Oathbreaker

by Cara Witter

  Greghor gave a sharp nod but kept his eyes on the crowd. “The knighting of commoners is against tradition, but in the last century, we have not seen a commoner who could match the skill of our knights, much less beat them, and without our rigor and training.”

  Jaeme resisted the urge to roll his eyes. No one fought like Matthon without rigorous training. He had merely done it without noble resources, which was more than impressive.

  “We must put it to a vote,” Greghor said. “My fellow dukes, step forward.”

  Jaeme took a step back to the chair while the knights of the Dukes Council, including Hugh, gathered around the circle.

  “All in favor of the knighting of Master Matthon Buras, say ‘Aye.’” Hugh assented, as did Greghor, though they were the only ones.

  Jaeme forced himself not to react visibly. Already his uncle was isolating himself from the Council. Already he was giving them cause to send spies to look into his loyalty. The gods only knew where the body was now, and how long it would take someone else to discover it.

  “All opposed?” Greghor asked.

  “Nay,” many said, though Jaeme noted that a few abstained, Latimer included.

  Greghor sighed, his shoulders slumping. Jaeme could see the years of wear on his face, all the many times he had proposed that they evolve and been outvoted.

  Yes, Jaeme understood why his uncle had sought another ally. He only wished it hadn’t been a tyrant who meant to destroy everything they held dear. Greghor might have secured a promise that much could remain the same in Mortiche, but Jaeme very much doubted Maldorath would keep it.

  Greghor cleared his throat and again addressed Buras. “The Council has spoken. I regret that we are unable to honor your request. In its place, I offer you a position in my household as a leader in my personal guard, and the three battalion of gold as payment.”

  Jaeme nodded. It was a good compromise and one that should mollify the dukes.

  “Aye, my lord,” Buras said. “I admit I have seen little honor in my dealings with your knighthood.” Jaeme’s pulse quickened as Buras stepped up to him and knelt beside him. “Except you, Lord Jaemeson,” he said. “There is none other I could serve. Please accept my allegiance to you alone, as none other is worthy of it.”

  Stephan took a step forward, taking position to defend Jaeme if necessary, though no one had yet threatened him. Jaeme stared down at Buras, who looked up at him with fire in his eyes. He didn’t dare look at the crowd, which was holding its collective breath, or back at Daniella and Perchaya. Gods only knew what their reactions would be.

  Jaeme held his breath, as well. There were many on the Council who wouldn’t be forgiving of this, and Jaeme hadn’t missed the slight on his own uncle, whom Buras had just refused to serve. He, too, couldn’t afford the scrutiny.

  But if he said no, Jaeme would be joining the dukes who had voted nay, those for whom tradition took place over loyalty, honor, and basic common sense. He would be one of those who refused to do what was necessary and drove his uncle to desperate action.

  When he’d stepped up on the dais, Jaeme had already chosen what he stood for.

  “Yes,” Jaeme said. “I accept your service.”

  Buras stood, bowed once more to Jaeme, and murmurs rippled through the crowd as Buras defiantly stalked out.

  Forty-one

  Kenton headed through the garden, intending to head back to the barracks, but abruptly changed paths and re-entered the castle by the main gate. These last days had been madness, more setback than progress, and while the others might have needed a moment to breathe, Kenton needed the certainty of heading toward a firm and definite goal. This stagnation was driving him mad; this was the only explanation for his insanity this evening.

  That would end tonight. Kenton was going to break into Greghor’s office. He was going to search every cranny until he came up with evidence that would convince Jaeme that his uncle had been communicating with Diamis, that he was a threat to them all, and that they needed to move on and come back for the damned stone, if it even proved to be in the castle. If he found nothing in Greghor’s office, he was going to proceed to every room in the bloody castle until he found what he was looking for.

  Fortunately, many of the guards were knights or squires who were currently in attendance at the ball. Kenton passed only two on his way to Greghor’s office and found none outside the door.

  Which, of course, was locked. Kenton put his ear to the thick wood, the smooth edges of the carving pressing into his face. He heard no one inside. He didn’t have a lock pick on him, not having planned on breaking into anything when he left his room in the barracks. He cast around for something to use—

  And jumped at a figure in a gown, standing just a few paces down the hall.

  “Here.” Sayvil reached into her hair and extracted a pin. “Use this.”

  Kenton pressed his ear to the lock and inserted the pin, listening for the tumblers. Considering how quietly Sayvil had approached, he was glad to have her there to watch down the hallway as the pins clicked into place, one by one. At last the handle turned and the door opened. Kenton swiftly checked the frame for Vorgalian alarms and found none.

  He wasn’t overly surprised by this; despite the small fortune Greghor had spent on light charms, Kenton had yet to find any alarms. Jaeme had mentioned before that Greghor didn’t have his own Vorgalian mage on staff like several of the other dukes.

  Which Kenton considered a very fortunate thing tonight.

  “Ladies first,” he said, holding the door open for Sayvil and then stepping in and closing it behind them. The room was dark, but Sayvil moved to the window and cracked open the shutters. She held her palms up to the light and her hands lit up with a soft glow, illuminating the room.

  “I didn’t know you could make it so soft,” Kenton said.

  “I’ve been working on it since Haidshir,” Sayvil said. “It takes concentration, though, so do shut up.”

  Kenton smiled and began by poring over the papers on the desk. Despite Jaeme’s mockery of his accent in Tirostaar, Kenton could read Mortichean rather well, thankfully. Though it only helped to confirm that these papers were mostly account ledgers and correspondence from his vassals.

  “Do you really think Duke Greghor is leaving his secret dealings on his desktop?” Sayvil asked.

  “No,” Kenton said. “And if he was, I’d be concerned someone was setting him up.” He turned to the drawers of the desk, rifling through the top two, then lowering himself to the ground to pick the locks on the lower ones. There he found quite a bit of gold, a jar of sleeping salts, and an herbal substance he couldn’t identify. He brought it over to Sayvil at the window. “What’s this?” he asked.

  She squinted at the jar, which had no label, the light in her hands flickering briefly. “Nightshade.”

  “Poison?” Kenton said, looking down at the jar.

  “Yes.” Sayvil turned back to the light in her palms. “But in small doses it’s often used in people’s drinks. Loosens their tongues more quickly than the alcohol alone.”

  Probably useful in business negotiations. Kenton opened the jar to steal a pinch, but Sayvil shook her head, and the light flickered again. “I wouldn’t,” she said. “If you get the powder in your nose or mouth, you’ll be back at the ball, sputtering accusations at Duke Greghor like a madman.”

  Kenton sighed and put the jar back in the drawer and set to work on the next one. “So you heard about my conversation with Jaeme,” he said.

  “Daniella told us. Which is why I knew when you left the ball, you couldn’t be up to anything good. And I wasn’t about to stand there and watch a peasant get beaten with a mace.”

  Good gods. That sounded like a nightmare, but typical of the so-called honorable knights he’d seen at the tournament.

  But if Sayvil had seen him leave—gods, had she been watching
? Had she seen him and Perchaya—

  No. Focus. Kenton had allowed himself to get distracted. His purpose was Diamis. His purpose was Maldorath. His purpose was to get his gods-damned comrades to do their jobs and get back to Peldenar before an army of mages and blood puppets descended on them.

  “I’m going to find proof,” Kenton said. “Then we can all get on with it.”

  Sayvil didn’t argue with that.

  But though he stayed in the office longer than was prudent, combing through everything by the light of Sayvil’s palms, he didn’t find a single shred of evidence that pointed toward Greghor. If the man was in fact a blood mage, then he had the good sense not to keep the evidence here in his office.

  Kenton had already combed the underneath of the castle trying to relocate the body and found nothing. But, by the gods, he wasn’t going to leave empty-handed tonight. “Come on,” he said to Sayvil. “There’s somewhere else I want to check.”

  They left the office quietly, and Kenton led Sayvil to the east wing of the castle, where many of the guest chambers were located. He’d made it his business to figure out which one belonged to Duke Hughsen of Bronleigh.

  Kenton moved up to the door and paused, listening. The wood of this door was less ornate but no less hefty. Even still, Kenton heard muffled voices inside.

  He turned to Sayvil. “Do you have anything that would knock them out?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Not without them seeing you first. I think they’ll notice when you open the door.”

  That was true. Kenton could knock them out himself if he had to get close, but unless he was going to kill them and hide the bodies, they’d be able to report on him. He wasn’t ready to do that.

  Yet.

  “Come on,” Kenton said again, and he led Sayvil back through the castle and into the courtyard with the Grisham tree. There were a few pairs of lovers dallying behind the bushes or reclining on benches, though thankfully none of them were Hugh and Perchaya.

  Gods, Perchaya. What must she be thinking? He’d just left her there and—

  “You’re going to have to pretend to kiss me,” Kenton said.

  Sayvil stiffened. “What?”

  He grabbed her by the arm. “This way.”

  Sayvil wrenched her arm free again. “Unless you want everyone to think that I’m kissing you under duress, unhand me.” She forced his arm into a proper escort position and rested her hand atop it, as she had during their tour of the castle. “And let me be clear that you won’t be touching me in any inappropriate way. I’m only here to get out of that gods-awful ball, and because I think you might kill someone and get us all arrested.”

  “I might kill someone anyway,” Kenton grumbled. “And I’m not going to touch you inappropriately. Trust me, I don’t want to.”

  Sayvil gave him another withering look, and Kenton wondered if he could do a single thing that wasn’t offensive tonight.

  Sayvil forced a smile on her face that was only marginally more convincing than he imagined his own was, and together they strode beneath the Grisham tree that had the dubious distinction of holding a piece of Jaeme’s soul. On the far side of the courtyard they stepped over the flowers, Sayvil’s skirts swishing through the ivy. Kenton backed Sayvil up against the wall and put a hand on either side of her shoulders, leaning against her as little as he could while still appearing convincing. A smaller tree with drooping branches sheltered them from open view, but that wouldn’t keep any determined prying eyes from catching a glimpse.

  “Is anyone looking?” Kenton asked.

  Sayvil pretended to laugh and looked over his shoulder, then shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Good,” Kenton said. “You keep watch.” He pulled her deeper into the ivy, toward the shutters that matched up with Hugh’s bedroom.

  “How do you know which room is his?” Sayvil whispered. “And if you’d told me I was going to be showered in vines, I would have changed my clothes.”

  “I thought you liked plants.”

  “I like to use them. Not bathe in them.”

  “Make some new friends,” Kenton said, and then he cracked open the shutters, and finding the room empty, kicked his boot up on the windowsill and hoisted himself in.

  Kenton jumped down onto the woven rug on Hugh’s floor, bending his knees to keep his landing silent. A crack of light showed through beneath the door, and Kenton could hear the muffled voices still in the other room.

  Hopefully whichever of Hugh’s attendants were there wouldn’t have need to enter his bedroom. Kenton found it unlikely that Hugh was the owner of the dead boy—it seemed a visitor to the castle would have kept the body somewhere outside, where it would be less likely to be discovered by the castle’s owner.

  But he was still going to look. The room was dark—little light filtered through the shelter of the trees, and Kenton didn’t dare light an oil lamp.

  “Sayvil?” he whispered.

  Sayvil sighed and Kenton heard more rustling as she worked her way over to the window and lowered her hands in. Pale light gathered in her palm, illuminating the room. Kenton went over to the papers on Hugh’s desk, then opened a thin drawer and peered at the handwritten pages there.

  —my grandmother’s bracelet is in the safebox at the front of the vault, Hugh had written. I’d appreciate if you would send it with haste, duly guarded of course. I do not know, but I hope to have cause for an engagement gift in the near future, and I expect that—

  Kenton’s stomach dropped, and he flipped the paper over. It was addressed to the castle steward, who would be responsible for such things as the contents of the family vault.

  “Are you finished?” Sayvil hissed. “Because holding my arms like this is awkward, and—”

  “No,” Kenton whispered. The muffled voices continued to drone from the other room, so he gathered he had not yet been heard. He flipped through the letters, searching for some evidence of who Hugh was planning to marry. Surely, he had some alliance that was being brokered during the tournament, some bride prize from another duchy, to give him important connections as the youngest duke on the Council.

  But beneath a missive to his manservant and a list of things to discuss with the Duke of Byrn, Kenton found another letter addressed to Hugh’s uncle, describing the object of Hugh’s affection.

  I hope you’ll be able to meet her, Uncle, not in the least because that would mean that she’s still in my life when we next have occasion to meet. She is truly stunning, in looks as well as in kindness. And, her station being what it is, I find I am more grateful than ever that my inheritance puts me in a position not to trouble myself with it. At any rate, I know the people of Bronleigh would come to love her. It’s impossible to spend an hour in her presence without doing so, and for this reason I find myself concerned that I may have a multitude of competitors for her affections.

  Kenton was aware he was holding the paper tight enough to crease it. It was all he could do not to ball the thing up in his fists. Not because what Hugh was saying was untrue; quite the opposite. Kenton wondered how he’d ever thought he’d be able to spend time in Perchaya’s presence without falling in love with her. Hugh understood—and yet, there was so much more to her than he knew. Would he love the girl who bravely left Drepaine, not knowing what dangers awaited her? The girl who led peasants to revolt, knowing full well that the armies of Diamis outmatched them?

  Kenton realized he was more afraid that Hugh would love her than that he wouldn’t, and that made him hate himself all the more. He put the papers back with forced carefulness and slid the drawer silently shut. He moved to the window, trying not to think about Perchaya now, probably somewhere in the garden in Hugh’s arms. Did she know he was considering marriage? When she pictured her future, was it with him?

  He moved abruptly to the window, and Sayvil scuffled back through the ivy to allow room for him
to lift himself out.

  “Did you find anything?” Sayvil asked.

  “Not what I was looking for,” Kenton returned. They emerged from the ivy vines and the weeping leaves, picking twigs from their hair and eliciting knowing glances from nearby couples.

  Gods, Kenton thought, rolling his eyes. Let Perchaya hear about this. It would make for a perfect end to an evening of terrible mistakes.

  Forty-two

  Jaeme didn’t have time to talk to Daniella before his uncle escorted him from the ballroom and practically dragged him to his office where they wouldn’t be overheard.

  “That was impetuous,” Greghor said, shifting some papers on his desk to allow room for his elbows. “Accepting a peasant into your service so publicly, when he’d just finished challenging the knighthood.”

  It had been, but Jaeme still couldn’t see what other choice he could have made and maintained what was left of his self-respect. Besides, it wasn’t nearly as unwise as reporting to a psychotic blood mage. “You offered him a place in your service,” Jaeme said. “And since I’m your heir—”

  “Precisely. You had the opportunity to turn him back to me, to tell him that your service is my service, and allow him to accept, as he should have. My place in Grisham is not in question, but yours is.”

  Jaeme sighed. “Maybe you’re right. But the way they were all treating him—I couldn’t take part in it, and I didn’t want to side against you.”

  Greghor nodded reluctantly. “Your heart was in the right place, I suppose, even if this makes things more difficult for you.”

  Jaeme gave his uncle a sharp look. “It’s not the Council I really have to worry about ruling over us, is it?”

  Greghor’s frame deflated, and he sunk down into his chair. “I’d rather we spoke of that as little as possible. You never know who might be listening.”

  His uncle regularly held confidential meetings in this office and had in fact sat here and told him of the entire plot. He simply didn’t want to speak more of it because he had nothing left to say in his own defense.