Nova felt desperately sad for the Priest, thinking of his kind heart and all his good intentions; understanding now his final act of unspeakable bravery—riding out to the enemy to make his claim for the court. His answer had been a brutal one, spoken with a sword rather than a tongue.
Axel, Prince of All Archenfield, stood on the palace’s balcony, his fingers coiled tightly around the thick twists of ivy that had taken root there over the span of many years and countless changes of ruler. He was flanked by his newly appointed Captain of the Guard, his Bodyguard and the Poet.
The four of them watched as the lead members of the Paddenburg contingent made their final approach to the palace.
Could this unfolding of events, Axel wondered, prove any more surreal? Moments before, a gelding had cantered past the balcony, carrying the decapitated body of Father Simeon off into the nearby woodland. Now, the rulers of Paddenburg—who were clearly responsible for this atrocity, and many others besides—were trotting up the approach road themselves, in as relaxed and insouciant a fashion as if they had arrived a little early for a masquerade ball or weekend house party.
“How ought I to address the Princes of Paddenburg?” Asta asked.
“I gather they have a preference for ‘Your Infinite Majesty’,” Elliot told her.
Axel frowned. “I certainly shan’t be employing those terms, not after they have decapitated my Priest.” He turned to Asta. “And I don’t think you need address them at all. Just watch and listen.”
Asta nodded. She seemed relieved, he thought. Axel was impressed with how steadfastly she had absorbed the news—and, even more so, the sight—of Father Simeon’s headless body. Of course, she had been deeply shocked, but where others might have screamed or fainted, Asta had only blanched and made tight balls of her fists. Perhaps such fortitude came from being cast—admittedly by his own doing—into a battle zone. He had saved her life and she, in turn, had saved his.
Axel had been planning to swiftly replace Asta as the Poet, on account of both her inexperience and her unwavering loyalty to Jared; maybe, he thought now, he shouldn’t be quite so hasty about it. Her surprising strength and her unquestionable straightforwardness might be useful assets. Although, he realized, the matter might well be out of his hands now.
The clip-clop of hooves below had slowed. Axel glanced down to observe Prince Ven and Prince Henning dismount from their horses. Henning then moved over to his striking female companion, offering her his hand. So this was Lydia Wilde, sister to Archenfield’s renegade Poet, Axel thought. Yes, he could see there was a striking resemblance between the two: the same-shaped eyes, the same high cheekbones. Axel realized he might have thought her quite attractive had she not been his avowed enemy.
The three foreigners climbed the steps up to the balcony. Each of the three was flanked by an armed bodyguard. Henning and Ven strode purposefully ahead, keen no doubt to proceed swiftly with matters; Lydia walked at a less hurried pace, her eyes ranging across the palace and the lands around it. Axel felt somehow grateful for this—at least she seemed to be taking some genuine interest in the territory she had come here to claim.
“Did the Prince not see fit to welcome us himself?” Prince Ven inquired, forgoing any formal manner of greeting.
“I am the Prince of All Archenfield now,” Axel snapped.
“You are? Since when?”
“I’d have thought your spies would have been swift to bring you this news,” Axel said. “Or were you too busy being humiliated on the battlefield by my cousin?”
With Prince Ven temporarily silenced, his brother seamlessly stepped in. “And here we were worrying that Prince Jared might run into trouble on the open road, while all the while, his greatest threat was working against him at home. Do tell us, how did Prince Jared react to the news of your betrayal?”
“You need not concern yourself with his well-being. You need not concern yourself with him at all. The Wynyard family and their sympathizers have been placed under house arrest. I am ruler of Archenfield now and so your dealings will be with me.”
Prince Ven stepped in closer. “You seem to have convinced yourself that you’re in a position to negotiate. One word from me and you could lose that arrogant head of yours.”
“You underestimate me,” Axel said. “I know that you come from an archaic Princedom, but even you can work out that I have no allegiance to the former rulers of Archenfield. In fact, I have very different views as to the future of Archenfield than my cousin’s. You see, I was never in favor of our alliance with Woodlark and, by association, their southern neighbor, Malytor. Those Princedoms joined forces to ensure peace and stability—that is not what Archenfield needs. I want Archenfield to be a part of something bigger, something stronger, something altogether more aggressive.” He took a breath. “Why not hear me out? What have you got to lose?”
Henning and Ven turned toward one another, as if weighing the matter.
Axel was now aware of Lydia staring intently at him. Getting the measure of me as well as my lands, he thought. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, stepping forward and extending his hand. As he did so, Lydia’s guard moved swiftly into the space between them. Axel glared at him. “I’m merely offering my hand in welcome,” he said. “Perhaps such courtesies are alien to you.”
“Stand down!” Lydia instructed her guard. She took a step closer to Axel and placed her gloved hand in his. “Prince Axel, Your Serene Highness, I’m Lydia Wilde.” To his surprise, she actually curtsied. As she drew herself erect again, she added, “I believe you know my brother quite well.”
“Indeed,” Axel said. “The resemblance between you both is remarkable. Are you twins?”
Lydia smiled. “I trust my darling Logan is well. I should very much like to see him at the earliest opportunity.”
Axel savored the moment. “I’m sure he’ll be glad of a visit. You’ll find him in the Dungeons. Would you like me to have someone show you the way?”
If Lydia was disconcerted by his remarks, she gave no sign of it. Instead, her lively eyes simply moved to the man on Axel’s right. “Perhaps Elliot could walk me there?”
How did she know his deputy’s name? Axel was himself now thrown. Had he introduced them before, then forgotten? No. Axel saw that not only did Lydia know Elliot’s name, this was clearly not the first time they had met. He watched as Elliot gave Lydia the Paddenburgian salute. Elliot! Axel felt the red-hot stab of betrayal lance his guts.
Elliot Nash, his own trusted second-in-command—the man who knew him better than just about anyone else on earth, in whom he had confided just about all his secrets—was a court spy and traitor. How had this been allowed to happen? How had he himself failed to notice? First Logan Wilde, now Elliot Nash. How effectively the Princes of Paddenburg had maneuvered their allies deep into the heart of Archenfield’s court.
If he hadn’t hated them with every fiber of his being, he’d be swooning with admiration.
“I’m afraid, Miss Wilde, that Elliot must stay with me,” Axel said, drawing some pleasure from Nash’s evident discomfort. “You see, he is my Captain of the Guard now.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “My, my, how the carousel spins,” she observed. “Hey-ho, just point me in the right direction then, and I’ll go find my brother myself.”
“Good idea,” said Prince Henning, nodding, as his gaze moved from Lydia to Axel. “And then… my own brother and I would very much enjoy a meeting with you.”
“No guards or lackeys,” Prince Ven added, his nose wrinkling as his eyes ranged over Elliot, Hal and Asta. “Just the three of us Princes!”
“Not possible,” Hal spoke out.
Axel glanced toward the Bodyguard. He knew Hal was as reluctant to abandon him as he was to be abandoned. It would be madness to willingly enter a closed room with the two unhinged Princes. He supposed he could persuade them to leave their weapons at the door, but even if he did, they could surely still overpower him and put him to death with thei
r bare hands if they chose to. Not that Axel was a laggard in the fighting department…
“What’s the problem?” Prince Henning asked. “Have you changed your mind? Don’t you want to meet with us anymore?”
“We’ve come such a long way,” Prince Ven added. “Don’t we deserve a cozy chat? And a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss. Lady Grey by preference.”
Axel noticed a small smile play on Lydia Wilde’s lips at Ven’s remark. It was strange the things that people found amusing. He turned back to his rival Princes.
“Well?” Prince Ven was clearly growing impatient, as well as thirsty.
“Hal, you and Asta wait here for me—with the Princes’ guards. But, Elliot, I’d like you to join us.” As he spoke, he looked not to Elliot but to the two Princes. “It is clear that Elliot is up to speed with your plans. Whether he is my Captain of the Guard or—in reality—yours, I feel it appropriate that he should join our discussion.”
The Princes were clearly surprised but, after a moment’s consultation, did not object. Elliot had already sauntered over to stand beside them. Axel could have killed him then and there if there hadn’t been so much else upon which to focus his energies.
He saw Hal’s expression of horror and could guess what he was thinking. Elliot was the traitor, which meant that Axel was about to walk into a private chamber with not two sworn enemies, but three. Axel rested his hand on Hal’s shoulder. “I’ll almost certainly be fine,” he said. “And, if I’m not… well, I thank you for your friendship and wish you well.” He moved on to Asta, strangely reassured by the steadfastness of her gaze. “Stay here with Hal. I’m likely to have need of your services, one way or another, when I emerge.” At last, he addressed Henning and Ven, with some irony. “Gentlemen, please come this way.”
As the Princes, followed close behind by Elliot, took their first steps inside the palace, Axel turned to Hal once more. “Perhaps you can point Ms. Wilde in the direction of her brother?” Once again, he was aware of Lydia’s intense scrutiny—she seemed greatly interested in him, and he looked across to her to meet her stare.
In spite of her allure, she was no better than her two companions, Axel realized—this was all nothing more than a joke to them. Decapitating a priest. Invading a country. Laying waste to centuries of history. It really seemed as if it were all nothing more than sport to the demented trio from Paddenburg.
As Axel turned away from her, he realized he was shaking. He felt a renewed determination to fight them. However the odds were stacked against him, whatever he had to do—they would not take from him this Princedom that he had worked so long and so hard to claim as his own.
FORTY-TWO
The Dungeons, the Palace, Archenfield
AS MORGAN’S HEARING HAD DECLINED, SO HIS other four senses seemed to have sharpened. Even within the gloom of the Dungeons, he found his eyes well equipped for reading even the finest print with the aid of only a single candle. His senses of touch and taste had also both grown more subtle, enriching his afternoon visits to the Queen’s Library. But, in particular, he had found that his sense of smell had become more acute. So it was that, while he was sharpening a small dagger, he first became aware of the two visitors to his subterranean domain not by the sound of their footsteps, but by the scent of them.
He paused in his work, not yet turning. He knew at once that one of his visitors was familiar. The particular combination of clean sweat, shaving soap and tobacco was just the topnote that told him that it was Hal Harness. The first scent he caught from the second visitor was an unusual earthy cologne. As he inhaled more deeply, he had the sense of something utterly familiar about this person. Intrigued by the mixed messages his brain was sending him, he turned to face them. Even before Hal spoke, he had put the pieces of the puzzle together. She was the mirror image of her brother.
“This is Lydia Wilde,” Hal informed him, unnecessarily. “She has lately arrived at the palace in the company of Prince Ven and Prince Henning of Paddenburg.”
Morgan inhaled again, deeply. The cologne had misled him. Beneath it, Lydia emitted the same animal scent as her brother. It was far from obvious and he doubted that others would have picked up on it, but he would have been in no doubt of the deep, tribal connection between the two even if a blindfold had been placed over his eyes.
The stranger silently scrutinized Morgan for a moment. He was aware of her eyes tracing the patterns of ink on his exposed arms, but her interest proved only fleeting.
As she stretched out her arm toward him, he at first had done the same in greeting, thinking to shake her hand. But as she turned her palm upward, he saw his mistake.
“The keys, if you please,” she said, not unpleasantly.
When he did not immediately respond, she began to wiggle her fingers. “The keys to my brother’s cell,” she specified. “Quickly now.” Her voice was resonant with authority. It reminded him of Queen Elin’s.
Thoughts raced through Morgan’s head. Was he supposed to take all this at face value and, following Hal’s lead, be pleasant and cordial with Lydia Wilde and accede to her wishes? Or, bearing in mind that she was on the enemy side and had come here, it seemed, with no protection of her own, should he take the dagger that lay in easy reach and plunge it deep into her nearest available artery?
He met Hal’s eyes, searching for some cue there.
As if sensing Morgan’s question, Hal smiled at his fellow gently. “Miss Wilde is a guest of Prince Axel,” he said. “Please give her the keys so she may be reunited with her brother.”
Morgan nodded slowly, then turned and walked toward his workbench. He was inclined to take Hal’s words at face value. Nothing in Hal’s tone of voice, or the expression in his eyes, told Morgan to act any differently. He shrugged to himself. Morgan had learned that sometimes Axel worked in mysterious ways. He was confident that Archenfield’s new ruler would have a plan.
He retrieved the key and, turning, placed it carefully in Lydia Wilde’s waiting palm. It was as small and fine as a piece of porcelain. Her delicate fingers swiftly closed over the key with the efficiency of one of Jonas’s traps. It made him sad to think of Jonas. He still couldn’t believe that the Woodsman was gone. He found himself back in the glade where he had reluctantly left his fallen comrade’s body. He had been pained then, as now, not only by the abrupt departure of his friend, but by his own failure to bring Jonas’s body back to the Drummond family mausoleum for its eternal rest.
After Jonas’s death, everything had had the quality of a dream to Morgan. A surreal dream, which had sent Morgan deeper and deeper into himself. Now, as he watched Logan Wilde’s sister slide the key into the lock, he thought that it was just another part of the dream.
She turned and glanced over her shoulder, rather haughtily. “Some privacy, if you don’t mind.” She addressed Morgan and Hal as one.
Nodding amiably, Hal turned to wander back to the other end of the Dungeon. Morgan strode after him.
“What the hell’s going on here?” the Executioner asked the Bodyguard, when they were, he judged, safely out of the others’ hearing.
Hal shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said.
“But Axel has some kind of plan, I assume?” Morgan hissed.
Hal nodded, reaching out a hand to rest lightly on Morgan’s shoulder. “Prince Axel always has some kind of plan, wouldn’t you say?”
Lydia stood at the threshold of the cell, the door now open, her heart beating savagely as her brother began walking toward her through the gloom. His movements were, understandably, a little shaky at first, and he stumbled as he emerged from the cell, but then he reached out his long arms and drew her into a clumsy embrace. It felt so good to hold him in her arms—and to be held by him. So different from the way Henning held her. Lydia and Logan rocked together for a moment, as each regained their sense of equilibrium.
Logan’s arms now fell to circle his sister’s narrow waist. He seemed reluctant to let go of her, and she felt exactly the same
. She reached up a hand to gently cup her brother’s cheek. “I’m not used to seeing you with a beard,” she said. “How rugged you look! What will Ven say, I wonder?”
Logan shrugged. “Is he here?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes, my darling. Ven and Henning are both here and in conference with the new Prince…” She paused to correct herself. “The temporary Prince.”
Logan smiled at her careful terminology. He had always enjoyed the precision of words. “So everything is going to plan?”
She nodded, but not with the vigor he had anticipated. He could see the budding tears in her eyes. She lifted her hand to blot them dry.
“Here, let me,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his hessian trousers for a handkerchief. He half expected it to be a grimy scrap of cloth but it emerged as a perfect square of folded white linen. He realized he had had no call for it, throughout his captivity, until now. This pleased him disproportionately as he unfolded it and gently absorbed the moisture from his sister’s troubled eyes with the soft cloth. He felt somehow that he was also drawing out some of her pain.
“Thank you,” she said. “You don’t know how hard it has proved being away from you for so long.”
He folded up the damp linen square without taking his eyes from hers. “But of course I do,” he told her. “I know exactly how hard it has been for you, because it has been just the same for me.”
She smiled now. “We are two jagged pieces of the same mirror, aren’t we?”
He returned her smile. “Always have been. Always will be.” His lips pursed. “You look tired,” he told her.