“Is there anything I can do, Your Majesty?” he asks in a soft voice that belies his enormous frame.
“Just guard this tunnel as always,” I tell him. “If our efforts tonight are unsuccessful, we may need it to make a quick escape.”
He knocks his chest with the flat of his fist, indicating a sworn oath. “I’ll leave a candle burning at the base of the stair,” he says. “If it is a white or ivory candle, the way is clear. If it is any other color, the exit has been compromised.” “Thank you, Mandrano.”
“Go with God, Your Majesty.”
We file down the stairs one by one—about twenty of us. Captian Lucio takes the lead; Belén and I are somewhere in the middle. The tunnel is dry and dusty and reeks of rodent urine. Last time I was here, a cave scorpion scuttled over my boot, glowing Godstone blue. I try not to think about it.
The tunnel takes us under the palace and winds us through stone walls in a series of rickety steps. No one speaks, and we wince at every groan and creak of the stair, for beyond the wall are servants’ quarters, a busy laundry, storerooms, offices. So many opportunities for the denizens of the palace to hear something odd in the walls and raise the alarm.
We reach a landing that dead-ends in darkness. Lucio holds up his candle, revealing a wood-panel wall. He presses something, and the panel slides noiselessly aside, revealing more dark, empty space. My late husband’s wardrobe. All we have to do is walk through the double doors to find ourselves in Alejandro’s bedroom.
Lucio puts up a hand, signaling for silence. No one dares to breathe.
We all hear it. Footsteps. Men’s voices, pitched low. The clink of glass and decanter.
Someone has taken up residence in the king’s suite.
Captain Lucio gestures frantically, mouthing, “Back, back, get back!” and we retreat on tiptoe into the dark. Once we are staggered on the stairs a safe distance from the wardrobe, Lucio says in a low voice, “Majesty, we assumed the suite would be unoccupied.”
“It has to be Eduardo,” I murmur. “It has to be.”
“It’s a bold move, even for him, to usurp the king’s suite,” Belén says.
I stick my thumbnail between my teeth and start chewing. If Eduardo has claimed the king’s suite for his own, it is undoubtedly filled with attendants, maybe even a few bodyguards. We had hoped to sneak through the hallway and take each suite one by one, blocking them in, saving Eduardo’s rooms for last. But we can’t pour out of a wardrobe into an occupied suite without raising the alarm.
“Majesty? We don’t have long until Nicandro rings the monastery bells,” Lucio says.
Which means we can’t wait for the palace to sleep. If I had more time, I could arrange for a distraction, anything to reduce the number of people in that room and improve our chances.
“We’ll squeeze as many men as we can into that wardrobe,” I say. “And wait. When that bells sounds, we still wait. We’ll have to be patient. Hector and Tristán will cause a ruckus eventually, and people will leave to find out what’s going on.”
“What if it is the conde in there?” Belén says. “We don’t want him to leave. We don’t want him to slip from our grasp.”
My heart thuds. I just came up with a very bad plan. Of course we can’t let Eduardo get away. Everything hinges on capturing or killing him. “Excellent point. Anyone have suggestions?”
The tight stairwell is growing hot and musty with our collective breath. Something scuttles nearby, probably a rat, though I hope to never know.
Finally a gruff voice I don’t recognize says, “We just need to storm the place and get it over with.”
I gape into the dark, in the general direction of his voice. I’m about to protest, insist we’ll find another way, but someone else says, “There’s no time for anything else. At least we have the element of surprise.”
Murmurs of assent echo around me.
But the strategy feels foreign and clumsy. I’ve always made decisions based on efficiency, on as little loss of life as possible. Never have I considered a plan that I knew would result in heavy casualties.
“Majesty?” says Lucio. “Do we prepare to charge?”
The word lodges in my throat, and I have to try again. “Yes,” I manage.
Back up the stairs we go, toward the wardrobe. Lucio puts a hand up to stop me when I try to follow after Belén. “You’ll enter last, Majesty,” Lucio whispers in my ear. “After we’ve cleared the room. Otherwise the commander will have my head.”
I nod, wishing for the hundredth time that I still had the power of the zafira at my call. I could have frozen everyone in that room where they stood. I could have burned them to ash. I could have reached in and stopped their hearts.
Soldiers filter into the wardrobe. It’s large, made for a king, and more than half fit inside. The rest stand with me on the dark landing, waiting for the monastery bells to give us the command to charge.
Brassy triplets rend the air. My Imperial Guard bursts from the wardrobe. Swords clash, furniture shatters. Someone yells, and I wince, praying, Hurry, hurry, hurry. We must secure this room before the palace garrison comes running with reinforcements.
The second wave of guards follows the first, and I hate hanging back, hate not being able to see. It’s agonizing to wait, wait, wait, until the storm of swords has subsided, until the patter of footsteps has stilled.
“All clear!” comes the voice. I move through the wardrobe, glad it’s over so quickly, grateful for my brave, fierce Guard. I’ll find some way to reward them, something memorable and . . .
My Guard has not been victorious, and it’s too late to dart back into the safety of the tunnel, for they have seen me—Conde Eduardo, several frightened attendants, and two white-haired animagi who stand at either shoulder, amulets swinging hot from their hands.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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40
HECTOR
ELISA trusts Storm, and I should too—I know I should.
Maybe I will, after this.
Forty of my men follow me into the tunnel. They walk in tight formation, two abreast. The Invierno, though, I keep at my shoulder.
The tunnel leads downward, to a sandy bottom ankle-deep in water, and I utter a curse into the dark. I knew the tunnel flooded at high tide, and I didn’t think to check on it.
A solution snaps into focus. “Everyone, take off your boots. Hold them above your heads.” It will be hazardous; the tunnel is full of molted crab shells, barnacles, and all manner of things that could slice our feet to ribbons. But better that than leaving sodden footprints all over the residential wing of the palace.
The men repeat the order down the line, and they all comply quickly. I set off again, barefoot this time. Chains rattle, a metallic clink that echoes and reechoes. I whirl.
Storm grimaces. “My manacles,” he explains. “My boots keep them muffled.”
It’s gloomy in the tunnel, with only a few candles to light our way, but the water is crystal clear and I can see—though I wish I could not—the discoloration and bruising around Storm’s ankles and raw sores where scar tissue has not yet had a chance to form.
My wrists tingle with phantom pain. I suffered hemp rope for only a few weeks. But we have been to the edge of the world and back together, and never once has Storm complained about them. I had forgotten he bore them.
“Likely no one can hear us down here,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.” And I set off again, determined to ignore the rattling.
Water sloshes against the walls, and wet sand squishes between my toes. The air is sharp with brine. It reminds me of the beach at Ventierra. I spent hours at those tide pools. Days. And when I grew tired, I would bury my feet in the wet sand to stand strong against the tide. I want to take Elisa there someday. I want her to know the place I came from.
The ground rises out of the water, and we wipe sand from
our feet and put our boots back on. As we climb the stairs toward the catacombs, I expect to hear the clatter of Storm’s chains, but he has muffled them well.
The stair collides with a flat stone ceiling. I gesture everyone to stillness and listen hard. Nothing.
I reach up for the tiny lever, feel around blindly with my fingertips until I snag it. A stone slab lifts, pivots, reveals a gloomy chamber filled with candlelight and the reek of roses gone to rot. I poke my head through slowly, ready to charge out, sword drawn if necessary. The tomb is empty.
I signal that the room is clear and creep through the stone caskets. There are five. I can’t help pausing at one, the newest, for the banner covering it is untouched by moth or mold. At its center, a cluster of candles sits in a pool of frozen wax. Alejandro is laid to rest here. Dead less than a year.
I place my palm against the casket. There are a thousand things I’d say to him, if I could. Rosario is safe. You were supposed to outlive me. Elisa is ten times the ruler you were. I’ve stolen your wife. I’m not sorry.
I miss you.
“My Lord-Commander?”
I wrench my hand away. “Let’s go,” I say, striding toward the archway.
It opens into the Hall of Skulls, a massive cavern lined with ribs, craniums, and yawning jawbones, all lit by votive candles. Elisa loves this place. It brings her peace, somehow. It’s something I’ll have to think about when I have time, how death doesn’t always indicate a failure—of protection, of strategy, of character.
At the end of the hall is a tight stair spiraling up into blackness. It leads to a hallway near the inner courtyard. It will be guarded. Usually by only one man, but occasionally two. Knowing Conde Eduardo—a cautious man who leaves little to chance—I’m counting on two.
This will be the hardest part. We have the disadvantages of low ground and a difficult approach. We must sneak up a stair that’s only wide enough for one soldier and take out two guards before they can call an alarm.
It would be handy to have Belén with us now, but Elisa needs someone with her who would take a sword to the chest to save her. I sift through my catalog of men to determine who best to send on an assassin’s errand.
I settle on Guzmán, a small, sharp-eyed man with a quick blade. I’m about to call him forward when Storm puts a hand on my shoulder. “Let me,” he whispers.
I frown. “Elisa would be displeased if I let something happen to you. She is fond of you, though I can’t imagine why.”
Storm cracks a rare smile. “I can do it.”
“There are two men up there, at least. They’ll have the high ground.”
“I can do it,” he repeats.
We stare at each other. Storm says, “She restored my life to me. She treats me with more honor than my own people, my own family. If you let me do this, I will kill whoever is up there, and I will do it without making a sound. I swear it.”
“With magic?”
“Partly.”
I rub at my jaw. We’re running out of time. “Do it.”
Storm’s whole demeanor changes. His eyes turn to slits, he crouches low, and he slithers up the stairs like a hunting cat.
He disappears around a curve in the spiral step. I step lightly after him, gesturing for my men to follow. We halt just outside the view of the narrow opening. I draw my daggers and prepare to rush the hallway.
Seconds pass. Then a grunt. A muffled thunk.
Storm’s head appears. “I need help with the bodies,” he whispers.
We pour into the hallway like a tide held too long at bay. Two guards lie on the floor, their throats slit. Blood soaks into the padding of their armor, but it does not reach the floor. Almost as if Storm planned it that way.
“How?” I ask.
“Barrier magic,” Storm says. “When they were frozen, I slit their throats.”
“Well done,” I say, forcing it to sound more respectful and less grudging. Storm has earned it.
I allow a quick moment of regret for the two slain guards. They were my brothers-at-arms once, led into treason by a usurper. “Let’s get these men out of the hallway; lay them on the stairs. Then—”
The monastery bells peal.
We toss the dead men down the stairs and rush down the hallway. We pass the kitchens, and I signal for one of my men to peel off. I do the same at the laundry, at the entrance to the servants’ quarters, at the branching hallway that leads to the stables. They will all convey the same message to the palace residents: Stay where you are. The hallways and courtyards are dangerous right now. Warning them is a gamble, but it might pay off. Elisa has been a favorite with the servants from the day she arrived. I’m almost certain they won’t raise an alarm.
We reach the inner courtyard and stop. I peer from the archway into the breezy dark. It’s a square with hard-packed ground, large enough that I always conduct our more extensive training exercises here. Torches line all four walls. One wall is made up entirely of the palace garrison. It’s a long, flat-roofed building with multiple entry points, designed to allow the garrison to flood the courtyard at a moment’s alarm. In the corner is the prison tower, rising like a blight against the night sky.
Four soldiers march in time along the garrison wall. The night watch.
“Storm,” I whisper. “Can you . . . ?”
In answer, Storm closes his eyes, mutters something, and the marching soldiers freeze in place.
I tap two men on the shoulder and gesture them forward. They slink out into the courtyard, blades held ready. They glide soundlessly up to the helpless guards and slit their throats.
Four down.
I give the signal, and we pour into the courtyard. I place two men at each entrance to the barracks. They take up positions just in time, for the alarm bells sound from the palace wall. Tristán and Mara have begun their assault on the city watch.
The garrison soldiers stream out of the barracks in response to the commotion, but my men cut them down at the entrances. The night air becomes a cacophony of shouting and pounding boots and ringing steel. Bodies pile up. The garrison has superior numbers, though, and it’s only a matter of time before we’re overwhelmed.
I spare a quick thought for Elisa and Captain Lucio, because as far as I can tell, none of the chaos comes from the direction of the residence wing. There should be some indication of a struggle by now. Dear God, please keep her safe. Running to her side is not an option. At least not until I’ve accomplished the task at hand.
This time, I choose Storm because I do trust him, and because his magic might provide our only chance to fight through a fully alarmed barracks. “With me,” I say to him and five others. “To the general’s quarters.”
I lead them through the entrance nearest the prison tour. The corridor is filled with panic, almost plugged tight with soldiers. More pour into the hallway from adjoining rooms. Fewer than half wear armor; we caught them sleeping.
They rush us at once, swords raised, and I bring up my shield. I’m not sure how we’ll get through the press of bodies, but Storm sends an orange firebolt streaming over their heads. A warning shot only, but several flee in the opposite direction.
It gives us just enough room to maneuver, and we push forward, hacking away at men who used to be our brothers.
Pain sears my upper arm. I spin in time to block a downward blow. The soldier grins. His sword strike was a distraction, and I’m too hemmed in to dodge the dagger near my gut.
The air shimmers. The dagger collides with something invisible, and the soldier stumbles, overbalanced. I heave the edge of my shield into his face and crush his eye socket.
Beside me, Storm sways, his eyes glazed. A dagger flies toward him. I bring up my shield just in time, and it bounces away.
“Thank you,” he mutters, in a voice barely audible over the clash of steel.
“You all right?” I shout, even as I block another blow.
In answer, he straightens, then jabs the nearest soldier in the upper abdomen, just below his r
ibs. The soldier crumples, and we step over him. “Until the zafira refills me . . .” he begins shouting, but then, with a grunt and heave, he grabs the next soldier’s arm, spins him around, pins the arm to the man’s back, and slams him face-first into the stone wall. “I must fight like an ordinary man,” he finishes as the man puddles at his feet. Then he grins. “Like you.”
Together we fight our way down the hall, the other guards at our backs. My shoulder grows numb to absorbing repeated blows against my shield. Blood drips down my arm, but the pain is gone. There is only the next swing, the next strike, the next dodge. We step over bodies as soon as we fell them. The hallway grows humid with blood and offal.
At last we reach the general’s quarters. We burst inside to find him half dressed, surrounded by attendants who rush to get him into his armor. Six bodyguards stand between him and us. We are vastly outnumbered.
“How dare you?” Luz-Manuel says. I’ve always known him to be a slight man, but with his armor only half donned, his breastplate hanging from one slender shoulder, he’s even smaller than I thought. “I’ll have you beheaded for raising a weapon to a superior officer.”
“You’re under arrest for treason.”
Luz-Manuel signals to his guards. “Kill him.”
They spring forward.
Storm freezes them in their tracks.
The general stands as tall as his meager height will allow, but fear flashes in his eyes. “You’ve always resented me, haven’t you? The only man who outranks you. Alejandro made the biggest mistake of his life when he appointed you commander of—”
I dart between the frozen guards, pull back my fist, and send it crashing into the general’s face.
He buckles to his knees, head swaying.
“Drag him outside,” I order, shaking out my hand. I may have broken my middle finger. It was worth it. “We’ll display him publicly and call for surrender.”
As soon as the soldiers outside see their general—half dressed, heels dragging in the dirt, a sword leveled at his neck—they lay down their arms. I’m certain I don’t imagine the relief on many faces.