by Cara Witter
Now what?
Nikaenor wasn’t used to having the upper hand in situations. Not with his siblings, not with his traveling companions, and especially not with trained soldiers who were supposed to arrest him.
He tried to think of what Kenton would do. Or what Kenton would have him do, at least, since fighting them all wasn’t an option for Nikaenor.
Disarm them, probably.
Then run like all hells back into town until they lost them.
“Drop your weapons,” he ordered, “All your weapons! You probably have boot daggers. And—and if you have anything else sharp, like a letter opener! Or a—”
He cut off at Sayvil’s incredulous look, but the men didn’t seem to notice. The knight and Mole-Face had both tossed their swords onto the ground, and the knight was retrieving a dagger from his boot and belt. The guard with the missing hand fainted, crumpling to the ground like the belated shock had just hit him. Edvin swore, clutching his bloody nose and dropping his own sword.
“Fantastic,” Nikaenor said. “Now all of you step back toward the gatehouse and—”
The ground buckled underneath him, and any words he’d been about to say were drowned out by an incredible roar, like one of the Great Northbeasts was right behind him, about to swallow him whole. He didn’t have time to factor in the impossibility of that, because the ground was still moving, jumping and shaking, and he dropped to his hands and knees, only barely able to keep a hold of Mirilina.
There were screams and yells, and Nikaenor was fairly certain at least one of those came from his own mouth, but everything was sound and movement and terror.
And then it stopped.
Nikaenor looked around wildly, to see the others doing the same, all in similar positions on the ground as he was. The knight, though, was looking past Nikaenor at something, his face bone-white.
Nikaenor chanced a glance behind him and saw it. Only about fifteen feet away from him, a large chasm gaped in the earth, like a vengeful god had ripped the castle and its grounds away from the rest of Grisham.
Or maybe not a vengeful god. Maybe just one who’d finally been claimed.
Nikaenor shoved himself to his feet, though his bones still quaked. He met eyes with Sayvil, who still had her blade outstretched towards Mole-Face, though the man was staring at the crevasse mere feet from where he stood, looking like he might need a new pair of breeches very soon.
There would be no running back into town to get away. But Nikaenor had something they didn’t—a clue about what in all hells was happening.
There’s a first for everything, he thought wryly.
“You see that?” he yelled, holding out Mirilina in front of him again. “You need more proof of what I can do? Maybe this time you’ll move faster! Get. In. The. Gatehouse! All of you! Close the door behind you, and huddle in a ball so tight you can kiss your own ass. Now.”
The knight wavered, his mustached lip trembling. Then, with a last glance at the man with the missing hand lying passed out on the ground, he took off at a run. Mole-Face and Edvin joined him, and the three packed into the small gatehouse room, the door clattering shut behind them.
All the forced Kenton-like confidence he’d summoned for that little speech drained out of Nikaenor, and he nearly joined the handless guard on the ground in a dead faint of sheer relief. But Sayvil grabbed his arm.
“Well done,” she said. “But really—a letter opener?”
He let out a choked laugh. “Come on. They may be huddling. Or getting more weapons.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Which we need to do. Let’s get to my room. I’m not being caught by guards with nothing more than tea leaves again. Then we’ll find the others and get out of this mess.”
Nikaenor couldn’t agree more. He just wished, as they took off at a sprint towards the castle, that it didn’t involve more running.
Fifty-two
Perchaya was stalking through the castle in the direction of Hugh’s rooms, intent on finding Hugh and spending time with someone who didn’t make her want to pull her hair out in frustration, when she turned a corner and found herself suddenly face to face with Matthon Buras. Walking toward her, like he wanted something.
“My lord,” Perchaya said, then winced. That wasn’t the proper title to use, since he hadn’t been granted a title by Greghor. She should have said good sir, or something less formal.
Buras, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. “My lady,” he said, in heavily accented Sevairnese. “Lord Jaeme sent me to find you. He believes you’re all in danger. Where is Nikaenor?”
Perchaya stared at him, trying to take that all in. “Nikaenor’s in danger?” She looked around as if she might find him standing in the corridor or coming up the stairs from the basement. “Why? Has someone attacked the castle?”
Buras shook his head. “It’s Duke Greghor. He’s after Lord Jaeme.”
A chill ran through Perchaya. “You work for the duke now, don’t you?”
“No,” Buras said. “And I need to get you to safety.”
“Nikaenor went into town,” Perchaya said. “With Sayvil.” She paused. “Why him, specifically?”
“I don’t know,” Buras said. “Lord Jaeme only said that I should protect you. Come, let’s get you out, and I can come back for the others.”
Perchaya’s spine prickled. She had no way to confirm that Jaeme had actually sent Buras to her. This could be a ploy of Greghor’s to isolate her, to get her alone, to—
A moan came from the bottom of the staircase several yards down the hall, followed by footsteps. Perchaya startled, and then moved past Buras to the stairs to investigate.
Buras grabbed her by the arm and Perchaya spun around to face him. “My lady, please,” he said. “We have to hurry.”
If Buras decided he wanted to take her by force, Perchaya would be able to do little to stop him—she’d seen the man fight. But still Perchaya wrenched her arm away. “Good sir,” she said to him, “you will keep your hands to yourself.”
A frustrated look crossed Buras’ face, but he folded his hands behind his back. “As you wish, my lady.”
The footsteps reached the top of the stairs, and Hugh’s voice spoke behind her. “Perchaya?” he said. “Are you all right?”
Perchaya turned again to find Hugh rubbing his elbow as if he’d bruised it. His dark hair was disheveled, and he had a long wine stain running from shoulder to hip over his light blue regalia.
Buras didn’t miss a beat. He gave Perchaya a warning look and stepped up to Hugh. “My lord,” he said, “are you hurt? Duke Greghor sent me to aid you. His nephew has been acting strangely and he was concerned for your safety.”
His nephew has been acting strangely? Perchaya shook her head, feeling like she’d fallen in a river and was being rushed along by a current without any sense of where she was headed.
“Hugh?” she said. “What happened—”
“It’s Jaeme,” Hugh said. “I’m sorry, Perchaya, but I have to know—were you aware of his blood magic?”
His eyes beseeched her, as if he was hoping and praying that she wasn’t, but if he thought that both Jaeme and she might be blood mages, she couldn’t imagine how he could trust any answer she might give.
Gods. Had he found the body Kenton had seen?
“Jaeme’s not involved with blood magic,” Perchaya said. “Hugh, I don’t know what you’ve seen, but I do know Jaeme. He has secrets, yes, but not that. He’s as loyal a knight as they come.”
“Oh, Perchaya,” Hugh said, looking at her with anguish. “You have no idea what you’ve fallen in with.”
For the first time, Perchaya wanted to shake Hugh. “I don’t think—” she said, but Hugh had already turned to Buras.
“He’s injured Okar and Phillips,” Hugh said, pointing toward the bottom of the stairs, in the basement from which he’d emer
ged. “Call for a healer.”
Buras nodded and moved to head out toward the main hall but stumbled. A grinding roar filled the air, the sound like a monster from the old tales chewing through mountains, a metallic shrieking. Perchaya slipped as if a rug had been suddenly yanked from beneath her, and she fell to her knees, her skirts tangling around her.
The ground continued to jolt. A vase slid from a nearby pillar, shattering over the polished stone floor.
Perchaya put her hands over her ears, hunched there in the hall, and prayed to the Four that this wasn’t the end of all things.
And then all was still. Hugh and Buras had also tumbled to the floor, though Hugh had extended himself toward her like he was trying to reach out for her even as the ground shook. As the movement stopped, he crawled toward her and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Are you all right?” The genuine concern in his voice eased her annoyance with him considerably.
“Yes,” she said, though her whole body still trembled. She’d felt a few tremors in her years living in Dov, south of the Andronish mountains, but never like that, not in her lifetime. The ground wasn’t meant to move. It was supposed to remain beneath her, a reliable constant. She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she took that for granted.
Hugh wrapped an arm around her and tried to help her to her feet, though given his own unsteadiness, they ended up supporting each other.
Buras reached his feet before they did. Perchaya wanted to tell Hugh that Buras had given him the opposite story as he’d told to her. But if he was on Jaeme’s side and Hugh—mistakenly—wasn’t, then it would make sense for him to tell two stories, wouldn’t it? Perchaya didn’t know who was friend or foe, only that she had to do what she could to protect Jaeme, and apparently Nikaenor.
Gods, did whoever that body belonged to know that he had Mirilina in his belt pouch?
Buras stepped over an iron candlestick that had fallen from its table, which had somehow scooted two feet from the wall during the shaking.
Then, at the end of the hallway, appeared Duke Greghor himself, flanked by three terrified-looking guards.
“Hugh!” Greghor shouted. “I’m glad to see you’re alive. I hope my nephew did you no harm. If I’d realized how dangerous he was, I never would have sent you after him.” He must have noticed Perchaya with Hugh, because he was speaking Sevairnese, as well—which might read as consideration by some but seemed suspicious to Perchaya. Why would he care about a lady-in-waiting understanding him at a time like this?
Except that he must want her to know what he was saying. Perhaps see if she would reveal anything which could be used against Jaeme or the others.
Perchaya wanted to defend Jaeme, but Hugh’s arm remained around her, squeezing her tight. If Greghor thought she was a neutral element, even a victim of Jaeme’s schemes, then Hugh’s affection for her might allow her to remain able to move about. She certainly wouldn’t be able to help the others if she was arrested for blood magic.
Gods. Where in all hells was Kenton?
Greghor kicked aside a shield that had fallen from its wall mount and hurried toward them. Buras stood at attention, stealing a single glance at Perchaya, as if wondering if she was going to out him for the things he’d said to her before.
For the time being, she didn’t. She’d be swept along with the current for now, if the alternative was drowning. Eventually, she’d find something to hold on to, and work her way toward shore.
“Where’s Jaeme?” Greghor asked when he reached them. “Were you able to detain him?”
Hugh shook his head regretfully. “He attacked without warning. I’m not sure where he went.”
Perchaya was willing to bet that he either went to find Daniella, or to escape the castle, or to find the jewel. The first of those would probably draw him toward the gardens, the courtyard, or the bedrooms. The second would draw him toward town, and the third, probably somewhere in the depths of the castle.
“I saw him earlier,” Perchaya said. “He was headed out of the castle, toward the woods.”
Hugh gave Perchaya a concerned look, as if he worried she was covering for Jaeme, which, of course she was. Greghor gave her a similar look.
“Are you sure, my dear?” he said. “There’s no exit that way.”
Buras cleared his throat. “I heard something similar, when I was looking for the duke. A servant told me he saw Lord Jaeme fleeing from the castle and toward the woods.”
Hugh’s expression eased. “Excellent. The sooner we can find him, the sooner we can put all this to rest.”
Perchaya wasn’t at all sure of that. In fact, she hoped to detain Greghor as long as possible, allowing Jaeme maximum time to secure everyone’s safety, by whatever means necessary. She prayed Kenton was also aware of the problem. No doubt he’d be working to that end. He might be obstinate and careless with her heart, but he could certainly be counted on to protect them, always.
“There’s no way out but the cliff that way,” Greghor said. “I hope that my nephew isn’t planning to jump.”
“I told him we’d help him,” Hugh said. “I wish . . . I wish I’d been able to get through to him.”
Perchaya could only imagine what Jaeme’s reaction would be to being told that Hugh wanted to “help” him out of being a blood mage. It was no wonder Jaeme had attacked him. He must have felt trapped, not to mention betrayed.
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all of this,” she said.
Hugh gave her another pitying look, one which she was fairly sure she returned, but Duke Greghor ignored her entirely.
“Come,” Greghor said. “We need to find that damned boy.”
Hugh nodded sharply, and he and the guards followed Greghor toward the back doors to the castle.
Perchaya didn’t know what to do besides follow.
Fifty-three
Jaeme held his god in one palm and Daniella’s hand in the other as he walked back to Castle Grisham. His skin tingled where he touched the rock, like contact with his god was itself divine. He could feel it pulsing in time with his heartbeat, as if the two were attuned. He’d spent so long hiding, so long doubting.
But Jaeme was the gods-damned bearer of Kotali, and everyone in the castle was going to know it. They were knights of his order, after all, worshipers of Kotali by profession, even those who weren’t worshipers in faith or in deed. They wouldn’t dare stand against a man endorsed by the god himself.
Except maybe his uncle, who had broken his oaths in a way that Jaeme would never be able to forgive.
“Are you ready for this?” Daniella asked.
“Yes,” Jaeme said, steadied by the godstone in his hand and by the love in Daniella’s eyes. “I’m ready.” He could see clearly now. His uncle had betrayed him, had betrayed them all to Diamis. Grisham was in a precarious situation, it was true, but if the pressure induced his uncle to betray his oaths, he couldn’t be expected to be bound by family ties.
But Jaeme was different. Jaeme was going to do whatever he needed to do to protect his friends, duchy, his nation, and above all, Daniella.
He and Daniella circled around the smithy to the castle doors—and found Greghor, Hugh, Buras, and Perchaya, who were just coming down the castle steps a dozen yards away.
Daniella pulled Jaeme to a halt, and Jaeme held the stone in front of him, prepared to drop Daniella’s hand and reach for his sword at the slightest provocation. Buras caught his eye and gave a small shake of his head, and Jaeme smiled inwardly, though he didn’t dare do so physically.
Buras had done one better than Jaeme had asked him. He’d found his uncle and was following him under guise of being loyal to him. It was the only explanation for why his uncle hadn’t ordered Buras arrested immediately.
Hugh looked somewhat relieved to have found Jaeme, though he and Greghor drew their swords, and Buras
followed suit. Perchaya hung back a pace, watching them all warily.
Which was good. Jaeme wanted both her and Daniella safely out of the way, though Daniella still held his hand tight and he wasn’t about to let go before it became necessary.
Which it would, if they came much closer.
“Stop!” Jaeme yelled. “Stop where you are, in the name of Kotali!”
The men did stop, Greghor wearing an unreadable expression on his face. “Stand down,” Greghor said. “You are under arrest for assaulting a duke of Mortiche.”
That was the one thing Jaeme was accused of that he had, in fact, actually done.
From the castle doors, a few more guards fell into place behind Buras, and Jaeme noticed Buras looking nervously at them over his shoulder, but other than that, the man maintained his ruse. Jaeme almost wished Buras would take advantage of the position behind Greghor and put a blade to his uncle’s throat, but Buras was surrounded, and Jaeme had no mind to get him killed.
“What a pity you turned out like your father, Jaeme,” Greghor said, though Jaeme noted his eyes did stray momentarily to the stone in Jaeme’s hand. “I had hoped for better from you.”
Jaeme gritted his teeth. “I’m not the one with my sword drawn, Uncle.”
“Yet you attacked Duke Hugh and locked him in a wine closet,” Greghor said. “Or were you planning to blame that on me along with your practice of blood magic?”
Of course. His uncle had been one step ahead of him all along, and Jaeme had only now realized they were having a race. The guards behind Greghor fixed their eyes on Jaeme, and Jaeme surmised this was the first they were hearing about it. Even Buras looked uncomfortable, and Jaeme hoped Buras wasn’t about to turn on him after all.
At any rate, trying to defend himself verbally would be a mistake. His uncle would only turn his words against him.