ll meet you at the mine when your work is done.”
Mari jumped down from the wagon and twirled her hand in the air, rallying the Coffin Boys at her back.
“Fall in,” Mari snapped, her voice as hard as her eyes. “We’ve got a witch to kill.”
* * *
The Hall of Justice loomed silent under a fresh blanket of snow, the wooden longhouse cold and dark. All of the windows shuttered, no angle for a bowman to snipe at the traitorous witch inside. Mari felt the hex as she approached the great front doors. It started as a prickling on her flesh, colder than the frost, then a twisting, knotting sensation in her guts. She took a step back and the sensation receded.
The guardsmen fanned out behind her, keeping a safe distance.
“Bear!” Mari bellowed. “You wanted me? I’m here. Let me in.”
She felt the e
nchantment fade.
“Don’t try to follow me inside,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the Coffin Boys.
“Don’t worry,” one said, “we…really weren’t planning on it.”
She took the stairs, boots crunching on hard snow, and pushed open the double doors alone.
Empty stands. An empty throne. And down in the fighting pit, where Mari had battled to save Felix’s life, Bear waited for her. His bone mask hung on his belt by a frayed twist of hemp. He’d wanted her to see his face, she reasoned. His sneering smile and dirty blond stubble, eyes gleeful as if he’d already defeated her.
In the far corner of the pit, wrists and ankles bound with heavy coils of rope, sat Veruca Barrett. The mayor looked up, spotted her, and grinned.
“Well, look who came home! I told you you’d be back. Nice outfit, too. Black leather is definitely your thing. Did you dress up just for me?”
Mari didn’t respond. She leaped down into the pit, squaring off against Bear on the opposite side. Her twin sickles tore free from her belt.
“Stay your hand, Renault,” Bear said. “I formally challenge you to a duel of honor.”
She strode toward him, eyes fixed dead ahead, her grip tightening.
“You will not,” Bear said, “of course, refuse the terms and risk sullying your good name. Now then, I’ll allow you the choice of weapons—”
She kept coming.
“—which, by right, allows me to pick the ground where we—”
He was still talking when she whipped her arms up, crossed them at the elbows, and scythed her blades down in one swift, lethal X.
Bear’s severed head thumped to the arena floor, rolling to a stop at Veruca’s feet. His body, blood spewing from the stump of his neck and spattering Mari’s face and hair like a baptism, slumped to its knees before falling flat at her feet.
“No duel,” Mari said. “You didn’t deserve one.”
“How about me?” asked a voice at her back.
Shadows boiled in the far corner of the arena pit. And out of the darkness walked Viper, flashing an open smile, running her tongue over her sharp, chiseled teeth. Her robes billowed through the air, fluttering to the ground at her feet, and she plucked two needle-thin daggers from the sleeves of her hunting leathers.
Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3) Page 22