Jenna dug in her heels, hanging back. “Don’t you—mightn’t you want privacy?”
“Come on,” Ash said, pulling her forward.
“But . . . I can’t meet a queen all windblown, flightworn, and sweaty,” Jenna said. And I probably have bugs in my teeth.
“She won’t care. I’ve told her about you. She’ll be anxious to meet you.” He turned to Sasha. “Come with us. She’ll want to see you, too.”
Jenna resisted the temptation to drag her feet all the way to the command tent. Her history with royalty began with Gerard Montaigne, who came to Delphi and murdered her friends Riley and Maggi, then traded her to the empress in the east.
Ash spoke to the guards outside the tent, and they were immediately announced.
When they entered, they were met by a small clutch of people, a mingle of men and women, most in the spattercloth uniforms the Highlanders wore.
One of them, a smallish woman in spattercloth, stood frozen, her body canted forward, her hands opening and closing at her sides. Her eyes were a striking green under her shaggy cap of hair.
Ash leapt forward, pulling her toward him. She held back for a moment, then burrowed into the embrace. Her words were meant for Ash’s ears only, but Jenna couldn’t help hearing.
“I was afraid to touch you, for fear you would disappear,” she murmured. “How many times are we going to do this?”
“I don’t know, Mother,” Ash said. “Hopefully this season of grief will soon be over, one way or another.” He paused. “I didn’t bring Lyss back, but I have news about her.”
“We have news, too,” the wolf queen said.
Behind her, a tall, grim-faced guardsman in a blue jacket studied Jenna in her flight leathers, the curved sword at her side. He eased forward until he stood between the two royals and Jenna.
“Who is this, Captain Talbot?” he said, nodding at Jenna.
“She’s—she’s—she’s the one that saved us and brought us back here,” she blurted. “She’s like the busker—magemarked.”
Ash turned back toward Jenna, smiling, taking her hand again. “Mother, Captain Byrne, this is Jenna Bandelow, Patriot of Delphi. An ally.”
60
IN THE EYE OF THE HURRICANE
We’re dancing in the eye of the hurricane, Destin thought. We are dining on the deck of a sinking ship, and I happen to have a huge anchor around my neck. He slipped his fingers under Jarat’s collar, as if he could somehow loosen it.
They were surrounded by Celestine’s bloodsworn army, whose camp stretched as far as the eye could see. To call it a camp was being generous. Most of the soldiers didn’t bother to pitch tents. They slept in the open, on the ground.
There had been an exchange of blustery messages and saber rattling. The empress’s commander had demanded to meet with the queen of the Fells, and Jarat had refused. Jarat had demanded that the Carthians surrender, and they had refused. So everyone settled in to wait.
Meanwhile, plans proceeded apace for the wedding. The contents of the wagon train they’d muscled through the pass were deployed—linens and dinnerware, tureens, serving pieces, musical instruments, and livery for a string quartet and choir. Crates of Tamron wine and casks of Bruinswallow beer were carried to the great hall, along with wheels of cheese and tins of smoked oysters. Seamstresses altered Mellony’s wedding gown to fit her taller daughter. Meanwhile, Julianna seemed as pliant and charming a fiancée as Jarat could have wished. She hung on his arm, agreed with everything he said, and accepted well wishes with a smile. It didn’t hurt that she was spectacularly beautiful, which was rare in a political match.
“I don’t know what you did to her, Colonel,” Jarat said, smirking, “but in the future, when I’m confronted with an uncooperative woman, I’ll know who to call.”
Lila watched these preparations with a sour expression on her face. “I tried to leave, and you wouldn’t let me,” she said to Destin. “Now I’m trapped in a palace surrounded by swiving bloodsworn.” She wasn’t settling into her role as Destin’s sidekick.
“At least you’re trapped in a palace,” Destin said. When she scowled at him, he said, “Oh, come on, Lila, look around. You know you love parties, and this will be the best party ever.”
“Followed by starvation, torture, and entry into the ranks of blood slavery?” Lila raised an eyebrow.
“Just think of it as the price to be paid—like a major hangover.” Destin looked forward, to where Jarat and Julianna were being lovely together. And alliterative. They were displaying the monogram to be used henceforth—two Js, entwined.
“I happen to know that the party will soon be over,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
Instead of replying, Destin picked up a crate of wine, lowered it into her arms, then set a wheel of cheese on top of it. “They won’t be needing this. I’m creating a private larder and wine cellar,” he said. “You might want to do the same.”
Lila staggered away under her burden.
Destin left the great hall, crossed the courtyard to the Cathedral Temple, and threaded his way through the maze of classrooms and offices behind the altar to knock on Speaker Jemson’s door.
“Come,” the speaker called.
The speaker was persona non grata since presiding at Julianna’s first wedding without telling her mother.
Jarat, Destin thought, you don’t know the half of it.
The office was tiny, packed floor to ceiling with papers and books.
“Colonel,” Jemson said, leaning back in his chair. “This is a surprise.”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Destin said, “but I need your help again.”
“How can I help you?”
“This time, I need your help disposing of a body.”
When Destin left the Cathedral Temple, one of his operatives ghosted up beside him. “Where have you been?”
“At church,” Destin said, looking over his shoulder.
“There’s someone who wants to see you,” she said. “Says he’s got some information for you. He gave his name as Claude Remy.”
Remy. He was an officer in the Ardenine regulars who’d been reliable in the past. In fact, he’d been the one who tipped Destin off that the Matelon brothers were in Ardenscourt before the freeing of the hostages.
“Where is he?”
“He’s outside, near the postern gate.”
Destin sauntered outside, following the city wall until he reached the riverbank. He saw movement amid the shadows next to the gate.
“Remy?” he said.
The officer moved forward, into the light from the wall sconces, looking relieved. It seemed as if he’d seen hard times since last they’d met.
“What’s happened to you?” Destin said, frankly curious. “You look like a refugee on the roadside.”
“It’s Matelon,” Remy said, “and those swiving demon bloodsuckers. That was the last straw.”
Destin couldn’t make any sense out of that. Was he talking about the Darian Brothers? What did Matelon have to do with them? “Come,” he said, “sit down and explain.” He drew Remy away from castle traffic to a bench next to the river. “What are you talking about?”
“I signed on with Matelon when he was recruiting for soldiers to march on Ardenscourt. He’s always been a fair commander, takes care of his men, and I thought there was a good chance for promotion under the thanes. So we took Ardenscourt, and Matelon named himself king, so it was all looking good. Then we took Delphi, but after that, it all went wrong.”
Destin was still lost. “Wrong? How so?”
“We ended up surrounded by the empress’s army. Just like now. So the higher-ups had a meeting and Matelon agreed to surrender to the empress’s commander.”
Destin frowned. “He did? That doesn’t sound like Matelon.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But the two of them—Matelon and the Carthian general—they claimed that it wasn’t really a surrender, that they were going to team up and march on F
ellsmarch. So half a hundred of us and thousands of bloodsworn hotfooted it all the way up here. We hardly took the time to take a piss along the way.”
The pieces finally fell into place. “So . . . you’re with the army outside?”
Remy rolled his eyes. “That’s what I said. But I can’t do this. I can’t fight with the bloodsworn, and for the northerners. It’s not how I was brought up.”
Destin’s racing thoughts skidded to a halt. “What? What do you mean, you can’t fight for the northerners?”
“The commander of the empress’s army is a northerner. A woman, come over from the Highlanders. She and Matelon seemed to know each other. They said they met when Matelon was a prisoner in the north.”
Matelon, Matelon, Destin thought. What are you up to?
“What’s this Carthian commander’s name?”
Remy leaned in, as if worried he’d be overheard. “She goes by the name of Gray Wolf. She said she still has family here, and King Jarat can’t know who she is, because he’d use her family against her. And she said the empress can’t know we’re working together, because she’ll make the bloodsworn turn on us. And I don’t want to be there for that.” He shuddered.
Destin leaned closer. “So what do you intend to do, Remy?”
“I’m going to tell the king what I know. Hopefully he will use that information to persuade the northern commander to march her army away.”
Destin thought it over. Considered his options. “I’m glad you came to me with this,” he said, putting a hand on Remy’s shoulder.
Remy flinched. “So,” he said, “can you take me to the king?”
“I’m sorry,” Destin said, locking his elbow under Remy’s chin and wrenching his head back, “but that won’t be possible.” He drew his dagger across the officer’s throat, evading the fountaining blood, and dumped the body into the river. The Dyrnnewater was running high, so hopefully it would sweep Remy out of the city and far to the west. Destin rinsed the dagger, washed his hands, and dabbed at the blood that had spattered onto his sleeve.
Knives still work, he thought, with or without a collar.
He walked across the courtyard to the kitchens and descended the several sets of stairs that took him to his storeroom hideout, to the room that he kept locked behind layers of magical barricades. In his similarly protected travel bag, he located a small leather pouch. And, inside the pouch, a glass bottle, stoppered and sealed with wax. Holding it up to the light, he rocked it, and the contents sloshed. Still liquid, anyway. He put everything away, and threaded his way through the corridors to his secret guest quarters.
He knocked on Lila’s door. There was a rush of activity inside and then Lila’s voice on the other side. “Who is it?”
“Denis Rocheford.”
“Ha,” she said and opened the door.
In the time Destin had been dealing with Remy, Lila had accumulated a smoked ham, another wheel of cheese, and a small keg of ale. It was beginning to look like an actual storeroom again. Or a very small party, because DeVilliers and Shadow Dancer were there as well, sharing in the bounty.
Good, Destin thought. Surely one of them will have the answers I need.
“Can I get you anything?” Lila said. “Wine, cheese, ham?”
Destin shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Lila frowned, studying him. “Since when do you wear a scarf?”
“It’s cold here in the north,” Destin said, adjusting it.
“It’s midsummer, nearly,” Lila said. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” Destin said warily.
“Under your scarf,” Lila said. Quick as thought, she snatched away the black scarf Destin had added to his blacks. “You’re wearing a collar? That’s new.” She reached for it, and he gripped her wrist. Hard.
“Leave it alone,” he said. Releasing her wrist, he snatched up the scarf and reapplied it, struggling to knot the ends.
By now, Shadow had pushed to his feet and was nosing in, too. “Let me see. Is it one of ours?”
“I think so,” Lila said. “I just need to get a better—”
“Leave me the hell alone!” Destin shouted, his voice echoing in the nearly empty storeroom, flame flickering around his body.
They stood, wide-eyed and staring, as if he’d set off a bomb. Which was kind of what it was like when he lost his temper. Destin dropped into a chair and put his head in his hands. He was mortified to realize that tears were leaking through his fingers.
For what seemed like an eternity, the room was absolutely silent. Then he heard little rustlings as people moved around the room, chairs scraping across the floor. Somebody—Lila?—shoved a cup under his nose. He breathed in the potent vapors, took it and drained it, then hurled it against the wall. Happily, it was metal, and ricocheted into a corner.
“So,” Lila said, “is this about the collar?”
“I don’t want to talk about the swiving collar,” Destin said through gritted teeth.
“Yes, you do,” Lila said.
Destin looked up, crafting a blistering response, to find Lila and Shadow smiling at him, a little smug, a little sympathetic. That finally broke through his wall of fury.
“What?” he said, looking from one to the other.
“I made these collars,” Shadow said, “and they have features that King Jarat is unaware of.” He reached into the doeskin carry bag at his belt and pulled out a long-shanked key. The kind of key used to open flashcraft collars.
Eyes fixed on the key, Destin swallowed hard and said, “If Jarat discovers that I’m not wearing the collar, I’ll go straight to Executioner’s Hill.” It might be worth it, though.
“That’s no problem,” Shadow said. “Here. You can leave it on. Let me show you how this key works.”
At the end of it, Destin had a key in his inner pocket, and the collar felt a thousand times lighter. “So all of those collars you sold King Gerard . . . ?” He raised an eyebrow.
“In the north, we don’t believe anyone should be enslaved—not even mages.”
“And enslaved mages, once freed—”
“Are likely to turn on those who enslaved them. Which would be a shame,” Shadow said.
“Do they know?” Destin said.
“Some of them do.”
Which explains the attrition among the gifted forces, Destin thought.
“And, trust me, they’ll all know before they engage the armies of the north.”
“Thank you,” Destin said simply. “If there is any way I can repay you—”
“We’ll remember that, spymaster,” Shadow said, winking. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
“A toast to the beholden,” Lila said, and they clanked cups and drank.
I will find a way to repay them, Destin thought, though in what currency, only time will tell. Right now, he had other business.
“I’m hoping that you can answer a question for me,” Destin said. “What can you tell me about a Fellsian officer—a woman—who goes by the name of the Gray Wolf?”
DeVilliers practically choked on her ale, then went into a coughing fit. Shadow’s face flattened into a blank mask.
Destin was a practiced interrogator. Their reactions told him some of what he needed to know.
“Sounds familiar,” DeVilliers said as casually as she could manage. “Why do you ask?”
“Because she’s in command of the army outside,” Destin said. “She and Matelon.”
“What?” Shadow came up on his knees. He and DeVilliers looked at each other.
“Matelon?” Lila said. “Our Matelon?”
“He’s no longer our Matelon, apparently. He’s a king now.”
“Who told you that?” Lila said.
“As I keep reminding you, I’m a spymaster,” Destin said, rolling his eyes. “Do you know her, yes or no?”
“Yes,” Shadow said.
“So what can you tell me about her?”
“I can tell you that she will win,” Shadow
said.
“Good,” Destin said with a sigh of relief. Maybe the desperate plan he’d concocted with Julianna and Jemson wouldn’t be needed after all. “I need an introduction.”
61
THE GRAY WOLF
Destin conjured up light on the tips of his fingers to illuminate the tunnel ahead. It seemed as if they must have walked to Arden by now. “Are you sure we’re not lost?”
“Don’t worry,” Shadow said. “It’s not too much farther. Hadley, Meadowlark, and I—”
“Meadowlark?”
“Princess Alyssa,” Shadow said. “We used to play in these tunnels constantly when we were children. This is the tunnel that Alger Waterlow used for his trysts with Queen Hanalea. It runs all the way from her bedchamber to Gray Lady.”
And, this time, it runs all the way to the Gray Wolf, Destin thought. The pouch with the bottle inside rested next to his heart, warmed by his body heat.
My work is nearly done here, he thought.
And, in an odd way, it was. The general was dead. His mother was at peace. Marina and Madeleine were out of the hands of the Montaignes. King Gerard was dead, and Jarat’s days were numbered. Now it was time to go after his last great enemy. Destin knew he might not survive the night, but if he was going to die, he would die as a traitor to the red hawk.
The tunnel made a sharp turn and sloped upward, eventually merging into a natural cave.
“I told them to meet us here, at the end of the tunnel,” Shadow said. “It’s just up here.”
Destin could see torchlight up ahead, and the silhouettes of the people waiting for them.
They stood in a little group, behind a magical barrier. Destin recognized their mage as Marc DeJardin, who’d served with Gerard’s blackbird guard. He still wore a collar—no doubt, one of Lila’s, now in use as an amulet. There was Matelon, the newly minted king of Arden, in the uniform of the Ardenine regulars with a spreading tree signia pinned on. And, finally, the Carthian commander, the woman Remy had outed as the Gray Wolf. She was of a sturdy build, though it was hard to tell much else about her given her desert fighting garb. She stood nearly as tall as Matelon, a cowl wrapped around her head and across her face so that only her brown eyes showed.
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