by Jon Sprunk
Caim opened his eyes. The shadow beast crouched before him, its bright gaze locked on him. He felt like there was a question in its look. What do you want from me?
But the answer shivered in his hand. The sword twitched, wavering before Caim, and he saw the blade for what it was, a weight around his neck dragging him down. Killing had become easy, convenient. How long before he started to enjoy it? Or is it already too late?
Caim flung out his hand. The hilt stuck to his palm for a moment, and then the blade sprang free with a tearing sound. Before it touched the floor, the shadow beast leapt.
Caim opened his arms as the creature struck. Instead of knocking him down, the beast plunged into his chest. Not through him, as Kit had done countless times, but into him, into his flesh. The pain was beyond anything he’d ever felt, worse than the bear mauling. It tore all coherent thought from his brain. He saw his mother again, leaning over his bed. The pillow came down… No!
She sang to him as she touched his chest. For a moment he could not breathe. It felt like he was underwater. And then…
With a small, sad smile she pulled away. In her hand was a ball of darkly shining light. For a moment it looked like a little animal, all black and glossy, curled up in her palm. He sat up as she left the room. Don’t go, Mommy. I’ll be good. I’ll be…
Caim grunted as the witch’s icy nails dug into his skull. Caught between the twin torments of the beast and her touch, he could only hold onto the tattered edges of consciousness and ride the pain, hoping to see the other side of it. He heard the sound of breaking glass, and then he was splintering into a thousand pieces. I’ll be good. Just come back.
The agony faded. He was whole again. Not just in body. Something pulsed inside him, filling a space he had never known was vacant. Before he could plumb the new feeling, a furious hiss erupted behind him.
Caim turned, faster than he expected. His body moved with a speed and a grace he had never known before. Sybelle glared at him, holding up her hands as if they had been singed. Her lips parted to speak, and Caim opened a portal before him. As he passed through, a sudden inspiration made him split the gateway’s path into two forks. He didn’t know quite how he did it, but when he exited the portal, another empty hole yawned on the other side of the room. He hurled his suete knife as Sybelle turned to the wrong one. A pair of shadows flew up to deflect the missile. She reached out to Caim, and a shaft of pitch-black energy leapt across the distance between them.
Caim thrust out his empty hand without thinking. The air shimmered in front of him as the bolt of energy vanished. How in the hells did I…?
But he was too busy to think as the witch launched a volley of spectral attacks at him. Some he saw coming, but others he could only defend by instinct. Time and time again he neutralized them. He took a step toward the witch. Her features changed as he closed in, from rage to frustration to the first inkling of apprehension. When she hurled another bolt of black lightning, Caim focused his attention on her motions. The energy dissipated into the air before it reached him. Sybelle curled her hands into white-knuckled fists. Something passed behind her eyes. A portal opened beside her. Caim traced its path through the darkness; it led outside the chamber to somewhere in the north quarter of the city. Before she could step through, he slashed the air with his hand.
Sybelle emerged from the portal only a few yards from where she had entered and jerked to a halt before she collided with the wall. She turned to him with an expression of astonishment. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but he didn’t give her the opportunity to bewitch him; he lashed out with every shadow at his disposal. He lost sight of her in the vicious whirlwind of darkness. When she fell to the floor, he lifted a hand.
The shadows parted to reveal the witch propped against the pool’s retaining wall. Her skin had taken on a pale sheen. Rivulets of blood trickled down her face and neck, and leaked from the many rips in her diaphanous gown. She looked nothing at all like the imposing sorceress she had been before. But Caim didn’t care.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Sybelle coughed, and winced as her upper body convulsed. Her hand reached down to caress a shadow shivering at her side like a despondent pet. Caim dropped to one knee and grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Tell me where she is!”
Her lips turned upward in a crooked smile. “You have her eyes.”
Caim shook her hard. “Where is…?”
Her hands latched onto his wrists. “Find Erebus. Your moth-”
Caim jerked away as a curl of smoke rose from her mouth. Stumbling to his feet, he could only watch as green flames erupted from her clothes. Even as she burned, the witch did not cry out, but only watched him with her midnight eyes, eyes he had chased across leagues and decades only to see her end like this. A word whispered from her smiling, charred lips.
“Erric.”
Her body collapsed into itself, the fire’s greedy fingers licking the air, until only a pile of gray ash remained on the floor.
Find Erebus. Was that a person? It sounded more like a place. Caim recalled the black fortress from his vision, and the man on the balcony.
Across the chamber, the black sword lay against the wall where he had thrown it. It was quiet now, showing no sign of its earlier zeal. For an instant, the urge to pick it up and turn it upon himself was overwhelming.
“Caim!”
Kit appeared out of nowhere and jumped into his arms. Her touch was a mere tingle on his skin, but it had never felt so good.
“I thought you were dead,” she murmured into his chest. “I was shut out. I couldn’t feel you. I thought…”
“I’m all right.”
She looked at him, her features drawn up in an expression more earnest than he had ever seen on her before.
“I love you,” she said.
“I know.” He tried to swallow, but his mouth had dried up. “I love you, too.”
The words were true before he spoke them, but saying them aloud had a power all its own. There was no taking it back. He tensed as she floated up and kissed him. Electric tingles ran through his lips and across his tongue.
“I’ve been wanting to do that,” she said, not nearly as breathless as he was, “for a damned long time.”
He was still enjoying the rush when she held him close and asked, “What about Josey?”
“I don’t know.”
Over her slim shoulder, he stared at the pile of ash.
“I don’t know.”
CHAPTER FORTY
“Is everything all right, Josey?” Anastasia called from outside the door.
Inside the water closet, Josey braced herself for another painful upheaval. The morning had begun rather tamely as she arose and sat at the table in her chambers, where Anastasia joined her for breakfast. But when she started to eat, something about the consistency of the eggs on her breakfast dish had-
She shuddered as a mouthful of bile slipped from her lips and down the noisome hole. The close air inside the stall made her feel worse. Dabbing her mouth with a cloth, Josey pushed open the door.
Anastasia stood outside with Amelia and Margaret, all three of them wearing looks of concern. Of course, ’Stasia had told her maids about her condition. Now they fluttered about her like mother hens, clucking and giving her all manner of unsolicited advice. I suppose it’s better than having them in mortal fear that I’ve been poisoned every morning.
Indeed, they took the news well enough, neither giving her a sour eye nor shirking from their duties in the slightest. Which well they might, being among the few who know that their empress is carrying the bastard child of a self-exiled assassin. That’s if it’s Caim’s child at all. Of course it is! Don’t even think about -
“You don’t look well, my lady,” Margaret said. “You should try to eat something.”
Amelia nodded as she arranged Josey’s hair. “At least a piece of toasted bread. And a posset to settle your nerves.”
Josey folded her hands over her
belly. Just the thought of spiced wine mixed with curdled milk made her queasy. “Please don’t talk about food.”
Her maids looked to Anastasia, who shook her head with an insanely darling pout.
“Josey, you must-”
Just as Amelia started explaining that she must eat to keep up her strength, a loud voice called from the doorway.
“Majesty!”
Josey swallowed the sour taste in her mouth as Hubert rushed into her bedchamber. What is it the man does not understand about personal privacy?
But she was willing to forgive him, as the cane he leaned upon reminded her of the sacrifice he had been willing to make on her behalf. The events in the catacombs had been a nightmare, one she would be glad to forget. But Hirsch had gotten them out alive-another debt she owed the adept. Sadly, not everyone had emerged from those tunnels alive. Two more of her guardsmen were dead. A bad affair all around.
After the bodies were retrieved, she’d ordered the tunnels sealed. The soldiers were laid to rest with full honors beside the tombs of other national heroes; Merts and Volek were buried in unmarked graves outside the city.
“Shouldn’t you be abed, Lord Chancellor?”
Anastasia gave Hubert a sideways glance. “Yes, I believe Her Majesty is correct.”
Josey watched the exchange with a smile. She had worried about how Anastasia would recover from her father’s death, but this morning her best friend seemed to be past the worst of it-with a little assistance from the lord chancellor. She wished the best for them both.
Hubert glanced at Josey, and then to the open water closet. Margaret nudged the door shut with her foot.
“The delegation has arrived,” he said.
Josey sighed. And it started off as such a lovely day.
“I still have my doubts, Majesty,” Hubert said. “I wish you would reconsider.”
“We’ve already had this discussion. More than once. This is my decision. If you will not-”
He bowed as low as his injuries would allow. “Of course I will. I’ll see to it personally.”
Struggling not to beat him over the head with the nearest object, Josey shooed him away. Then she allowed herself to be stripped, sponged, powdered, corseted, and draped in a shapeless sack that her seamstress claimed was the height of fashion in Brevenna. Only when her hair was arranged, her face made up, and her entire body misted with citrus perfume did her maids allow her to leave the boudoir. Anastasia watched the whole affair with an amused smile.
“I’ll see you later,” Josey said to her friend.
Anastasia performed a deep curtsy. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Josey stepped into the corridor with mincing steps. She was beginning to feel a little better. Don’t think about your stomach. Think about what you’re going to do. Hubert has everything arranged. All I have to do is play my part and everything will go fine. So why do I feel so wretched?
She knew why, but knowing didn’t make her feel any better. She was on the cusp of a decision. To act or not, and either choice presented its own dangers. Why couldn’t being an empress be all about wearing nice clothes and knighting handsome heroes?
With her bodyguards in tow, she descended the broad staircase to the ground floor. The Grand Hall was lit with hundreds of white candles, lending the chamber a ghostly ambience that made the time feel more like evening than midmorning. Hubert and Lord Parmian stood beside the dais. Ozmond greeted her with a firm nod. He wore a new chain signifying his elevation to the rank of viscount.
Most of the Thurim’s members had taken their seats. Every head turned as Josey entered. Concentrating on not tripping over the hem of her gown, she crossed the floor. She glanced up, and then looked again when she noticed blots of fresh color on the ceiling. Where the Church’s propaganda had once glared down, now traditional scenes of Nimean history were beginning to emerge. Although the restoration work had just begun, she could make out the faces of emperors and empresses in their fine regalia. The largest figure, occupying a central position, was a face she knew.
Smiling, Josey climbed the steps of the dais and turned to the hall. She took a deep breath and let it out. With a nod to Hubert, she sat down. The guardsmen flanking the main entrance opened the tall doors. A dozen men stood in the atrium. Eight were soldiers in the uniform of the Nimean army. The first units from the nearest garrison towns had arrived late last night. By morning they had secured High Town and begun the task of reinstalling the rule of law in Low Town. The soldiers surrounded four men in clerical raiment. The man at their forefront wore a dour expression.
Not the honor guard you were expecting when next you returned to the palace, Prelate?
Josey kept her expression neutral as the soldiers escorted the Church leaders into the hall. Instead of his former raiment, Innocence wore only a white cassock belted with a sash of crimson silk. As the delegation halted, the prelate looked up at the ceiling, and his expression hardened.
Lady Philomena stood up from her seat among the Thurim as the hierarchs were led before the throne. “This is preposterous! How dare the court summon Our Holy Father in such a disgraceful fash-?”
“Be silent,” Josey said.
The lady stared, her mouth agape. She sat down with an unladylike grunt. Josey’s eyes never left the members of the delegation.
“Lord Chancellor, the next person who speaks without our consent is to be taken outside and flogged.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
At Hubert’s signal, the soldiers turned inward to face the clerics. Josey waited to see if any of them would be fool enough to test her. But none did. Too bad. It would have made for a fitting example to the others.
“I have summoned Your Holiness to this court,” she said, “to hear defense against the charges laid against yourself and your ministers.”
One of the hierarchs, a venerable priest in white vestments, shuffled forward to speak, but the prelate stopped him with a clearing of his throat.
Prelate Innocence worked his mouth around before muttering, “Have I permission to speak?”
“You do.”
“Then we demand to know the whereabouts of Archpriest Gaspar. The unwarranted seizure of his person is cause for-”
“You will answer the charges put before Your Holiness.”
“The True Church recognizes no authority invested in this court.” The creases of his brow wriggled back and forth as he spoke, animating the upper portion of his face. “Furthermore, the seizing of our person is an act of defiance against the Prophet Himself. It is you who shall be judged, and not I.”
Hubert stepped forward and dropped a bundle at the prelate’s feet.
Josey pointed. “Whether you acknowledge our authority or not, you will answer for this.”
At a gesture from his master, the old priest bent down to pick up the bundle. He opened it to reveal two torn and bloodstained tabards in crimson, each bearing the golden circle of the Sacred Brotherhood.
“Those surcoats, Your Eminence,” Josey said, “were found in the possession of two agents who were, we believe, aiding the assassin seeking to end our life. Agents of your Church, Eminence.”
“This is lunacy!” one of the younger hierarchs barked. “A pair of old shirts, no matter where they were found, does not constitute evidence against the Holy-”
Josey nodded to Hubert. Two guardsmen seized the archpriest and hauled him from the chamber. Voices erupted from the Thurim. Josey allowed them a few moments to digest her words. The prelate said nothing. His eyes, though, glowered at her with pure venom.
“Holiness,” she said. “Do you deny the Church has encouraged demonstrations against the crown throughout the city since the day of my coronation?”
“There is no proof of that,” Innocence replied. “I, myself, have issued proclamations condemning such-”
“The uniforms, the demonstrations, and the assassin. They are all connected to the same plot to overthrow this government and seize power. A plot traced back to the Church. To
your office.”
The prelate swallowed and glanced at the soldiers surrounding him. “That is absurd. You don’t have the proof. The faithful-”
“Archpriest Gaspar has made a full confession.”
Ozmond extended a roll of parchment. One of the remaining archpriests took it and handed it over to the prelate. Innocence glanced at its contents.
“A confession made under considerable duress, no doubt. Worthless.”
But there was something new in his gaze. Was it fear?
Josey stood up. “If there are any further demonstrations, or should my ministers unearth additional plots against the throne, I will dismantle the True Church piece by piece.”
The prelate’s chin trembled. “By the Prophet, you shall live to regret your audacity, child.”
“That may be.”
She inclined her head, and the prelate started to leave. But she gestured before they reached the doors, and her guardsmen stopped their exit.
“ Majesty,” she said. “You will address this throne properly for all the court to hear, Your Eminence.”
The prelate turned, his face hardened into a stony mask. He cleared his throat. “As you wish. Majesty.”
Josey held out her hand. The imperial seal flashed in the sunlight as she and the prelate stared at each other for several long heartbeats. Finally, Innocence shambled over to climb the dais and touched his lips to the ring.
“Well done,” she whispered. “Now get out of my sight.”
As the delegation hurried from the hall, Josey swallowed several times to clear the taste of bile from her mouth. She glanced over at the Thurim to see how Lady Philomena was taking the prelate’s public humiliation, but her seat was vacant. I should have had her flogged.
Settling back in the throne as the tension eased from her body, Josey presented a composed face to the court. The ministers watched her with what she hoped were benign expressions. Well, they haven’t denounced me yet. So there’s hope that I won’t be the shortest-reigning monarch in Nimea’s history.
A side door opened, and Captain Drathan stepped through. He looked in her direction and made a shallow nod before leaving. Relieved, Josey jumped up, almost forgetting to dismiss the court as she hurried down the steps. She was out the door before anyone could say a word.