She stood her ground as he seemed to loom over her. His red hair and reddish beard reminded her of King Randor, although Randor hadn’t been quite so unkempt until the final battle. He seemed a lumbering brute, yet she thought she saw cold animal cunning within his eyes. And she was sure that most of his mass was solid muscle. She made a mental bet with herself that the man could move a lot faster than he looked.
“I am going to inspect the king’s body,” she said. She couldn’t back down, not now. He’d take ruthless advantage of any hint of weakness. “And try to determine who killed him.”
“My brother’s body should rest undisturbed,” the man — the duke — thundered. “He should go to the gods like a man.”
“And his murderer needs to be caught,” Emily said. She quietly tested the magic surrounding the duke. It was odd, a strange combination of crude and subtle. A normal spell might not last long enough to strike him, but a heavy object thrown with great force would pass through the protective charms as if they weren’t there. “I have my duty.”
“And I have mine,” the duke said. “Do you know who I am?”
Emily smiled. “How many brothers did the king have?”
The duke ignored her. “I am Duke Hardcastle, the Dragonsbane,” he said. “I am the rightful regent, protector of my nephew until he comes into his own. And I will not let anyone stand in my way. I have fought in hundreds of battles and never come close to losing.”
“There’s always a first time,” Emily said. She carefully inched the ring off her finger as the duke’s eyes bored into her. It was small, but it would do a lot of damage if she slammed it into his chest with great force. “And I have never lost a real battle either.”
“It was prophesied that I would never lose,” the duke said. “No man can defeat me.”
Emily blinked, then smiled. “No man?”
She tapped the space between her breasts. “Do I look like a man to you?”
The duke stared. “... What?”
“I know what you’re thinking.” Emily pushed on before he could recover himself. “You’re thinking that man means mankind, not man in the sense of men. But if you heard a real prophecy, it came from a demon. And demons are notoriously untrustworthy. It could easily have told you the literal truth, while carefully misleading you so you’d fall into a trap.”
She smiled, coldly. “And if the prophecy was a fake,” she added, “then anyone can kill you.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed. “A woman cannot kill me.”
“I’ve killed so many necromancers I’ve lost count,” Emily said. “Do you think you can beat me?”
She waited, bracing herself. The duke might just draw his sword and try to kill her. If he did... there was nowhere to run. She’d have to kill or be killed. The ring rested in her palm, magic pulsing around it. If she killed the duke...
“I intend to find the murderer,” she said. “Are you going to stop me?”
The duke eyed her for a long moment, then took a calculated step back. Emily breathed a sigh of relief that there were no witnesses. It would be a great deal harder for the duke to back down if someone else had been watching, even a lowly servant. And if anyone had heard what she’d said... she tried not to smile. Warrior women were rare — the duke might not have encountered one — but they existed. His enemies would probably start hiring female sellswords and sorceresses if they thought that was the key to taking down the duke.
“You may enter,” the duke said. “Treat his body with utmost respect.”
Emily nodded, readying her defenses as she turned and pressed her hand against the stone door. It opened, revealing a large chamber. The king’s body lay on a bier. She could sense a stasis spell surrounding the corpse, keeping it safe until the funeral. She’d read the books on local customs. The former king’s body would be cremated once his successor took the throne, as the final act of the coronation. She wondered, morbidly, if the king’s body would be stored until Willis could rule in his own right.
She was aware of the duke standing in the doorway as she made her way over to the bier and peered at the body. The king looked very much like his brother, although his beard was neatly trimmed rather than an unkempt mess. His sword rested on his chest, his hands wrapped around the hilt... it didn’t feel like a magic blade, but Emily guessed it would be buried with him anyway. Or perhaps passed down to his heir. The books hadn’t made it clear.
“The Court Wizard found nothing, beyond a few traces of dark magic,” the duke said. He spoke as if he were ordering dinner. “Can you do any better, Necromancer’s Bane?”
Emily ignored him as she circled the bier. There were no obvious causes of death. The morticians could do wonders, but there were limits. Whatever had killed the king had been subtle, surprisingly so. He hadn’t been cursed to take a fall when he went riding, or accidentally slip and tumble down the stairs. She frowned as she completed her circle, considering the possibilities. Whoever had killed the king had done it in a manner that ensured everyone knew it was no accident. And yet, they should have been able to do something more subtle. Hexing the top of the stairs would have been a great deal simpler — and safer. By the time anyone thought to look, the magic would have faded into the background.
Unless they wanted everyone to know the king was murdered, she mused. And that suggests a third or even a fourth party.
She lifted her hands and held them over the king’s head, reaching out with her magic. The stasis spell flickered underneath her as she probed the body. Below it... she winced as she sensed the traces of magic, magic tainted with malice and hatred and a hint of fear. She felt dirty, as if she’d put her hand somewhere unclean. Her skin crawled. She gritted her teeth as she struggled to parse the magic. It should be possible to figure out what the spell had done when it had killed the king. But it felt so fragmented that she couldn’t pull what she was seeing into a coherent whole.
Odd, she thought. Very odd.
She braced herself, then scanned the king’s body from tip to toe. He was in remarkably good shape, for a man who was supposed to lead the drinking and carousing. She couldn’t find any major damage, nothing that could have killed him. There was nothing more dangerous than a handful of half-faded scars. The dark magic didn’t seem to have done anything, as far as she could tell. There was no cause of death.
As if the king’s body had simply decided to shut down, she thought. She knew hundreds of killing curses — and more mundane spells that could be used to kill — but they all left signs of what they’d done. A man’s heart could explode in his chest, his lungs could fill with water until he drowned miles from the sea, his brain could overheat, his gonads... there would be something left behind, a clear sign of what the curse had actually done. But there’s nothing.
She looked up. The duke hadn’t moved. He was watching her, his eyes cold, hard and utterly merciless. Emily couldn’t help thinking she was in the presence of a wild animal — or a sociopath. Elena had spoken highly of her uncle... Emily wondered, grimly, if the princess had ever seen this side of him. The duke was a practiced aristocrat. He might be perfectly capable of projecting one image to his family and another to the rest of the world.
“The magic doesn’t seem to have done anything,” she said. “Was your brother a magician?”
“We all are.” The duke crossed his arms over his dragonskin breastplate. “He wouldn’t have used dark magic.”
Don’t be so sure, Emily thought. Randor had used dark magic, even before he’d plunged into necromancy. The king could have accidentally killed himself... she shook her head. She would have found traces of what he’d done. There’s no hint of anything, save dark magic that doesn’t seem to do anything.
She scanned the body one final time, inspecting every last nook and cranny. But there was nothing. No cause of death. Nothing that might have caused his death. He’d drank too much — her lips thinned in disapproval — but his liver hadn’t been on the verge of collapse. She studied the traces of magic,
hoping to pick up a signature. But there was nothing. The magic was too vague, too unfocused, to do anything. The only proof the king hadn’t cast the dark magic on himself was that it had lingered after his death.
And he would have had to be insane, Emily mused. Healing oneself makes sense, but cursing oneself...?
She stepped back. “Did you get on with your brother?”
“He was my brother,” the duke said. His expression hadn’t changed. “We were bound by blood.”
Emily nodded. “And you never fought with him?”
“We were brothers,” the duke said. He didn’t seem inclined to talk. “We had arguments.”
“And none of those arguments ended badly?” Emily considered trying a spell, but the duke’s defenses were too strong. The spell might fail... or it might be detected. Either could prove disastrous. “You never exchanged blows?”
“We were brothers.” The duke’s tone hadn’t changed, but he managed to convey the impression he thought she was an idiot. “We fought. But we also knew we had to stick together.”
Emily sighed, inwardly. It sounded as if she wasn’t going to get much out of the duke. He had a motive for murder, and he’d tried to stop her examining the body, but he also had good reason not to want his brother dead. And, perhaps, good reason to want his brother to rest in peace. It wasn’t proof of anything. She filed it away for later consideration, then headed to the door. The duke stepped aside to let her pass.
“I trust you have satisfied your... curiosity,” the duke said. He made it sound as if she’d been peeking. “The body will be moved to the crypt tonight.”
“Good,” Emily said. “I need to see the king’s private chambers.”
The duke smiled, very briefly. “You’ll need to see the Court Wizard. The chambers are sealed.”
Emily cocked her eyebrow. “And you cannot open them?”
“No,” the duke rumbled. “They’re my brother’s chambers.”
He closed the door. Emily could feel wards snapping into place. “The castle wards will direct you to the king’s private chambers,” he said. “I’ll have the wizard meet you there.”
“Thank you,” Emily said.
The duke stared at her for a long moment, as if he was trying to decide which of them should bow or curtsy, then turned and strode down the corridor, moving with surprising speed for a man of his bulk. Emily studied his back, wondering just how much of what she’d seen had been an act. The duke was no fool, that much was clear. He’d tried to intimidate her and...
He took the prophecy seriously, she mused. She thought that hadn’t been an act, although it would be easy to check. He wouldn’t have been so surprised by my loophole abuse if he’d made it up himself.
She considered it as the wards directed her down the corridor. She’d seen demons. She’d watched them give prophecies. They simply couldn’t be trusted. They might be bound to tell the truth at all times, according to Aurelius’s collection of forbidden tomes, but they could easily mislead while telling the exact and literal truth. It was quite possible that the demon had left a gigantic loophole. It was also possible that someone had made the whole prophesy up. Soothsayers, astrologers and fortune tellers were rare — the art was strictly forbidden in the Allied Lands — but they did exist. She could easily believe an aristocrat had ignored the law and consulted one...
Her lips quirked. Eowyn would be proud of me.
The wards seemed to grow stronger, as if they weren’t sure she should be admitted, even as they led her down a richly-decorated corridor and up to another pair of stone doors, covered with a dozen runes. Emily felt an urge to turn and walk away, an urge that grew stronger with every passing moment. It was too strong to be natural. She cursed the loss of her rune as she centered herself, walking through the subtle magic. The king’s chambers were heavily warded. She reached out to touch the wards...
... And they lashed back. A deluge of power washed over her, pressing against her defenses. The king — or whoever had designed the spell — clearly believed there was no such thing as overkill. The spells were trying to freeze her and transfigure her and enslave her and kill her, all at the same time. She silently blessed Void as she fought them off, twisting her magic around her to block or deflect every spell. If he hadn’t forced her to practice time and time again, one or more of the spells would have got her.
She stepped back as the magic faded, breathing a sigh of relief. The duke had known... of course he’d known. Had he thought she’d be killed? Had he thought it would be an easy way to get rid of her? Or...
“That’s impressive, My Lady,” a voice said. “I’ve never seen anyone else escape the trap.”
Emily turned. A young man stood behind her. “The Court Wizard, I presume?”
“Indeed,” the man said. He bowed, deeply. “Court Wizard Simon Daniele, at your service.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“IT’S A GREAT HONOR TO MEET you, Lady Emily,” Simon Daniele said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Emily had to smile. The Court Wizard was young — she didn’t think he could be more than a handful of years older than her — without any of the pretensions she’d come to expect from his ilk. He didn’t have a beard, he didn’t have an air of respectability or lingering menace... although, she supposed, in this castle he’d be up against some pretty stiff competition. He wore a simple white robe rather than a fancy or expensive outfit. His face was oddly unfinished, as if he hadn’t completely grown up. And yet, there was something infectious about his smile. He looked like someone too kind-hearted to fit into the castle.
“I’m afraid most of it is exaggerated,” Emily said. Under other circumstances, she would have liked the young man. He reminded her a little of Caleb. “And I’m afraid I cannot say the same about you.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Simon said. “I studied at Whitehall — I actually left the year before you arrived — before returning home. His Majesty was kind enough to offer me a job here.”
Emily nodded. “And what did you do for His Majesty?”
“The usual,” Simon said, vaguely. “His Majesty demanded total secrecy, I’m afraid. It was a condition of my employment.”
“And you didn’t try to get your mastery?” Emily frowned. That was odd. Most Court Wizards she’d met had been masters in one subject or another. “Why not?”
“I had too many interests,” Simon admitted, with a shrug. “I wanted to study everything at my own pace. His Majesty was happy to accommodate me.”
Emily turned back to the door. “Can you get inside?”
“No,” Simon said. “The king himself designed the wards and did most of the work. I merely provided a little support. They’re keyed to his bloodline, specifically. I can’t get inside.”
And the duke can’t get inside either, Emily thought. There were plenty of wards that could be keyed to a single person, but it was odd to see them in a castle. King Randor’s wards had been keyed to Alassa as well as himself. Or was he lying to me?
She stepped back. “We need the Crown Prince,” she said. She briefly considered trying to take a blood sample from the king’s corpse, before deciding it wasn’t likely to work. The blood had had ample time to decay. “Where is he...?”
“He’ll be in his lessons,” Simon said. “My Lady...?”
“Take me there,” Emily said. “Please.”
Simon hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure which of them had the right to issue orders, then shrugged and led the way down the corridor. Emily followed, glancing at the endless stream of wall-mounted paintings, all of which seemed to follow the same basic theme. A man — it was always a man — riding a fire-breathing dragon. Her eyes narrowed as she realized it was always the same dragon. Dragon-riders were rare, more legend than fact. And yet, she’d ridden a dragon herself.
She heard the sound of clashing blades before they reached the prince’s chambers. Willis was standing in the middle of a room, holding a sword in one hand and a dagger in the
other. His tutor was facing him, holding a blade of his own. It looked oddly dull, as if it had been charmed not to cut the prince. Emily wasn’t surprised to note the prince’s blade had no such protections. The fencing master was clearly expected to be at the top of his game or risk serious injury.
Although Sergeant Harkin used to say we wouldn’t be dulling our blades 'til there was a reasonable chance of us hitting someone, she reminded herself. Willis was good, better than she’d been the first time she picked up a blade. He’ll have been taught swordplay from the moment he could walk.
“Lady Emily,” Willis said. “Watch!”
He lunged forward, lashing out at his tutor. The tutor darted back, barely dodging the prince’s swing. Willis had left himself exposed... the tutor turned, striking out at the boy’s chest. Emily winced. If the blade hadn’t been dulled, Willis would have been disemboweled. The tutor would have been executed without a trial. Even with the spells, Willis was going to have a painful collection of bruises. The tutor clearly belonged to Sergeant Harkin’s school of teaching.
Willis looked more annoyed at himself than the tutor. “Lady Emily,” he said. He held up the dagger. “Look at this!”
Emily frowned. The dagger looked old, almost decayed. And yet, it was surrounded by a very nasty charm, woven in and out of the metal. It felt lethal, dangerously so.
“My father gave it to me,” Willis explained. “He said it would kill anything.”
“A useful weapon to have,” Emily said, dryly. “Can we borrow you for a moment?”
The tutor cleared his throat. “His Highness...
“Will be perfectly happy to accompany you,” Willis said. He grinned and scampered to the door. “Where are we going?”
The Artful Apprentice Page 25