Ash nodded. “It’s most potent when it’s injected under the skin—for instance, if it’s daubed on an arrow or a blade. It takes longer when ingested orally, but as far as I know, it’s invariably fatal. Until today, I guess.” He paused. “I can’t be sure, but I believe that it was what was used by the assassins who murdered my father.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Titus said, “and I always considered myself well schooled in poisons.”
“That was probably the idea—to use something that nobody here in the north would identify. It grows in only one or two places, high in the Heartfangs. The only reason I know about it is because of Taliesin. The Voyageurs came from the Heartfangs originally.” He released a long breath. “Whoever did this had a good knowledge of poisons and how to handle them.”
“Do you think Taliesin had anything to do with this?” Byrne said. “As supplier to agents from Arden, or—?”
Ash shook his head. “Anything’s possible, but it seems unlikely. When we met up in Delphi, Taliesin saved my life. She could have finished me off at any time in Oden’s Ford. Instead, she tipped you off as to where I was.”
“Who had access to the cup?” Byrne asked Magret.
Magret snorted. “Everyone. I mean, everyone in Her Majesty’s inner circle, her council, her ladies-in-waiting, servants, and so on. She was the only one who drank out of that cup, and everyone who paid attention knew it. It’s not like a person would have to time it just right. Once you treated the cup, it would sit there like a land mine, waiting to be set off.” Magret’s cheeks were pinked up, always a sign of danger for the unwary.
“When was the last time she drank from the cup?” Ash said. “Before tonight, I mean.”
“Probably within the week,” Magret said. “It’s always kept here, in her rooms. She never takes it to the dining room.”
“All right,” Ash said. “I asked you all to stay because you are the people here at court that I trust with my mother’s life. There is at least one assassin in the palace, and there may be more. Captain Byrne, if there is anyone else among the Wolves that you trust without reservation, they can be added to the watch. We’re going to say that the queen is quite ill, at death’s door, in fact, and can have no visitors.”
“What about the princess Mellony and your cousin Julianna?” Magret said. “I know they are worried sick.”
“No other visitors,” Ash repeated. “If need be, tell them that you are worried that the poison has contaminated the room, and you don’t want anyone else exposed to it. I want my mother’s meals fetched directly from the main kitchens by one of you. Use the tunnels so you’re not seen. Ty, I’m putting you and Magret in charge of the queen’s care.”
Ty eyed him suspiciously. “Why do I get the impression that you’re not going to be here?”
“Because I won’t be.”
“Prince Adrian.” It was Talbot, her back straight, her expression a mixture of nerves and resolve. “Would it be possible to speak with you and Captain Byrne privately?”
44
DREAMS TO NIGHTMARES
Lyss knew that Celestine would be watching her and her new officers for signs of collusion, conspiracy, or betrayal. Meanwhile, her Highlanders probably wondered what the hell was going on—how their Captain Gray had ended up commanding the empress’s army.
It was urgent that they get their stories aligned, but it was also a risk. Though none of them had the blank, blunted expressions she’d seen on the bloodsworn, it was still possible that one or more of them were spying on her on behalf of the empress.
Hopefully they would be patient, keep their mouths shut, and wait for her to make the first move. In the meantime, she installed them in the new barracks Celestine had built for her swelling army, and scheduled a meeting with them for the next day.
At the appointed time, Tully Samara swaggered in, introduced himself as the commander of the empress’s navy, and said that the empress had asked him to sit in so that he could learn more about wetland tactics.
That might have been true, or he might have been there to spy for the empress, or to spy for himself. Whatever his motive, Lyss didn’t want to fight that battle at this particular time. So she proceeded with the briefing, reviewing the command structure and assets of the empress’s forces while the expressions on her new officers’ faces shifted from wariness to alarm.
She knew what they were thinking—how could the queendom possibly prevail against this? Which was fine. She wanted them to know what they were up against. They kept looking at one another, as if hoping someone else would ask a question.
Finally, Graves spoke up, asking what he probably thought was a safe question. “Captain Gray,” he said, “what should we know about these bloodsworn soldiers in order to . . . make the best use of them?”
“Having fought against them, you know that the bloodsworn are strong, fearless, and difficult to kill. They are also unflinchingly loyal to Her Grace, the empress.” She paused a moment, making sure the message hit home. “In other words, you can rely on them to stay loyal to their mistress, no matter what the incentive.”
Graves nodded, glancing at Samara, and then at his comrades. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Farrow cleared his throat. “Ma’am. Captain. It would help to know what our mission will be. That will help us better focus our training.”
The Waterwalker was missing an eye, and one side of his face had been badly burned. That made it hard to look at him straight on, but Lyss did. “The empress has not shared her plans with me, but I imagine that we will be deployed back to the Realms. No doubt that is why the empress has recruited officers who have experience fighting in that environment. Most of her forces are accustomed to naval battles and coastal raids.”
“So.” Graves again. “So we may be sent to fight against the Highlanders? The clans?”
“We will go wherever the empress sends us, which is the role of a soldier, after all,” Lyss said, conscious of Samara’s gaze. “It is not the job of soldiers to get into questions of policy. It is evidence of the empress’s mercy and confidence in us that we remain free men and women. The best guarantee of our future is to succeed in our mission, whatever it is.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Graves said, exchanging unhappy glances with the others.
“I never said that it would be easy,” Lyss said softly. She glanced at Samara, who was watching through narrowed eyes, and thought, There’s no way I can pull this off—outsmart Celestine under so many pairs of hostile eyes. She had never felt more alone.
I have to. I have got to find a way to survive, and get home. The line does not die here.
Every night after dinner, Lyss had taken to running up the slope from the waterside, both to keep her body in fighting condition and to wear off the anger and tension and dread that built up during the day. Beyond the area of the harbor, the land sloped steeply upward, evidence of the island’s volcanic origin. She would run and run and run, straight up the mountain, often with a full pack on her back, until her lungs were exploding and her knees trembled, threatening to give way.
She leapt over steaming fissures, granite boulders, and lava pools. She kept running until she was clear of the fuming sulfur scent that seemed to permeate everything at sea level, and she could breathe the clean cold air that reminded her of home.
Even at this height, the weather barrier that surrounded the island persisted, but she could see the stars overhead, and somehow that was enough. She’d lie on her back, her body steaming in the cold, looking for the Crown and Sword, the Wolf Pack, the Tears of the Queens, and the other constellations she’d known since childhood. Somehow, it made her feel closer to home.
She would pull out the rose locket her father had given her and study the tiny portraits of her mother, her brother, her sister. This is what you’re fighting for. This.
She often thought of Halston Matelon, wondering if he still lived. She hoped he did, and was looking up at the same stars. She wished she had a keepsake of some kind—something of his t
o wear against her skin. Soldiers always carried keepsakes—not so much as a promise from one person to another, but more as a promise to themselves that they would survive, and that there would be a future worth living in.
All that time she’d spent with the flatlander, and she couldn’t help thinking she should have looked harder, and closer, and memorized every tiny detail. Some, she could recall vividly—those eyes the color of the gray-green ferns on the north side of the mountain. The stick-straight black hair that flopped down over his forehead when he’d been in the field too long. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, a muscled ass that made even uniform breeches look good.
But his nose—what did that look like? She had totally neglected his nose. Did he have any tattoos? She’d never had a thorough look.
She loved the way he moved. He was at home in his body, and it showed. He covered ground like somebody who knew where he was going and would find a way to get there without leaving anyone behind. His lovemaking (what she’d known of it) was much the same.
It never took her long to move from those fine physical assets to who he was. The way he took care of his men in the field, leading by example, playing the hand he was given without complaint. Fierce, determined, there.
He had much to learn about northern women. Still, even when they disagreed, he was teachable, weighing her arguments before he countered.
That was what took this beyond a wartime crush. She might be building a house around a single brick, but this brick was all she had.
It was evidence of how deeply into daydreaming she was that the first she knew she had company was when somebody said, “So this is where you go every night,” practically in her ear.
She scrambled to her feet, her sword in her hand, her body acting before her mind returned to earth.
It was Bosley, dressed in his desert warrior garb, his curved blade at his side, an arrogant smile on his face. It didn’t look good on him.
Dreams to nightmares.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“You first,” Bosley said.
“I came up here to be alone,” Lyss said, returning her sword to its scabbard. “Obviously, you didn’t, if you followed me up here.”
“I was actually asking a . . . broader question,” Bosley said. “Why is the heir to the Gray Wolf throne serving the empress in the east?”
“I’m here for the same reason you are,” Lyss said, ignoring the title, doing her best to control her temper. “I am a prisoner of war who has been ganged into the Carthian army. Given the alternative, I agreed.”
“But you’re not just another prisoner, are you.” Bosley took a step toward her.
“Lieutenant Bosley.” Emphasis on Lieutenant. “I am here as a captain in the Highlander army and a prisoner of war. Although we are prisoners, it is in our best interest to maintain discipline and the chain of command. If we play our cards right, we may survive this.”
“But you are training the enemy,” Bosley said. “Some would call that treason.”
Why, oh why didn’t I throw you off a cliff when I had the chance?
“I am also learning more about the bloodsworn every day.”
“So.” Bosley took another step toward her. “Then you are actually working against the empress?”
“I am actually trying to survive, and protect my officers if I can,” Lyss said, unwilling to hand Bosley any kind of weapon. “Now. As I said. I came here to be alone. I did not come here to discuss strategy with a subordinate. You are dismissed.”
“You can’t have it both ways,” Bosley said. “If we are both soldiers, as you say, is that any way to treat a comrade? I would have expected a warmer welcome.”
Lyss’s always-brittle temper snapped. “What don’t you understand about go away?”
The arrogant expression dissolved into anger. “Let me make myself clear, Princess,” Bosley snarled. “You may be valuable to the empress as a capable commander, but you are even more valuable as the heir to the throne of the Fells—the only surviving heir, I might add. You are in no position to look down your nose at me. I would suggest that you think before you speak.”
“Is that a threat?” Lyss said, her voice a low growl. “Because that would be treason.”
“There need be no unpleasantness if you do as I say,” Bosley said. “In fact, you may come to enjoy collaborating with me.”
Bosley made collaborating sound like a filthy word. Lyss, speechless, stared at him.
Taking her silence as assent, Bosley moved in closer. “Don’t worry. We will maintain appearances in front of the others. In public, I will be as subordinate as any other soldier. But in private, I’ll be giving the orders. With any luck, I’ll plant a baby in your belly before we return to the Realms. Consort to the queen. I like the sound of that.”
Lyss couldn’t help herself. Despite her vow to play it smart and survive, the whole idea was so revolting that she burst out laughing. “Lieutenant, I’d rather be eaten alive by wolves,” she said.
Never underestimate the fury of an asshole when he’s crossed. Bosley barreled into her, pitching her to the ground. Her head struck a rock, the impact rendering her temporarily senseless. When she came to, Bosley was ripping at her clothing, muttering curses. Her sword was gone. She groped for her belt dagger, but that was gone, too.
She kneed him, hard, in the privates, causing him to howl and loosen his grip. She flipped him over her head and rolled to her feet, scanning the ground for her blades. Spotting the glitter of metal in the moonlight, she scrambled toward it and scooped up her dagger. Just in time, because Bosley was somehow up again and wrapping his arms around her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides so that she couldn’t reach anything vital.
“If this is the way you want it, I will drag you back to the empress and turn you in. No doubt she’ll reward me handsomely.”
“I doubt it,” Lyss said. “She’ll lose a capable commander and gain a scummery bumfiddle.” With that, she went limp, which threw Bosley off balance so that she fell forward with him on top. Squirming, she twisted enough to slash at him with her blade. It ripped open his shoulder, but that wasn’t enough. All it did was send him into a murderous rage.
Wrenching the knife from her hand, he pinned her to the ground, raised the blade, and spat, “You never know when you’re beaten, do you?”
It was one of those moments when time slows to a crawl. The knife seemed to pause at the top of its arc, Bosley’s twisted face hovering over her like a demonic death mask.
A shadow fell across the two of them as something massive came between them and the bright shield of the moon. She heard a harsh cry, like that of a raptor on the hunt, and a sudden wind ripped at her clothing and tore her hair from its braid. Bosley was just turning his head to look when something smashed into them, driving all of the air from her lungs.
Bosley screamed, his eyes widening in terror and pain. When Lyss looked past him, all she could see was a silhouette blotting out the stars. She smelled charred flesh, felt a searing heat, heard the rattle of claws on rock, and then Bosley’s weight was gone.
She propped up on her elbows in time to see Bosley rising into the night sky, silhouetted against the flaming beast that had him in its claws. The lieutenant’s arms and legs waved frantically so that he resembled a crawfish in the talons of an osprey. Her knife pinged onto the ledge next to her.
It was the dragon that had spooked the horses on the parade ground—or one very like it. As if called by her thoughts, it extended its head toward her on a long, sinuous neck. Flame and smoke boiled from between its massive teeth, searing her skin from several feet away until she thought it would blister and peel. It studied her with golden, reptilian eyes.
Abruptly, it turned away, the force of its wings scouring the ledge. It seemed to be having trouble gaining altitude with the weight of Bosley added to its own. Finally, it soared off the side of the mountain, circled out over the abyss, and dropped the lieutenant into space.
If it was possible to be relieved, grateful, and terrified at the same time, Lyss was there. Grabbing up her knife, she scrabbled crablike across the ledge, scooped up her sword, and made a run for the downhill trail. Before she’d gone more than a few paces, the dragon was ahead of her, driving her back with torrents of flame.
Lyss threw her knife, aiming for the creature’s eyes, but it glanced off its armored head. She dove to the side, rolling into a small ravine, where she hoped the underbrush would hide her from view. But the dragon’s breath set the foliage aflame, flushing her from her hiding place. Hugging the cliff face, she launched herself downhill, hoping to put enough distance between them that she could find another hiding place.
But it was foolish to think that a human on foot could escape a dragon in the air. It landed in the trail ahead of her, spreading its wings to block the way.
When it was clear she wasn’t going anywhere, Lyss put her back to a rock face and waited, sword in hand, for death.
45
A NEW ALLIANCE
The drama unfolded below them on the ledge—first a loud, hand-waving argument, then a clinch.
They are mating, Cas suggested. That’s how it begins—with fighting. Let them finish.
“Mating doesn’t begin with fighting,” Jenna said. “Anyway, when did you get to be an expert on mating?”
Not human. Have instinct.
“Humans have instinct, too.”
Maybe. Too much thinking, gets in way.
Right, Jenna thought. Too much thinking.
After months of communicating only with each other, they were beginning to share vocabulary, and Jenna was adopting Cas’s thrifty speech.
“Can we go lower? Without hitting the mountain, I mean?”
With an irritated snort, Cas circled lower, losing altitude gradually.
Ordinarily, that maneuver would have been child’s play for the young dragon, but the flight through the stormwall had badly damaged one of his wings, making straight flight difficult, fine aerobatics all but impossible. Gradually, he was growing stronger. Jenna hoped that by the time they came up with a plan, they would be able to execute it.