Rogan snorted. “That depends on who’s doing the calculations,” he said. “The king’s will states Prince Robert is second in line to the throne. He’ll be Willis’s heir until the boy has heirs of his own. However, there’s a strong case to be made that the duke and his sons actually take precedence. I have no doubt the duke will make that case if anything happens to Willis.”
“Ouch,” Emily said. “You’d better get him a bodyguard.”
“I’ll mention it to the Lord Protector,” Rogan said. “But my authority terminates the moment I make the public announcement.”
And then I have to go home and confess failure, Emily thought. Her heart twisted. She didn’t want to disappoint Void. She didn’t think he’d kick her out, but... she didn’t want to admit failure. If I don’t find the murderer...
There was a tap on the door. “Trouble, I bet,” Rogan said. “Enter!”
A messenger stepped into the room and bowed. “Lady Emily, His Highness the Crown Prince requests the pleasure of your company.”
Emily glanced at Rogan, who shrugged. “Coming,” she said. “Lead the way.”
The messenger bowed again and turned. Emily followed him as he led her through a maze of passageways, up to a single large meeting room. It was a war room, she realized dully. The stone walls were covered in swords, spears and shields, all decorated with the ever-present dragons. Willis himself was standing by a solid wooden table, peering down at an immense map of the Allied Lands. He turned as Emily entered, smiling. Emily dropped a curtsy and straightened. Willis nodded politely.
“My tutor was insisting that we couldn’t move an army to the Craggy Mountains,” Willis said, tracing a line on the map. “He’s wrong, isn’t he?”
Emily walked over to the table and peered down at the map. It was a work of art in its own right, rather than the scribbled parchments or printed maps she’d seen during the war. A single purple diamond hung in the far corner, indicating the craftsman who’d drawn out the map. Emily frowned as she cocked her head. The map was accurate enough, she supposed, but the mapmaker had left out quite a few details. A military operation that looked easy on paper might be practically impossible in real life.
“You’d have to march the army over two thousand miles,” she said, carefully. Alassa had had trouble keeping her army supplied, even in fertile country. “And the kingdoms you’ll pass through won’t be happy to see you.”
“The necromancers have to be beaten,” Willis said. His eyes shone as he traced out a fantasy campaign. “Surely, the other kings will understand that.”
“It wouldn’t be easy to feed and supply a large army, whatever they understand,” Emily said, bluntly. “And their populations would certainly see you as an invading army.”
Willis looked blank. “But we’re going to fight the common foe!”
“Your army would cause them no end of problems,” Emily told him. “You might mean well, Your Highness, but you’d do a great deal of harm.”
She studied the map, considering the possibilities. There weren’t many. Willis couldn’t hope to transport the army by sea, unless he wanted to risk losing his entire fleet in a storm. The necromancers would certainly have enough time to launch a counterattack even if Willis did manage to land safely. And then they’d be pinned against the sea and destroyed. It would be the end.
“You might manage to march an army through portals,” she said, carefully. “But it would take a long time to bring all your force to bear.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Willis said. “We sneak into the Blighted Lands, set up a portal and bring the army through.”
“You’d have problems,” Emily said. The basic idea was sound, but... “Every necromancer for a hundred miles would be able to sense the portal. They’d direct their armies towards it.”
“But your new weapons would turn the tide,” Willis said. He turned and waved a hand towards the far wall. A musket hung among the bladed weapons. “Their armies would impale themselves on bullets.”
“Perhaps,” Emily said. Machine guns would slaughter orcs in vast numbers. But it would be a long time before the Allied Lands made anything more sophisticated than cannons, flintlocks and muskets. They’d barely mastered revolvers. Mass producing the weapons was out of the question. “You’d need to bring a lot of weapons.”
Willis grinned at her. “When I’m king, I’ll have a lot of weapons,” he said. “I’ll have my own army, the finest in the world. And I’ll teach the necromancers a lesson.”
What not to do, perhaps, Emily thought. If moving an army through the mountains was hard, moving one across the Blighted Lands was impossible. A frontal assault into the Blighted Lands is doomed to fail.
She leaned forward, keeping that thought to herself. “Willis... who do you want to be protector?”
The Crown Prince looked surprised by the question. “I will be king,” he said. “Does it matter?”
“It might,” Emily said. “Who do you want?”
Willis considered it. “I don’t know,” he said, finally. “My mother — my stepmother — is a woman. She doesn’t understand the manly arts, not like you do. She’s always telling me that I should study things other than war, as if a king is not defined by his victories and defeats and the power of his army.”
“I am a woman,” Emily said. If Willis had said that to Lady Barb... she snorted inwardly at the thought. “Or am I an honorary man?”
Willis blushed and started to stammer. “Uncle is tougher, but he’s scary. And yet, he teaches me what I need to know. He’s never lost a battle. I won’t lose a battle either.”
Emily nodded. If Willis thought his uncle was scary...
I’d better charge a battery, she thought. Thankfully, she’d packed the tools. Just in case.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“THE SERVANTS WERE TALKING, MY LADY,” Silent said, as she placed the breakfast tray on the table. “They’re saying the duke is sure to be protector.”
“Are they?” Emily rubbed her eyes as she stood. “And what else are they saying?”
“That it’s a great shame the Crown Prince won’t be crowned properly,” Silent said. She headed to the bathroom. “His father had two weeks of feasting when he took the crown.”
Emily shrugged. The original plans had fallen by the wayside. Willis had to be crowned in a hurry, even if that meant a very basic ceremony and a shortage of foreign guests. He’d probably have another ceremony when he came of age, just to make sure everyone knew he’d be ruling in his own right for the rest of his life. Alassa’s coronation had been very short and simple too, she’d been told. She’d been unconscious at the time.
And cheap, she thought. The last thing anyone needs is to start the protectorship with a row over funds being wasted on the king’s coronation.
She snorted at the thought — in her experience, aristocrats believed money expended on show was never wasted — and hastily tucked into her breakfast. Rogan had sent her a detailed list of instructions for the ceremony, but most didn’t apply to her. The duke, according to long tradition, would place the crown on his nephew’s head and be the first to swear loyalty to his new king. Emily privately doubted the duke would mean one word of it, but in a crowded hall — his friends and enemies alike watching for weakness — he’d have no choice. He’d have to play his role to the fullest. She checked the list, making sure she didn’t have to say or do anything beyond joining the guests of honor, as she finished her breakfast. It was only two hours before the ceremony.
Silent returned. Emily glanced at her. “What’s the mood on the streets?”
“Grim,” Silent said. “There are crowds everywhere. The castle gates are firmly shut and bolted. The servants have strict orders not to leave the castle.”
“Ouch,” Emily said. “We’ll be leaving soon, I think.”
“Very good, My Lady,” Silent said, expressionlessly. She started to lay out the dress. “Should I pack?”
“Pack as much as you can,” Emil
y said. She hated to confess failure, but what choice did she have? Rogan had made it clear they’d be expected to leave shortly after the coronation. She was tempted to ask Sir Mowbray if she could stay, but she doubted the Lord Protector would agree. He couldn’t afford to seem a puppet of outside interests. “We’ll teleport home when I’m dismissed.”
She felt despondent as she walked into the bathroom, heated the water with a charm and climbed into the tub. She’d failed. She didn’t know who’d killed the king, she didn’t know what the king had been doing before his death... she didn’t even know who’d sent her the flowers! They were perfectly normal flowers — she’d checked them carefully for everything from scent-based potions to hexes and curses — but... she shook her head. It didn’t matter, not now. All that mattered was that she’d failed.
And I’m not even sure what the mission actually was, she thought, as she scrubbed herself thoroughly. Why does Void care about any of this?
She was tempted to stay in the water for hours, but she simply didn’t have time. She clambered out of the tub, dried herself with a spell and walked back into the bedroom. Silent picked up the dress and held it out. Emily took it, silently thanking all the gods that she’d made sure to choose a dress she could put on without help, and pulled it over her head. It was pretty enough, she supposed, without being overstated. She had the feeling the ladies of the court were going to be competing to wear the finest dresses. There was no point in joining the competition.
“You look lovely, My Lady,” Silent said.
“Thanks,” Emily said.
She brushed back her hair as she stared at herself in the mirror. The dress was a cross between her normal clothes and an apprentice’s robes. She rather thought she looked more like a master than an apprentice. She dropped the battery into a pocket, along with one of the smaller valves. It might come in handy, if all hell broke loose. If nothing else, it would be a terrible surprise for anyone intend on causing trouble.
There was a tap on the door. “Come!”
A messenger stepped into the room and bowed. “Lady Emily,” he said. “The Lord Arbiter requests your presence in the Throne Room.”
Emily nodded. “Please inform the Lord Arbiter that I’ll be there in a moment,” she said. The ceremony wasn’t due to start for another hour, but she’d be expected to take her place well before the timer reached zero. “I can find my own way there.”
The messenger bowed again, then retreated. Emily stuck the remaining supplies in her pocket, carefully charming them to keep them hidden from prying eyes, then pulled on her gloves and headed for the door. The corridor outside was bustling with life, from servants carrying heavy boxes up and down the stairs to noble men and women being escorted to their chambers. The latter looked as if they’d been forced to get out of bed at stupid o’clock, she noted; she suspected they were annoyed at having to share the corridors with their social inferiors. A middle-aged woman eyed her as though she were a servant, then scowled when Emily eyed her right back. She looked to be a very low-ranking aristocrat.
Probably looking for someone she can conscript as a servant, Emily thought, feeling a twinge of pity for anyone too low-ranking to tell the woman where to go. And whoever gets the job is likely to regret it.
She frowned, then schooled her face into immobility as she stepped into the Throne Room. The chamber was already full, lines of aristocracy pressing against the wardlines someone had helpfully drawn on the stone floor. Dozens of guards stood against the rear of the chamber, a deterrent to anyone who was thinking of causing trouble. A couple looked as if they were hoping someone would. They wouldn’t get many opportunities to push a nobleman or two around and she had a feeling they were planning to make the most of it.
Arbiter Rogan was standing by the throne, directing people to their places. He nodded to Emily, then pointed her to a position among the guests of honor. The others shot her sharp looks, as if they didn’t know who she was or why she’d been honored. Emily found it hard to care. She’d be leaving in the evening and reporting back to her master, to the man she’d come to think of as a father. And she’d failed.
The duke stepped into the room, blade prominently displayed on his hip and raw magic spiraling around him. He marched to the front of the chamber and took his place by the throne. The queen — and the royal children — followed, standing on the opposite side of the guards. Emily met Elena’s eye and winked. The princess had got some of what she wanted, after all. She was probably the luckiest person in the chamber. The room started to quiet as Rogan moved to stand in front of the throne. Emily glanced at her watch. It was time.
Rogan snapped his fingers. A silencing spell rippled through the air. Emily felt her ears pop as silence descended, a silence so complete she couldn’t even hear herself breathe. It felt eerie, almost wrong. The guests slowly straightened to attention. She eyed Rogan, wondering if he was enjoying himself. He might be about to boost his career into the skies — or send it crashing into utter ruin.
“I speak with the voice of the Allied Lands,” Rogan said, calmly. His voice was surprisingly strong. “I speak as one who is sworn to arbitrate, to listen to all sides and hear all arguments and study all precedents before rendering judgment. And I speak as one who is profoundly aware of how much rests upon his arbitration. I speak as one who knows he will be called to account for what he has done.
“It is my decision that Sir Mowbray, Member of Parliament, is to serve as Lord Protector.”
Emily watched the crowd. The duke looked... oddly unconcerned. A flash of alarm ran through her. The duke should be enraged. The queen was angry, glancing towards her father. The crowd itself was shifting, lips moving soundlessly. She thought she saw relief on a number of faces. The crisis had been averted. There would be no civil war. And yet... she looked back at the duke. His face was cold and calm.
“My full judgment will be published, as laid down in the terms of the treaty,” Rogan continued. “However, I believe that he is the best choice for the kingdom.”
He paused, holding the silence spell in place. Technically, the assembled lords and ladies should pledge allegiance to the Lord Protector, but they couldn’t do that — according to the ceremony guidelines — until Willis was formally crowned. Emily had a nasty feeling some of them were already plotting ways to avoid public oaths, even if they weren’t enforced with magic. They might just try to sneak out before the ceremony was over. And even if they did swear their oaths...
“Let the Crown Prince be crowned,” Rogan said. “And then the Lord Protector can assume his duties.”
The silencing spell snapped as the main doors opened. Willis stepped into the room, wearing regal robes that were perfectly tailored to his young body. His dagger hung in place of a sword. And yet... Emily couldn’t help thinking he looked faintly absurd as he made his way down the aisle. He looked nervous, as if he were marching to his execution. She felt a stab of pity. He’d be bound to the throne for the rest of his life. She wouldn’t have wanted such a life.
Alassa wanted the throne, she thought, as Willis passed her. She wanted to tell him to run. I wonder if she ever regrets not leaving the kingdom while she had the chance?
The duke stood as Willis reached the podium, one hand resting on his sword. He was meant to knight the young prince, as well as crown him. Emily frowned as a servant materialized behind the duke, carrying the crown on a cushion. Her eyes narrowed. The crown was an ugly iron mass, so strikingly out of place that she wondered — for a heartbeat — if the crown had been destroyed. And yet, it was surrounded by strange and powerful magic.
And no one is objecting to the crown, she told herself. The queen, the duke... Willis himself... they’d all object if it wasn’t the real crown. It must mean something to them.
The duke drew his sword. Emily felt an urge to cover her eyes. The blade was bright, blindingly bright... it was glowing with magic, not light. She forced herself to watch as the duke motioned for Willis to climb the steps and kneel befo
re him, his sword at the ready. The ceremony would be over soon and then... she’d have to go confess her failure. And then...
It happened with terrifying speed. The duke lashed out, once. Rogan’s protections shattered like glass. His body was sliced in two, the pieces falling to the ground. Blood splashed on the podium. Emily reached for her magic, too late, as the duke held his sword to Willis’s neck. She was dimly aware of guards crashing into place, a handful of loyalists being quickly and brutally removed. The crowd surged, stunned by the sudden change. They didn’t know what to do.
He killed the arbiter, Emily thought, shocked. She’d liked Rogan. He just declared war on the Allied Lands!
She wrapped her power around her, slipping a small object into her palm. If she propelled it at the duke... Willis would be showered in blood, but he’d be alive. She hoped. The blade was practically touching his neck. The slightest shift might behead the prince. Emily forced herself to think, silently reaching out to probe the duke’s defenses. If she could break them, she could stop him. She could freeze them both and remove the prince before finishing the duke. Or...
“Lady Emily.” The duke sounded amused as he turned his gaze to her. His voice dripped honey and sarcasm. “I’m sure you do not want any harm to come to any of these... good... people, even the royal bastards. And no harm will come to them, if you drink your potion like a good girl.”
Emily sensed someone moving next to her. A guard, eyes cold and hard, opened his hand and held out a potions gourd. The stench of durian assailed her nostrils. She took it, thinking hard. She could try to kill the duke, but if she missed she might kill Willis instead. She didn’t have time to crack his defenses and... her mind raced. The castle’s wards wouldn’t let her teleport. She’d be scattered over hundreds of miles if she tried. She might be able to fight her way out, but the duke had an unknown number of sorcerers under his control and... she might escape, at the cost of leaving him in control of the children. She saw the fear in Willis’s eyes and shivered. She couldn’t let the duke harm them.
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