“Highness? Are you all right?”
“How did I get here, Niya?” Elyssa asked, her low voice suffused with fright. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything!”
Niya turned to stare at her, and found Elyssa’s eyes wide and panicked, transparent as glass. Without thinking, Niya dropped her own champagne glass and took Elyssa’s arm, steadying her. She was suddenly aware that the Princess was close to collapse, that she was literally holding her up.
“What is it?” Niya demanded, keeping her voice low. “What has happened to you? Tell me!”
“She won’t let me,” Elyssa replied dully. “She says I belong to her, and she’s right.”
Her face sharpened, a terrible sight, her cheekbones arching into cruelty, her eyes growing cold. In that moment, Niya felt that evil itself stood beside her, and she twitched as a shudder worked its way up her spine. Thinking of her own words to the Fetch, long ago—One more palmist, more or less. What difference?—Niya felt her heart rend inside her chest.
“Ignore me,” Elyssa said, with a light laugh. “I’ve been talking nonsense, that’s all. Too much champagne.”
Niya glanced around, seeking the witch, sure that she must be nearby. She fought the instinctive urge to move away, perhaps flee the room. The Blue Horizon had taken the prophecy for its own, anointed Elyssa, made her into the True Queen. They had not anticipated Thorne or his witch, but ignorance did not shield them from responsibility. Their propaganda had helped to create the Princess who stood beside Niya, her contemptuous gaze sweeping the room. Impulsively Niya grasped her arm, turning the Princess to face her.
“Fight her, Highness. Cast her out.”
Elyssa’s face suddenly began to upheave. One side smiled while the other turned downward in a grimace of agony.
“Fight her!” Niya repeated. “You’re Elyssa Raleigh, the True Queen. Send her away.”
“I try!” Elyssa whispered, one eye filling with tears. “I try all the time!”
“Tell us how to fight her, then!” Niya demanded in an urgent undertone. “Tell us how to stop her.”
Elyssa’s face continued to work. One green eye dilated with rage, while the other wandered the room helplessly. Tears trickled down one cheek. Niya glanced around to make sure that no guard was privy to this conversation . . . and found all of them turned away in studied ignorance.
Bless you, Barty.
“No one can stop her,” Elyssa whispered, weeping quietly. “I can hide behind the blue light, but I can’t make her go, and one day—”
“Highness. You promised me a dance.”
Niya looked up to find Arlen Thorne just outside the ring of guards. Barty stood before him, his sword drawn.
“Who are you, scarecrow?” Barty demanded.
“Only a businessman,” Thorne replied, his bright blue eyes amused. “A friend of Her Highness.”
Barty did not move. Next to Niya, Elyssa gave a low moan, her face twitching, as though her muscles had seized. For a nearly infinite moment, Niya thought that perhaps she had won, but then Elyssa blinked, and that cool, contemptuous expression descended again, as tangibly as though the Princess had donned a mask. With a flick of her hand, she wiped her tears away.
“Delighted, Mr. Thorne.”
Elyssa motioned for Barty to move. The old guard stood there a moment longer, his defiant gaze fixed on Thorne. Then he moved aside, allowing Thorne to take Elyssa’s hand.
A deep boom echoed across the room. The double doors of the ballroom had opened to admit a cadre of white-clad swordsmen: Arvath Guard, two columns of ten, bearing something enormous between them, a vaguely flat shape draped with a sheet.
“Greetings to Queen Arla!” the herald at their head called. “His Holiness wishes the best for Your Majesty’s birthday!”
“Well, what’s that, then?” the Queen demanded drunkenly, pointing to their burden. “If he offers me God’s kingdom, why wrap it in a sheet?”
The crowd laughed appreciatively. Niya looked around for Elyssa, but she and Thorne had vanished into the crowd.
I must send a message tonight, Niya thought wildly. The Fetch will know what to do.
“Your Majesty will undoubtedly reach God’s kingdom one day,” the herald replied diplomatically. “But in the meantime, His Holiness sends you this gift, and many happy returns.”
The guards pulled the sheet free. Gasps and murmurs traveled through the crowd, but for a moment, Niya could not see clearly what the gift was. Something of gold, which sparkled brilliantly in the torchlight. Then they raised it vertical, and a woman screamed . . . fortunately, for it covered Niya’s own wounded cry of recognition.
Gareth hung above her, impaled on a vast wooden cross that towered some ten feet above the crowd. His mouth yawned, eyes wide and face contorted in agony. His entire body had been painted with gold. Around his neck, a blue-painted sign read “The Better World.”
“Happy birthday, Majesty!” the herald announced. “The Holy Father hopes that this ornament will grace your walls for many years to come.”
Queen Arla approached the gift, studying it. Gareth had not been tied to the cross, as Niya had first thought, but actually crucified; huge iron nails had been driven through his palms and bare feet. His head had been shaved, none too carefully, for tiny nicks marred his skull. But Niya could see no other wounds.
Dear God, did they do this while he was alive? she wondered, her stomach clenching into rivets. Did they hang him up to die?
“Place it against the far wall,” Arla replied carelessly. “We’ll find some way to hang him up tomorrow. It won’t smell, will it?”
“No, Majesty,” the herald replied. “The body has been embalmed and fixed.”
Niya watched numbly as they carried the cross toward the far wall. As they turned it, she saw that tiny crosses had been carved at regular intervals down the length of Gareth’s legs. Niya turned away, unable to look any longer at the horror of her friend’s corpse, and found Elyssa staring at Gareth’s crucified body with a blank, almost curious expression, the look of a woman deciding what to wear that day or how she might take her tea. When the Queen called to the musicians, ordering them to strike up again, Elyssa turned to Arlen Thorne and extended her arm, inviting him to resume the dance.
* * *
Christian did not mistake Niya’s fixed expression for serenity. Her mouth was set so tightly that her jaw seemed like to shatter, and her eyes were deep wells of horror. Blue Horizon; Christian had suspected it, but now he was sure. Many of the Guard had tried their luck with Niya and gotten nowhere, but Christian had already perceived that what might be mistaken for ice was really steel, inflexible control that never broke. But it was breaking now. The woman looked as though she might collapse, and before he thought better of it, Christian had offered his arm, allowing her to steady herself.
“My thanks,” Niya murmured sickly, her face pale as milk. Her eyes darted toward the crucified figure that leaned against the wall, then away. “Too much wine, I think.”
Christian guided her to a nearby chair, barely taking note of Carroll’s approving nod. Every day he learned more about what a Queen’s Guard was supposed to be, all the tiny courtesies that made one into a gentleman. But this was the first time he had performed such an act without artifice. He knelt before Niya, taking her cold hand.
“Your friend?”
Niya’s gaze snapped to his, and they shared a moment of remarkable simpatico. They had already agreed that he was no guard, and she no maid, but in that moment the two of them seemed to travel further, each seeing and accepting culpability, criminality, and all that went with it, a shared understanding that neither of them belonged here. When two tears blinked from beneath Niya’s lashes, Christian immediately produced the tiny scrap of cloth that all Queen’s Guards kept tucked in their sleeves, then stood, shielding her, as she wiped away the tears.
“She’s witched,” Niya whispered. “Witched beyond recovery. So what am I still doing here?”
Christian didn’t need to ask who she was, for the Princess was now whirling around the room on the arm of Arlen Thorne. The weekend before, Christian had been granted his first furlough, and he had spent the time oozing around the pubs in the Gut, asking about Thorne. But no one had heard a word of the sale of pretty children to the pimp, neither topside nor below. Christian had run upon one man whose boss, a silk merchant, had sold Thorne several lengths of his best silk, but that was all. Whatever Thorne was up to, he was smart enough to remain a ghost. The Guard, even Barty, seemed remarkably unconcerned at Thorne’s proximity to the Princess, by which Christian understood that none of them knew Thorne, what he was.
Great God, they do need me here, Christian thought sourly, if only to bridge the gap in knowledge between Creche and Keep.
The witch was here as well; Christian had spotted her earlier in the evening, trying to pass herself off as a palmist. But now she had disappeared. When he first arrived, Christian had searched the party for Maura, hoping against hope that she might be here as well; Lord Tennant was in attendance, and surely the other nonces would be too. It was not unheard of for nobles to bring their doxies to court, even for such an important event as the Queen’s birthday, but there was no sign of Maura, and now Christian was glad of it. He sensed disaster, hovering close.
“It’s her,” Niya continued brokenly. “The albino. The witch. And if Elyssa can’t fight her off, what hope do we have?”
Mace had no answer. He hesitated on the point of telling Niya that he, too, had once tangled with Brenna, and then did not. To confess such a thing would be to tell her who he was, and to tell that would be to tell everything, the tale that would make any self-respecting member of the Blue Horizon run screaming into the night.
I want her good opinion, Christian realized, astonished. Why?
Movement drew his eye: two Gate Guards pushing through the crowd. Carroll had told him that the Gate Guard did not approach the Queen directly unless the matter was dire. They went to Givens first, who listened to them for a moment, a frown deepening on his seamed face, then went to the Queen. The party continued unabated, but the Gate Guards’ entry had not been unnoticed; all eyes were now turned toward the Queen. Even Elyssa watched her mother as she danced, her eyes intent, almost waiting.
“Hold!” Queen Arla shouted to the musicians, waving a hand in the air, her voice hoarse with wine. “Hold, I say!”
The musicians stopped, and the Queen began to gabble orders at Givens, her voice too low and slurred for Christian to understand. The news, whatever it was, had begun to make its way through the crowd now; Christian listened intently but could only make out scattered words.
Fire.
Blue Horizon.
All dead.
“Then call out the army!” Arla suddenly shouted at Givens, her face red and furious. “Plenty of them left in the city! I want two legions in the Hollow before midnight!”
“Fire in the Hollow,” one of the nobles standing near Christian repeated. “Gadds Alley. An entire city block has already burned down.”
“Well worth it,” a drunken woman slurred back. “I’d burn half the city down if it meant getting rid of the Fetch.”
Christian felt a pinch at his shoulder and realized that Niya was clutching it in a death grip, grinding the join of his armor. Her already pale face had now drained of all color, and her eyes were huge with fright.
“What did you say to me, Cleary?” Arla demanded, and the general, who had appeared from somewhere, muttered something in her ear.
“This city is made of wood, you say?” Arla began to laugh, then, abruptly, she slapped him. The entire assembly almost shivered in scandalized delight, but Cleary remained immobile, not even putting a hand to his face; Christian guessed that he had seen the Queen drunk a time or two before.
“I know what the Gut is built of,” the Queen hissed. “Get the water; take it from my cistern if you have to. Just put out the fucking fire.”
“Yes, Majesty,” General Cleary said, and departed. Slowly, the party began to speak and move again, but stiffly, all mirth departed in the knowledge that the real excitement was elsewhere. The Queen had taken another glass of wine, and she drank defiantly, looking around as though begging someone to try to stop her. Behind Christian, Niya had collapsed back into her chair; he thought she might have fainted, but he did not want to call attention to the fact by trying to revive her. He caught a brief glimpse of the witch across the room, but then she faded from sight in the shifting of the crowd.
“Mace.”
He looked down and found Niya, sitting up straight now, though her face was still white as salt. She grabbed his hand.
“Was it real, the fire? Tell me it wasn’t real.”
He opened his mouth, not sure what he meant to say, for in that strange moment, a lie seemed somehow kinder than the truth. But before he could choose either, the Queen began to scream.
All of the Guard moved at once, turning instinctively toward the Queen . . . all except Barty, who remained with Elyssa, and Christian himself. He surely did not belong here, because his first instinct was not to defend the Queen, or even the Princess, but Niya in her chair. He remained beside her, unmoving, observing almost coolly that the Queen had begun to beat at herself, her arms, the skirt of her dress. Her shrieks echoed across the room, and as the crowd watched in horrified silence, she crossed her arms and clawed through her sleeves, tearing crimson ribbons down her own biceps.
“The dress!” Givens shouted suddenly, springing forward. “It’s the fucking dress! Get it off her! Now!”
Several guards, including Givens, converged on the Queen, grabbing the silky red material of her dress and tearing it from her body. But it did no good, for now the Queen hooked her fingers and began to claw at her own eyes, leaving bloody furrows beneath the sockets. The women in the audience began to scream, and as though the sound had given permission, a general stampede began, all of the nobles running in a herd for the double doors at the far end of the room.
“Barty!” Givens shouted, clutching one of the Queen’s flailing arms. “Barty, get over here! And you, Coryn! Over here now! Send someone for Beale!”
With a last, agonized look at Elyssa, Barty went. Christian finally succeeded in sitting Niya on the chair; he thought of going to Elyssa, taking Barty’s place, then decided not to, for she was in no danger. Thorne had gone to join the witch, who stood on the far side of the room. Elyssa, too, had moved toward her mother, but she had halted some twenty feet away. Now she watched the proceedings, her face a study in anxiety . . . but the anxiety was false. Christian knew it. Something else was in her eyes, crouched there like a child waiting behind a door, and in a single stunned moment, Christian identified it.
Glee.
The Queen had fallen now, her fall cushioned by the dozen guards who lowered her to the ground. Barty knelt and bent over her, pulling on thick leather gloves. Christian felt his respect for the old man increase. Barty had not rushed forward; he kept a cool head. The Queen’s breathing was becoming labored now, devolving into great gasps that Christian could hear even across the ballroom. The crowd of guests had disappeared, and the double doors stood open, giving onto the wide, empty corridor like a gaping mouth.
“Contact poison,” Barty muttered. “Neurotoxic; listen to her breath.”
“Brenna can help her,” Arlen Thorne announced. He had ventured closer, bringing the witch with him.
“Keep the albino back,” Givens told him, drawing his sword. Barty was now examining the Queen’s hands, her fingernails. With one gloved finger, he gently pulled up the Queen’s eyelid.
“The Queen is dying,” Thorne said. “Contact poisons may have timed delays, but they work quickly once activated. You cannot save her, but Brenna can.”
“No,” Givens said firmly. “Barty, can you mix an antidote?”
Barty shook his head. “I know this poison, milked from a Dry Lands cobra. The Cadarese call it the Burning Brand. But I would need my greenhouse, and more time than we have.”
“What do we do?” Givens demanded. The Queen’s harsh breathing had begun to slow. One of her hands crept to her chest now, clutching the blue jewel that lay there, as a drowning man might cling to a rope.
“You have no time,” Thorne announced. “Allow Brenna to try.”
“No!” Christian shouted.
The rest turned to him, surprised. Christian had surprised himself. He had no doubt that the witch could do it, but he also had not forgotten what he knew of Arlen Thorne, who did nothing without reason, and certainly nothing for free.
“Hold your tongue, boy,” Givens replied coldly. “Remember your place.”
Christian did, though the disdain in the older guard’s tone made resentment swell inside him.
I could help you, he thought angrily. I could tell you all so much. . . .
He turned to check on Niya but found her gone, vanished from the chair behind him. The rise and fall of the Queen’s chest was now almost imperceptible. She had begun to wheeze as well, an accordion sound so painful that it made Christian wince.
“There’s no time,” the Princess finally announced, moving forward. “We have to let Brenna try.”
“Highness!” Givens snapped. “The witch is dangerous! She—”
“My mother is dying,” Elyssa told him. “Will you stand over her and allow it?”
But the debate was pointless, for Arla’s entire Guard had now drawn swords and planted themselves between Brenna and the Queen. Thorne himself, Christian noticed, had retreated all the way to the far wall, where he watched with the idle amusement of a man at a theatrical.
“Approach the Queen, witch, and I will cut you down,” Givens told Brenna . . . but only a moment later, he began to scream. Then they were all howling, all ten of the guards who had circled the Queen . . . shrieking as they clawed at their own faces, their own eyes. Carroll leapt forward, meaning to run to them, but Christian grabbed him by the arm.
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