After an awkward pause, Iria shook her head, looking vaguely embarrassed.
“So here we are.” She glanced at the door, then gave him a shy half smile. “I apologize for my mother, Your Highness. Anything she said that sounded too good to be true? Assume it was. She’s … not exactly a master of subtlety.”
Wirr returned the smile with a rueful one of his own. “I’m not sure she was trying to be, just then.”
Iria laughed, the sound only slightly nervous. Wirr suddenly felt a wave compassion for her. It wasn’t her fault that they were here, any more than it was his.
As he already had several times, he considered explaining to Iria that his romantic interests lay elsewhere—without revealing any specifics—but as before, he dismissed the idea straight away. Perhaps Iria was as pleasant as she seemed and wouldn’t use the information to her advantage, but if her father caught wind … Wirr didn’t even want to think about the consequences.
They chatted for a while, Wirr polite but carefully distant, not wanting to convey the wrong impression. Slowly, he began to relax. The evening had been awkward, but not nearly so bad as he’d imagined. And it was close to over.
Suddenly he frowned, whatever Iria was saying fading into the background. Nothing had noticeably changed, but the air abruptly felt … heavier.
There were no incidental noises from outside the room now, either.
He glanced across at Andyn, whose brow was furrowed. More than anything else, the bodyguard’s tense posture told Wirr that something was amiss.
Wirr held up a hand to Iria, indicating that she should stop speaking. Iria stared at him in confusion, flushing, and he realized she probably thought that he was being rude. Ignoring her, he cautiously reached for Essence.
It was there … but sure enough, when he tried to draw some of it, nothing happened.
He turned to Andyn, his voice low and urgent. “Someone’s activated a Trap.”
As if to punctuate the words, there was a sharp shout of alarm from somewhere outside the dining room. Andyn drew his blade as the far door to the room crashed open, two men and a woman in dark clothes striding through.
Andyn immediately moved toward them; the woman pointed a crossbow in Wirr’s direction, but Andyn had positioned himself to block the shot.
She fired anyway.
Wirr’s bodyguard staggered backward from the impact and then crumpled to the floor, a dark-red patch spreading rapidly across his shirt, bolt embedded in his stomach. The woman who had shot him swept forward barely without pause, reloading the crossbow almost absently, eyes fixed on Wirr.
Wirr and Iria both yelled for the guards, but Wirr knew even as they did so that anyone who responded wouldn’t get there in time. He glanced around; fortunately the hall was long and the attackers had entered from the far side. There were no weapons at hand, though. Iria snatched up a knife from beside her dinner plate, but Wirr knew that even if she somehow got into position to use it, it would be useless.
He pushed Iria toward the closest door, and headed there himself.
Before he could move two paces it opened, another three men entering with blades drawn. Steel glinted in the candlelight only where it did not have dark blood smeared on it.
Iria was ahead of Wirr, her momentum taking her directly into the newcomers. The one closest to her shoved her aside, his target clearly Wirr. There was a crashing of plates and cutlery as Iria ricocheted off the table; she cried out, falling to her knees.
She still had her knife, though. As the last man went to walk past her she leaned over and swung viciously.
The bald man roared with pain and anger as the knife dug into his thigh, collapsing on one knee and twisting toward Iria, violence in his eyes as he raised his sword. Wirr snatched up a dish from the table and hurled it at the man, the pottery shattering as it hit him in the face, causing him to fall backward with a snarl.
“Get help!” shouted Wirr to Iria. His path to the doorway was still blocked, but hers was not.
Iria didn’t need encouragement. Gasping, she scrambled around her assailant and fled.
Wirr snatched another plate from the table and threw it, but this time his target was watching and ducked it easily, sneering as he did so. Wirr backed away, but he was caught between the two groups coming toward him, and he was unarmed.
Even if Iria found help, it was not going to be in time.
He leaped across to the other side of the table, buying himself a few extra seconds. “I don’t suppose we can talk about this?” he said shakily, unable to keep the panic from his tone as his attackers adjusted with slow but confident steps, hemming him in.
Then the tip of a sword appeared through the chest of the closest assailant to Wirr’s right.
Wirr gaped as the man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slid to the ground. Everyone froze; there was a shocked silence as the attacker standing next to him lowered his blade, staring at the body of his comrade, confusion quickly turning to horror.
“What in all fates?” snarled the woman with the crossbow. “What are you—”
She cut off with a choking sound and Wirr turned to see her clutching at her neck, beads of red dribbling between her fingers. The man who had slit her throat tossed aside his blade; before anyone could move, he calmly picked up her weapon from where she’d dropped it and fired.
The bolt flew past Wirr’s face and took another assailant in the eye.
There were three bodies on the floor now, and the fourth attacker, whom Iria had stabbed, appeared to have retreated. It had all happened in a matter of moments.
“He’s doing something to us,” snarled one of the two remaining men, fear thick in his voice as he broke the stunned silence. He stepped forward, raising his sword.
Then spun and slashed it across his still-confused-looking comrade’s face.
Wirr finally recovered enough to force his limbs to move, diving for one of the fallen assassin’s swords and holding it out in front of him. His hand was shaking. He’d seen violence, seen more death than he’d ever expected to over the past year, but this …
“The danger has passed, Prince Torin.” The sole remaining attacker lowered his blade and held up his free hand in a calming gesture. “My name is Scyner. I wish only to talk.”
Wirr frowned for a moment, still dazed at the turn of events. Then comprehension set in.
“You’re the Augur,” he said softly. “The one working for the Shadraehin.” He swallowed, staring around at the bloodied corpses. “You … you did all of this?”
“Yes.” Scyner said the word without emotion.
Wirr stared at him. “Why?”
“Your well-being is important. Let that be enough, for now.” Scyner sighed as he saw the doubt in Wirr’s expression. “Very well. My time here is limited, so listen carefully. I know of your investigation into how the weapons against the Gifted came to be in Administration’s hands twenty years ago. How the Tenets came to be. Ultimately, I have been watching you because I was waiting for an opportunity to give you the answers you are looking for. I hadn’t considered this to be one,” he added drily.
Wirr clenched his fists, though it was to prevent them from continuing to shake rather than from anger. “And in return?”
“In return, we begin building a trust.” Scyner held his gaze steadily. “No matter what you have heard about me, we want the same thing—the restoration of the Boundary, and the final defeat of the forces behind it. You and I will be working together soon enough toward that end. It is important that you understand what we are dealing with when that happens, as well as the role you will need to play.”
Wirr licked his lips, forcing himself not to scoff. Scyner had murdered all of the old Augurs—had admitted as much in front of Asha. And he’d killed Asha’s friend.
Wirr had no intention of ever working with this man, but now did not seem like the time to mention it.
“Then tell me. Tell me how Administration came by the weapons,” he said.
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Scyner smiled, though it was mostly a baring of teeth. “I do not need to Read you to know that you would not trust a single word that passes my lips, Prince Torin—and besides, there is nowhere near enough time to explain everything so that you would understand.” He glanced at the door as distant shouts began to filter into the room. “I am hoping that you will believe your father, though.”
“My father is dead,” said Wirr, anger and frustration and dazed confusion burning only just beneath the surface.
“Go to his study at the Tel’Andras estate. There is a safe hidden there behind the wall, accessible only to the Northwarden. You will know it when you see it.” Scyner gave him a small, encouraging nod. “You will find your answers there. Once you do—once you understand—I hope that you will be willing to hear me out in full.”
He raised his sword again, and Wirr took a step back, tensing.
Scyner turned the blade and plunged it into his own stomach.
Wirr watched in frozen horror as the man collapsed silently to the ground, mouth opening and closing as the light died from his eyes.
The shouts from outside the room were louder now, and then suddenly there were people crowding around him.
He barely registered them, unable to take his eyes from the carnage in front him.
Someone gently took the sword from his hand, guiding him to a seat. Iria, he thought; the young woman was surprisingly calm given the circumstances. Was that impressive, or suspicious? Suddenly he didn’t know where to look, who to trust.
“Torin!” It was Iria, shaking him gently by the arm, sounding concerned. “Torin, are you injured?”
Wirr turned, bemusedly taking in what was happening. He and the Tel’Rath family were surrounded by tense-looking guards. Lord and Lady Tel’Rath were staring at the bodies on the floor with a mixture of fear and horror; whether it was because of the corpses, or because they were thinking about what this would do to their reputation, he wasn’t entirely sure. Iria’s eyes were fixed on him—concerned, but there was something else in her expression, too.
He focused, snapping back to the present.
“Fates! Andyn!” He shoved his way past the startled-looking guards and rushed over to his bodyguard, dropping to his knees. Andyn was unconscious but still drawing uneven, rasping breaths. The injury was a bad one, the crossbow bolt still embedded in Andyn’s stomach, but the attackers’ Trap was no longer in effect.
Wirr shrugged off halfhearted efforts to pull him away and closed his eyes, letting Essence flow out of him and into Andyn’s wound, simultaneously using another strand of energy to gently draw the bolt out of his body. It was a strain—wounds this bad took an enormous amount of Essence to heal—but when he eventually sat back, drained, Andyn’s breathing had become more regular.
This time he didn’t resist the hands that looped under his arms and gently lifted him to his feet.
The next few minutes passed in a blur. He was being asked and asked again if he was injured; then he was rushed away past even more bodies in the corridors leading outside, vaguely understanding that he needed to be taken back to the palace as quickly as possible, that he couldn’t stay any longer because there was an ongoing threat.
His carriage and driver were still waiting where he had left them out in front. The situation was quickly explained to the driver, who looked uneasy but was reassured that four of Tel’Rath’s guards would be packed inside the carriage, and another eight would be escorting it outside.
Before Wirr could even bid the Tel’Raths farewell, he was away, the carriage moving steadily along the wet, darkened streets of Ilin Illan, more slowly than usual to account for the men jogging alongside. There was silence inside, those assigned to protect him looking out the windows watchfully and not inclined to conversation.
That suited Wirr just fine at the moment. He needed time to calm down, to think. Scyner clearly hadn’t just committed suicide: he had to have been Controlling the man Wirr had been speaking to, just as he’d Controlled the others to make them turn on their allies. What he’d told Wirr about his father’s study, though … Wirr didn’t know what to make of it.
Scyner had been right about one thing, though. Wirr didn’t trust a single word out of the Augur’s mouth, no matter what he’d just done to save him.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, letting the silence of the trip calm him. By the time the carriage had pulled up outside the palace, his head was clearer and he felt close to in control again.
King Andras and Karaliene were waiting to meet him as he alighted.
“Torin!” Karaliene enveloped him in a hug, and his uncle soon followed.
“I’m all right,” he assured them after a few moments. He frowned. “How did you …?”
“Lord Tel’Rath sent a runner ahead of your carriage.” Kevran frowned. “I wish he’d waited. I would have sent more men to accompany you.”
Now that he was home and among familiar faces, Wirr felt his tensed muscles finally beginning to relax. His uncle’s towering figure was nothing if not reassuring; the king had always been a large, powerfully built man, but the illness he’d suffered before the Blind’s attack had robbed him of a lot of his presence. That was finally beginning to return, now that he was close to full strength again.
“I’m here safely. That’s all I care about right now,” Wirr admitted, a wave of exhaustion washing over him.
“We’re just glad you weren’t harmed,” said Karaliene quietly, squeezing his arm.
They went inside, finding a convenient room where they could talk privately.
“Assassins,” muttered the king as he sat, the word a curse on his lips. “Even after the threats, I didn’t really think …” He sighed. “Do you have any idea who they were?”
“None. Plain clothes, plain weapons.” Wirr quickly shook his head to the king’s questioning look. “And no—I don’t think the Tel’Raths were involved. Iria was lucky not to get killed.” He hesitated, considering mentioning Scyner’s involvement but immediately discounting the idea. His uncle had been vehemently against the idea of him looking into the Vessels that had facilitated the war twenty years ago. Wirr hadn’t decided if he was going to pursue what Scyner had told him, but he at least wanted the opportunity to do so.
Kevran grunted. “I’ll still be asking how armed men made it into their dining room,” he said grimly. “One was caught, apparently. Hopefully he can lead us to whomever was behind it.”
Karaliene opened her mouth to add something, but suddenly there was a disturbance outside the room. Wirr stiffened, for a moment fearing the worst, but then restrained a weary smile as he recognized the raised voice outside.
“I am aware of exactly who is in there.” Dezia’s words were loud and firm. “If you would just go in and ask—”
Wirr moved over to the door and opened it a crack, peering through and shooting Dezia a tired grin. Then he raised an eyebrow at the guard. “She can come in.”
Dezia rolled her eyes, but accepted Wirr’s motioned invitation to enter, glaring at the guard on her way past. Once the door was shut, she turned to Wirr and examined him with narrowed eyes.
“So I hear your dinner didn’t go too well,” she said eventually. The words were delivered lightly, but Wirr heard the strain in her voice clearly enough.
“It was a little more exciting than I thought it would be. But everyone’s all right.” Wirr gave her a slight, reassuring nod.
Dezia breathed out, the tension in her shoulders easing.
“Well. As long as the Tel’Raths are safe,” she said. “I was worried for them when I heard.”
There was a cough from across the room. Wirr and Dezia turned to see Kevran watching them with a mixture of concern and amusement, with Karaliene standing a little behind him. Her expression was similar, but with markedly less concern.
“Dezia,” said the king, giving her a wide, dangerous smile. “I had no idea you knew my nephew so well.”
Dezia flushed. “I … we travel
ed together from Desriel, of course,” she stammered, suddenly remembering who else was in the room. “When I heard about the attack, I wanted to make sure he … that everyone was all right for myself.”
“Your concern is touching,” said the king, his expression not changing.
Karaliene spoke up. “And you must be quite well informed, too, ’Zia. I mean to say—you heard about it very quickly. Almost as quickly as we did, and we were the first ones to know. And we were waiting to hear how the dinner had gone,” she added.
Dezia reddened further, then glowered at Karaliene. “I’m well informed about a lot of things, you know,” she said, a little ominously.
Karaliene, still standing behind her father, blushed and subsided. Fortunately for her, the king didn’t notice the exchange, instead looking between Wirr and Dezia thoughtfully.
He said nothing, though, for which Wirr was grateful. He knew he might be summoned for a frank discussion later, but now—tonight—all he wanted to do was go to bed and get some rest. He was suddenly, awfully tired.
“Not everyone got away uninjured,” he said quietly, knowing that he was dampening the mood again, but too tired to care. “Andyn took a crossbow bolt to the stomach.”
Dezia gave him a sympathetic look. “How is he?”
“I healed him; he should be fine. I’m about to go and see if he’s back now, though, and check on him.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Kevran frowned at Wirr. “If Andyn’s condition changes, I’ll make sure you’re informed. But you need to rest, Torin. You can barely keep your eyes open, let alone stand.”
Wirr made to protest, but was sabotaged by a wide yawn in place of words. He grunted. “First thing in the morning, then,” he said, a little sheepishly. “The man got hurt because of me, Uncle.”
“He did his job.” Kevran said the words without cynicism, but Wirr could hear the rebuke. “He did it well, and you’re right to be grateful. But it’s what he’s paid for.” He rubbed his chin. “In light of what has happened tonight, I’m wondering if it might be a good idea for you to get out of the city for a while. Easier to give you increased security without raising any questions, and …”
An Echo of Things to Come Page 13