As they walked in, the queen seemed to tap some hidden reservoir of strength. Her spine straightened, her chin rose, and she smiled brilliantly when the guests rose to greet her. She walked the length of the room with great dignity and took her place beside the king. Ash followed a few steps behind and stood against the wall behind the royal couple, staring at the barricade of blackbirds between him and the king.
No opportunity there, Ash thought.
Montaigne kissed Queen Marina’s hand, turned to the other guests, and said through gritted teeth, “I know you’ll join with me in toasting Her Majesty’s good health.”
This was met with a murmur of good wishes and a few raised glasses, but it didn’t change the mood in the room. It looked more like a standoff than a dinner party. Marin Karn, for instance, looked like he could chew rocks and spit out gravel.
“Sit down, Lord Matelon, and eat,” the king said. “This is the Saint’s Day. It is not the appropriate time to discuss the state of the war. We will take it up when the Thane Council meets.”
“You have not called a council in months, Your Majesty,” the eye-patched lord said. “Instead, you seize property and treasure from your loyal bannermen to fund this never-ending grudge match.”
A rumble rolled around the table, mingled protest and assent.
Reliable royal ally Michel Botetort stood as well. “I beg you, Arschel, let’s defer this.”
“I agree,” General Karn said. “I’ve not yet had the chance to brief His Majesty on . . . recent developments.”
“Then by all means, Karn, let us brief him now,” Matelon said. He scanned the room. “I believe we have a quorum.”
“Perhaps the ladies should leave the room,” the king said, eyes glittering, his hand on his sword, “so that we can speak plainly.”
“Perhaps they should,” Matelon said.
The women rose in a rustle of silk and brocade and left the room. All except the queen. “I will stay and hear what you have to say, Lord Matelon,” she said simply.
Matelon shrugged. “If you like, Your Majesty.” He turned to the boy. “My son Robert is a corporal stationed at Delphi. He has a report to offer. Corporal?”
Robert was so nervous that the paper in his hand was shaking. “D-Delphi has fallen, Your Majesty.”
Delphi! Ash struggled to maintain his street face while he scanned the room for reactions. If he was any judge, Marin Karn, the king, and Botetort, at least, already knew.
The king waved an impatient hand. “Rumors are always flying about this or that disaster. I have heard a rumor about Delphi, and we are in the process of investigating.”
“It is more than a rumor, Your Majesty,” Lord Matelon said. “Go on, Corporal.”
Robert stood ramrod-straight. “I spent the Solstice holiday at temple church, on leave from my posting at Delphi. While I was there, we received a message from my brother—from Captain Matelon’s headquarters north of the city. Shall I read it?”
“Go ahead, Son,” Matelon said, resting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Robert cleared his throat and read. “‘A miners’ riot has turned into a full-blown rebellion, supplemented with what appear to be Fellsian Highlanders from the north. The rebels now control the mines, the heights, and the town, and our headquarters is under attack.’” Robert swallowed hard. “‘As it is unlikely that reinforcements from temple church can arrive in such time and in such numbers as to change the outcome, I recommend against risking more troops until a sufficient force can be deployed to assure a decisive victory. Captain Halston Matelon, Commander, His Majesty’s Army, Delphi.’”
The entire room had gone silent with shock.
General Karn spoke. “It sounds to me like Captain Matelon is making excuses for his poor performance.”
Blotches of color blossomed on Lord Matelon’s cheeks. “Explain, General,” he said.
“First off, everybody knows that the northerners never poke a toe south of the Spirit Mountains,” General Karn said. “Even if they decided to change their tactics, only a fool would attempt to bring a force through the Spirit Mountains at this time of year. The passes have been closed for a month.”
“Perhaps,” Matelon said, biting off each word, “the witch queen has decided to spend the winter in the south this year. Perhaps her mages melted all the snow with sorcery. All I know is that, from the beginning of this damnable war, every assurance we have received, every prediction that has been made, every report that victory is at hand has been wrong.”
Montaigne directed his response to the entire room. “As many of you know, Lord Matelon’s support for the war and his loyalty to our person have been lukewarm for some time. Which leads me to wonder—could this be part of a larger conspiracy? Multiple assassination attempts here in the capital, while Matelon’s son betrays us to the rebels in the north.”
Why is it, Your Majesty, that when things go wrong, it’s always somebody else’s fault? Ash thought.
“Your Majesty,” Matelon said. “I have provided unflagging support through twenty-five years of war. No one has contributed more troops or treasure to this effort. People are suffering and starving throughout the empire. Now, it appears, I have sacrificed my eldest son. And for what? Control of a small realm infested with sorcerers and savages whose major exports are things we do not need. Enough is enough. I am done.”
“Are you saying that you will not submit to the command of your sovereign, anointed by God?”
“I am saying that I am tired, and I want to go home and mourn with my lady wife, and see to my estates, which are sorely in need of attention.” The thane inclined his head, then turned and strode toward the door, attended by his men-at-arms and his son.
“Go home if you like,” Montaigne said, “but your lady wife is not there.”
Matelon froze mid-stride, then turned to face the king. “Explain yourself,” he said.
Montaigne spoke to the entire hall. “In view of events in Delphi, I have taken the precaution of sequestering the families of my Thane Council members in keeps far from the northern border. That way none of you will have worries about their safety, and all of you will be able to focus on winning this war.”
At this, the thanes around the table pushed to their feet, many of them with their hands on their swords. It was a vicious move, even for Montaigne.
“And yes,” Montaigne said, “that includes the ladies who have just left the hall.”
The doors to the dining room swung open, and blackbirds flooded into the room, most of them collared mages. They took up positions all around the perimeter.
“Do note that I don’t expect you to carry the entire weight of this new effort. I have initiatives underway that should provide some relief from the demands of this war, in terms of levies of money and men. I just ask for a little . . . forbearance.”
If I killed the bastard now, Ash thought, none of these lords would lift a finger to stop me. But then they’d turn around and execute me, because, you know, precedent.
He’d have to wait a little longer. Since he’d met Jenna, it had become increasingly important to survive.
“Now,” Montaigne said. “I would ask you to remain in your city houses until the end of the month. By then, I should have some good news for all of you. You may go—all except Lord Matelon, who will remain here as our guest during our inquiry.”
By then, the thane and his men-at-arms were nearly at the door. He turned to face the king. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I decline.” He turned, a blade in each hand, and cut the throats of the blackbirds nearest to him. His men formed a circle around their lord, prickling with swords. They drove a wedge through the King’s Guard and out the door.
The banquet was, for all intents and purposes, over. The king hurried from the room, insulated by a crowd of guards, while Ash accompanied the queen back to her quarters.
Ash’s skin prickled with a growing unease. The fall of Delphi and a possible civil war might be good news for the Fells, but
it would make Ash’s job that much harder. An embattled king would be harder to get at than before. Prisoners didn’t usually fare well within a kingdom in chaos. And the rebellion of the thanes would make a potential deal with the empress of Carthis more appealing than ever.
34
THE EMISSARY
When Ash arrived at the king’s Small Hall for the meeting with Strangward, the room was already crowded. Pettyman, the king’s steward; Jerome, his new taster; and far too many blackbird mages were already on hand.
The hall was a smaller, more intimate version of the throne room, adjacent to the king’s privy chamber. Montaigne even had a throne of sorts, an elaborate chair on a raised dais, so he could look down on those around him.
Pettyman knew how to find that sweet spot where hospitality and politics met. He’d refreshed the Solstice greenery around the mantel and doorways, and laid a modest display of food and drink out on the sideboard. Jerome was in the process of tasting it under the watchful eyes of Fleury and Marc DeJardin.
It was a waste of time. Ash knew by now that the king wouldn’t touch it anyway. Montaigne had always been paranoid, but he’d grown worse after the assassination attempts. His personal guard searched his bedchamber each night before he locked the door. No morsel passed his lips without being trialed on the taster—multiple times. He constantly complained of headaches, tremors, and rashes, but refused Ash’s offers of help.
Could the king’s symptoms be a signal that Ash’s plan was working? He didn’t know. It would help if he knew whether the king was using “white magic,” but he didn’t want to draw attention to the living silver by asking about it.
Ash and Jerome were spending lots of time together these days. Ash had become the equivalent of the king’s magical taster—assigned to keep a constant eye out for magical threats, scrutinize visitors, and be ready to leap into action in the event of sudden illness or another attempt on the king’s life.
Ash would have been more than happy to allow any rival assassin to do the honors, but it hadn’t happened yet. With the arrival of the emissary, he knew that time was running out—for Jenna, anyway. A handful of people would be coming together with the Carthian delegation to decide Jenna’s fate like brokers at a slave auction.
Ash took a deep breath, forced himself to unclench his fists, to loosen his muscles, to lean against the wall as if he had nothing to lose. He hadn’t survived this long by being stupid.
Speaking of the slave trade, Lila and Destin Karn arrived together—of course. Ash fingered the collar around his neck. Since the delivery of the crates of flashcraft, Ash’s last illusions about Lila had disappeared. Lila would go anywhere and do whatever it took in order to make some coin. If she thought she was going to take him back to the Fells and collect a reward, she was in for disappointment.
Now that Lila and Karn were experts on magical devices, they’d been called in to offer an opinion on the “weapon” Commander Strangward had brought.
Or maybe the king was just lonely. General Karn was in the field, deploying his forces in the path of a possible attack by Arschel Matelon and his allies. Matelon was on his way to his fortress at White Oaks, calling in his bannermen along the way, getting ready for a fight.
I wonder if my mother knows the consequences of her claiming of Delphi.
Maybe that was the plan all along.
It seemed like he was learning more about his mother at a distance than he ever had at home.
While little Karn made plans with the blackbirds, Lila drifted over to where Ash stood.
“You’re not even tempted?” she asked, nodding at the spread along the wall, a blackbird standing guard at either end.
“I just ate,” Ash said, “and I don’t care for herring.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t,” Ash said, showing his teeth in a smile. “But help yourself if you’re hungry. The king’s not going to touch it, not after it’s been sitting out.”
Apparently, Lila wasn’t hungry, either, because she didn’t chance it.
The king arrived soon after that, with Botetort. The king was well turned out in black and silver, but he looked a bit under the weather. The skin on his cheeks appeared chapped and he repeatedly rubbed his forearms, as if they itched. His hands tremored a bit until he clasped them together on his lap.
Ash bent his knee to the king, then rose, studying his face. “Are you well, Your Majesty?”
“Never better,” the king snapped. “Did you scan the room?”
“I did, and found nothing suspicious,” Ash said.
Greenberry, the chamberlain, appeared at the door. “The principia, Father Fosnaught, is here with the delegation from the Northern Islands, Your Majesty,” he said. “Shall I show them in?”
“By all means,” Montaigne said. “Let’s get this done.”
The first man through the door was massive, broad-shouldered, a mountain of a man. His hair was the color of burnt honey, braided and twisted into locks. He wore a loose linen shirt, tucked into trousers, a baldric and belt over top. He wore his wealth on his wrists and around his neck—a random assortment of gold cuffs and chains and pendants. A light cape was thrown over all, and it seemed to change colors in the light from the torches. No weapons were in evidence—the delegation had been relieved of them outside.
I wonder if the empress is as impressive as her emissary, Ash thought, eyeing him.
There were six of them in all, none of them wearing any kind of uniform. They were dressed in clothing in various colors, of a comfortable style similar to that worn by the emissary. Men and women dressed the same, resembling sailors more than anything else. Their one consistency was that all of them displayed wavelets of tattoos covering their arms. Ash guessed that must be the signia of the empress. Most were fair-skinned, but colored by long hours in the sun, their hair ranging from a shade like bleached linen to corn silk to light brown.
All of the men were clean shaven. Some had longer hair drawn into thick side braids, while others were more closely shorn. Both the men and women wore more jewelry than was fashionable in Arden. Most wore earrings, others bangles or elaborate belt buckles.
What kind of people were they? Ash studied them closely, looking for clues. Fosnaught’s description of them as horse savages or pirates seemed to fit. Not encouraging. Carthian pirates had a ruthless reputation, and they would sail off with Jenna unless Ash could find a way to prevent it.
When the group stood in front of the king, Fosnaught cleared his throat to introduce them, but the Carthian emissary seemed oblivious to protocol. He stepped forward and said, in Common, “I am Teza Von bin Miralla, Sworn Sword of Tarvos. May I present Lord Evan Strangward, Emissary of the Empress Celestine, ruler of the Northern Islands, the Desert Coast, Carthis, Endru, and Anamaya, and True Source of Tarvos.” Standing aside, he gestured toward a young man who had been lost in the pack until then.
“That’s the emissary?” Lila murmured, as if unimpressed.
“Don’t underestimate him,” Ash said, eyes narrowed. “They’re all wizards of some sort, but I’m guessing that he’s by far the most powerful of the lot.”
Though clearly the Carthians were gifted, their auras seemed different from what Ash was used to. Western wizards glowed a cool bluish-white. Strangward’s aura came closest to that. He lit up the entire room with a brilliant white glow. Each time he gripped his amulet, which was often, it was as if the lights dimmed. The other delegates glowed a faint red, like dying coals.
Are they different kinds? Ash wondered. Or is it just that Strangward is more powerful than the others?
The emissary wasn’t as tall as Ash, but looked to be about the same age. He was wiry more than muscular, and of a more slender build. He wore a loose linen shirt under a close-fitting leather jerkin that buckled up the front. His roomy breeches were tucked into soft knee-high boots. His swordbelt was cinched around his waist, the scabbard empty. He was less decorated than the others, save a gold earring in
one ear and his amulet, boldly displayed on the outside of his clothing. The fact that his nose had been broken at least once saved him from being too pretty, with his glittering fair hair, feral green eyes, and finely planed face.
“I’ll bet he’s someone the girls like to look at,” Lila murmured.
I’ll bet they do more than look, Ash thought.
Ash had never been to the Northern Islands, and yet there was something familiar about the emissary’s voice and features. Perhaps he’d met some wizard who was a throwback to an earlier time.
Montaigne was studying the emissary with a faintly bemused expression, but whether it had to do with Strangward’s youth or his manner of dress, Ash didn’t know.
Fosnaught continued with the introductions. “May I introduce His Majesty, Gerard Montaigne, by the grace of the Maker King of Arden and Tamron, and ruler of the New Empire of the Seven Realms.”
“Your Majesty.” Strangward inclined his head enough to be polite, though probably not as much as protocol demanded in a meeting between an emissary and a king. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last. We have looked forward to engaging with Arden, and with the rest of the Seven Realms. This is such a pretty, green place.” There was something hungry about the way he said it that raised the hair on the back of Ash’s neck.
The emissary spoke Common well, though with an unfamiliar accent. Which made sense, since as far as he knew, Ash had never met anyone from the Northern Islands.
“Welcome to Arden, Lord Strangward,” Montaigne said. “I trust you had a fair weather crossing.”
“Yes,” Strangward said, lips twitching, as if at some private joke. “I nearly always do.”
Fosnaught gestured toward the others. “This is Lord Botetort, speaker of the Thane Council, and Lieutenant Destin Karn, who is with the King’s Guard.”
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