“Do you miss him?”
“I miss the younger brother he once was, but he hadn’t been that for many years.” He considered his own drink then, looking long and hard into the rising steam. “I’ve wondered whether it was my own fault. Other children at court used to pick on us, you see; blue-bloods who looked down on our family. Sanders looked to me to defend us, but I wasn’t capable of standing up to the others. Not back then. Sanders developed his own armour, to act like he didn’t care at all. Or worse, to become one of those who, in turn, pick on more impoverished nobles; those with better blood but less gold. It was a vicious, spiteful little cycle. Father always took more of an interest in me as the first-born. Sanders had ample reason to resent me, to resent the status quo. We didn’t get along so well in the end.”
Lira faced him directly. This time it was she who placed the comforting hand on him. “You too were just a child.”
He nodded. “I hate what happened to him. I hate what he became. Thinking about how he hacked down that hunter in Torridon. It makes my blood run cold. Still, I’m glad I didn’t see Blaine actually kill him.”
Oh, real nice, she thought. Good one, bringing Blaine back into discussion. So smart, thoughtful. Alas, she hadn’t known that detail.
“I’ll tell you who I grieve for,” he said, in an oddly cheerful voice. “My first horse, Sorcha. I was seven and she was three, so we learned together. She was quite a social creature, always sidling up to annoy my mother’s mare in the stables. She was very protective of me and could be fierce, but I was never scared of her. I’d sneak her carrots from the kitchens to give her while out on longer country rides when no one else was watching. Cruelly, the years sapped her strength while mine increased. I was nineteen when she passed. I ran from the Chevalier barracks all the way to the stables, gaining all manner of blisters from my boots. I think she’d been holding on for me to get there before letting go. I brought a carrot for old times’ sake. I swear if horses could smile—” He choked. “Damnit, but I loved that horse.”
Lira’s hand fell from his shoulder, landing upon his own. “Well, Bruce is a very lucky horse to have you now.”
She became very aware of where her hand was. In the warm glow of the fire, she was all too aware of how pale she really was, how sickly looking. She hadn’t been a beauty before this stress, and hadn’t dared to find a mirror to observe the toll.
Yet when he met her eye, she rather felt that, for a moment, she was the only person in the world worth looking at.
“Lira,” Raymond began, “I know these last months have been hard but I—”
A voice rang from the stairs beyond.
“Prefect. Prefect Lira.”
Footsteps pounded down the corridor and within seconds there was a banging at the door. Lira growled and jumped to her feet. This had better be important. She braced herself because, of course, it would be.
“Perhaps Darnuir has woken?” she said aloud. “Come in.”
Several Praetorians near tumbled inside the room, all breathless. The matter was urgent indeed.
“General Fidelm has arrived with grave news, Prefect.”
“He begs you come at once.”
“Of course,” Lira said. “Raymond will you join—”
“I think I will change first.” Sheepishly, he pulled the bedspread even tighter around his person.
“That would be wise,” she said, already turning to leave. “We’ll see you down there.” If the other Praetorians had anything to say about Raymond’s dress or presence, they kept it to themselves, both in speech and expression. And she was quite thankful for that.
Down in the throne room, Fidelm, flanked by four of his fellow winged fairies, awaited her. His usual serene bearing was marked with distress, his dark skin further deepened under the dim, hastily arranged candlelight.
“General,” she said, reaching him.
He gave a curt nod. “Lira, can you trust your men implicitly?”
“Yes,” she said without any hesitation. “Whatever is the matter, Fidelm.”
The General gave her a grave look, then stepped aside. Behind him on the ground, between the fairies, was an elongated sack that could only be one thing.
She gulped. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know,” Fidelm said. “It is, however, a dragon.”
“You’re sure?”
Fidelm clicked his fingers and one of his warriors unveiled a large rectangular shield. The emblem of the Guardian was painted on it. Lira took hold of it, ran her hand over the grain as though to check it was real. She was left dumbstruck.
“We have had some luck,” Fidelm said. “It was one of my flyers who spotted the body being dragged through the streets. She descended to inspect it once the coast was clear.”
“Where was he found?”
“On the outskirts of the human quarters in the Lower City. Specifically, at the narrow neck of streets between the plateau’s base and the western wall.”
“I assume those carrying the body were masked or hooded,” she said.
“All that could be discerned was that there were several of them, suggesting they needed the extra strength to dispose of the body quickly, suggesting they were—”
“Humans,” Lira finished. Her throat felt chalk dry. “Who else knows?”
“So far, only my most trusted flyers, you, these Praetorians here. And Raymond also, it would seem.”
Raymond then joined them, now dressed in a shirt, jerkin and trousers; the chill of the night perhaps forgotten in the heat of the situation.
“Surely, we are at the point of confronting Blaine,” he said.
“We can’t,” Lira said. “Do you think he’ll sit idly by if he discovers humans have killed one of his own?”
Fidelm’s wings buzzed gently. “He will surely find out sooner than later. If one of his men turns up missing—”
“He has so many these days I doubt he’ll even notice.”
“Someone will notice,” Raymond said. “If not Blaine himself then Bacchus or the older one, Chelos.”
Lira looked to Fidelm for support, but he seemed eager for action. His fingers twitched, anticipating drawing his double-bladed spear. Was this what they’d come to? So cooped up, so mistrustful and resentful and lacking in leadership, they were ready to tear at each other’s throats?
“No,” she said flatly. “I won’t have revenge killings. I won’t have the city going to war with itself. I won’t have Darnuir awaken to an insurmountable mess. Fidelm,” she rounded on him with what little energy she had left, “I’m grateful you brought this directly to me but I’m surprised at how quickly you wish to come to blows. Darnuir would not be pleased.”
“Darnuir is not present,” Fidelm said lowly. “And with all due respect, do you believe that he, of all people, would hold back on this?”
“You’re right, he wouldn’t hold back,” Lira said. “He’d go thundering off, sword in hand and temper flared. But where did that get him before? Chained to a chair, leaving us to deal with this. And with all due respect, General, I command the Praetorians, and I will not draw my own sword just yet. You won’t take Blaine on alone. We’d need to bring the legates in as well.”
Fidelm’s wings twitched again. “I wouldn’t be so certain of who’s side the legates would pick, Prefect. I do not think we want to risk finding out. If we are to act, it must be hard and swift.”
Fists clenched, she turned to Raymond next.
“Striking by surprise in the dead of night is not an honourable move,” Raymond said. She smiled, thankful for his support but Fidelm rolled his eyes.
“There is honour and then there is necessity. I have given my council, but the decision is, as you point out, yours. I cannot move without you.”
“We keep this quiet,” she said. “And we make haste with what I hope will be a peaceful solution.�
�� She explained to Fidelm their plan for the peninsula.
“It won’t work,” he said.
“We will try regardless,” she said through gritted teeth.
“You will,” Fidelm said. “As you have clearly decided. There seems nothing more to discuss for now, we shall take our leave.” He clicked his fingers again and his fairies formed into a single rank to march from the throne room. Fidelm followed them.
“Thank you,” Lira called after him. But he did not respond.
“What’s his problem?” Raymond said. “Not exactly serene and fairy like.”
“It’s this horrible restlessness we all find ourselves in,” Lira said. She glared down at the body bag. Why? Why had whoever he’d been ventured into the human streets and provoked them?
She needed Darnuir back now more than ever. They all needed him back or there might be little left for him to return to.
Chapter 7
CONDEMNED RESEARCH
“A story gives delight to read though it be fabulous indeed. Why must we know the fact from fae, it tells the truth in its own way.”
— From Jon Barbor’s Scorching of the Dales
Cassandra – Her Private Chambers
A CANDLE BURNED to keep the night at bay. The palace was quiet beyond her room, the ink well was drained to its last drops, and the stack of letters barely dwindled. For every two she signed, it felt like another three were added to the pile.
A soft grunt came from the nearby crib, and Cassandra glanced up from her work to check on her nephew. Still asleep. A small mercy. Cullen had taken ages to settle this time, and had left her with a nice headache as a present. But she was more than happy to watch him when Olive took her well-earned days off or went outside the palace.
Cullen was a pudgy, little bundle of innocence amidst a life of intrigue, suspicion and word games here in the palace. She felt the same about Thane, doubly so because he could even talk, and run, and joke and laugh with her. Thane and Cullen gave her the first chance that she’d had of knowing family members for life, and she planned on making the most of it.
Cullen began whistling lightly from his nose, then gargled, then mewled. Just as Cassandra thought she ought to do something, he snorted loudly, then rolled his head to the side to get comfortable. She couldn’t help but giggle at the whole affair. Whoever said that babies slept peacefully clearly hadn’t been around one very much. His little chest rose and fell in a gentle rhythm, and she was satisfied all was well.
She returned her attention to the tottering stacks of letters, moving Cullen’s empty milk horn aside to give herself more room. Five letters later, a pain shot through her wrist.
I really am a proper princess now, she thought, rubbing gently at her ailing joint. Getting a sore hand from writing too many letters. I better slow it down before the legends of my ferocity grow too wild.
With a sense of guilt, she picked the top template off the nearest stack to continue. In neat black print, this letter began the same as all the rest:
Dearest member of the Kingdom of Brevia,
It is with a heavy heart that the Crown must inform you of the loss of
This was where Cassandra wrote by hand the name of the soldier. At the appropriate points, she would insert the battle or location of their death, where they were buried, and what of their possessions had been recovered. But other than her additions, each was identical. In times past, the royal who wrote the letter would have done it all by hand; given it a certain personal touch. Such things were over. Times had changed, and Arkus had ordered Tarquill to print thousands of copies. At least Jasper had foregone sticking his seal on them all.
She checked the duplicate of the military log that she’d been given and filled out the details of the next name on the list. This man had been a weaver’s son, from the western coast of the Golden Crescent. He’d died on Eastguard, a long way from home. A single gold coin would be handed over with the letter to his mother, the first payment of a monthly stipend that would last for one year.
Though she tried not to admit it, she’d gotten bored enough during one session to flick through a dry tome on the history of the city by Maddock the Scribe. According to him, until the Second War it had been five gold pieces each month for ten years, but after this conflict, the Hunters were formed into an official arm of the kingdom under the eye of Elsie the Green. Because of this commitment from the Crown, the stipend dropped to three pieces each month for only three years. In the here and now, Arkus had almost wiped it out entirely.
She wondered how the writings of this time would consider his actions. Would they condemn Arkus for removing an insurance for his subjects or would they praise him endlessly for doing what was necessary to save the kingdom, even the world, when the formidable dragons could not? It would all depend on whether they survived the coming years or, moreover, who survived to tell the tale.
Already Arkus had spun so many tales. Few would know the truth. Fewer still would ever bother to discover it. And the years would tick by.
What had happened to turn so many against him? Boreac said they’d once been friends, and Annandale had shouted much the same as they’d dragged him away. Perhaps he could shed more light on it.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Come in,” Cassandra said, placing her quill back in the ink well.
A thin, middle-aged, severe-looking woman poked her head around the frame. It was Olive, the woman she’d interrogated at Lord Boreac’s manor. Thankfully, it had gone unspoken that the trickery Cassandra had employed to get information about Boreac would never need to be discussed.
“Get anything nice?” Cassandra asked. Olive had mentioned a trip to the shops near the Velvet Circle.
“I needed some fresh stockings,” Olive said crisply. She peered hawkishly over to the crib. “How has he been?”
“Well, he got a lot quieter when he fell asleep.”
“Mmm,” Olive mused. “He likes to know he’s got your attention. His mother was a bit like that, going in a huff until you did what she wanted. How Cosmo put up with her—” She stopped herself and smiled weakly instead. “I shouldn’t drone on. They were good for each other.”
“You must miss her?” Cassandra said.
“Missed her since the day I left the Boreacs, but that was many long years before, well before all of this.” She sniffed lightly, her brusque demeanour faltering. “I’ll take him off your hands now, Princess. Let you get on with your work.”
“Alright,” Cassandra said, somewhat wistfully as Olive carefully picked Cullen up. The woman was indeed experienced. Cassandra almost always woke Cullen whenever she had to move him. “Bye, bye,” she said, giving a small wave, although he would not see it.
“Good night, Princess,” Olive said. She took her leave.
Cassandra returned to the letter she’d been filling in about the weaver’s son from the Golden Crescent. She’d almost finished. Each one ended with the same words, ‘with our sincere condolences’. She was to sign her name below. Cassandra decided to add a little extra to this one and wrote: ‘I’m so sorry’. These words weren’t enough, but they were written by hand, and that might make it look like somebody else cared.
She sealed it, placed it within the half-full sack at her feet, brushed her hair off her face and looked to the others. The remaining piles now felt crushing. She’d signed away too many lives. Guilt bit at her as she got to her feet. She ought to get through them all, but she couldn’t get her mind away from Arkus and Annandale. She yearned for answers and sitting in her room wasn’t going to get her any. And if she was going to have a chance of speaking with Annandale before his execution, she knew just who could help her with that.
Mere minutes later, having torn through the palace to find him, she received her answer.
“Absolutely not,” Balack said, turning green at the very thought.<
br />
“And why not?”
“Because – because if Arkus finds out you went down there—”
“But he won’t find out. Will he, Balack?”
The so-called Hero of the Bastion opened his mouth, hung it like a fish, then closed it without a word. He too had been given a private room within the palace, the better for Arkus to summon him when required. She’d found him there, bent like an archivist over his own correspondence. A pile of unopened letters sat to one side of a heap of ripped paper and broken seals; though unlike her letters, these were ones he had received.
Cassandra placed her hands on her hips, awaiting an answer. Balack growled lowly and placed his head in his hands.
“Are you asking as a friend or ordering me as a princess?”
“I’d hope as a friend.”
“Why do you want to speak with him anyway? The man’s a traitor. Unless… unless you look to take more direct revenge?”
“Of course, I don’t,” Cassandra said sharply.
“Good,” Balack said, pushing his chair back with a screech.
“So, we can go now,” Cassandra said, half-turning towards the door.
“I didn’t say I was going to help.”
“Did I mention how good you’re looking these days?”
Standing to his full height, his shoulders looked broader than ever; his neck was thicker and his forearms rippled beneath the white brace of his rolled-up sleeves. Arkus’ desire for Balack to look the part had gone beyond just the cared for hair, the surgically trimmed beard and even, when times demanded it, the brush of red powder on his cheeks.
“Flattery won’t help you either. Why is this so important to you?”
“It’s hard to explain,” she said. And it was. She barely understood the compulsion herself, only that she needed to hear the other side to all of this. Annandale was one of the few people left who still had their own opinion intact. Whether she’d get the honest truth was another question entirely.
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