Franco Pietro stood still, his gaze passing from Allegreto to his son and the trembling blade at his heart. For a long moment his scarred face held no expression. Then his mouth curled down, his disfigured face grew stark and reddened. "Kill me?" he whispered in hoarse disbelief. "I’m your father."
"I hate my father. I hate you! I’ll kill you!" Matteo leaped forward, aiming the sword’s tip at Franco’s heart.
His father easily slapped the blade aside, overbalancing the boy and sending him sprawling. He turned on Allegreto. "God destroy you and your cursed house! Destroy it!" he roared. "What have you done?"
Allegreto stood glaring at Franco. His right arm hung limp, his shoulder blazing with pain. Blood dripped from his fingers to the floor.
"You’ve turned him from me!" Franco shouted. He squeezed his one eye closed, raising his face, his teeth bared in anguish. "Merciful God, let me kill you; let me tear your heart from your foul chest—" He came rushing at Allegreto with his sword, flinging Matteo aside as the boy tried to stop him.
Allegreto brought his left arm up with a snap, releasing his poison dagger in a sidearm throw. Franco knocked the blade from the air with a sweep of his sword. As it hit the floor, Allegreto already had his throwing knife from his right bracer. He flung it hard, aiming low even as Franco raised his sword to protect his chest. The knife struck home, halfway to the hilt in the top of Franco’s thigh. He gasped and stumbled, losing his grip on his blade. It flipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. Matteo leaped forward, brandishing his sword as his father lurched to one knee.
"Stop!" Elena yanked Matteo back by both shoulders, barely saving Franco from a sword through his throat. In the instant Allegreto knelt to retrieve his rapier left-handed, she set her foot across the blade. "You will not. Enough!"
He could hear voices outside, Zafer and Philip’s men. He let go of the hilt, pressing his hand over his bleeding wound. He looked up at her, his vision hazed. "Philip comes." With an effort he made his feet again, turning to the door. "Here!" he shouted, without taking his eyes from Franco.
Philip entered first with a brace of his men at his flank. His glance took in Elena and Matteo and the Riata struggling to stand, his hands gripped over the blade in his thigh. "Bind him," the bandit ordered. "Secure the weapons." He gave Allegreto’s wound a passing look and raised his grizzled eyebrows. "We’ve occupied the mint. The garrison is yielded. A messenger stands ready to signal the citadel that—" He paused, with a frown toward Franco Pietro.
"Signal them," Allegreto said. "He’s as good as dead."
"Signal what?" Elayne asked sharply.
"To take the city in your name, Princess." Allegreto leaned against the wall to hold himself up. He cradled his arm, resting his head back on the stone as he smiled. "Monteverde is ours."
* * *
In the sputtering torchlight, blood spilled down Allegreto’s white sleeve and covered his torn tunic. It spread in a dark scarlet pool beneath the guard’s body on the floor. It dripped from Franco’s leg. Even Matteo was spattered with it. Elayne turned toward the door, drawing a deep breath of the frigid night air to possess herself. She held the frame, and then reached down to grab Nim and the mastiff as they tried to nose curiously past her.
"Matteo. Take the dogs." She forced a tremor from her voice. The boy hurried to obey her, dragging the animals out into the snow. When she looked back, Philip’s bandits surrounded Franco Pietro, holding him up as they made fast the bonds. He didn’t struggle, but his face was a hellish vision as he stared with his one eye at Allegreto.
In Zafer’s clothes and white turban, Allegreto seemed a stranger, propped against the wall with his face half in shadow, a bloodied foreigner, as hell-born as his enemy. But he was alive.
She had seen the blade aimed for his heart, seen it pierce him.
He was alive. Zafer was alive. Margaret was safe.
Instead of relief, a rank fury boiled up in her. She closed her eyes, struggling to contain it.
"What do you want done with him?" Philip asked.
Elayne’s eyes snapped open. He meant to address Allegreto, she knew, but she answered him instead. "Detain him," she said coldly. "And Navona, too. They are both under my arrest."
The old bandit turned around to her, his shoulders straightening. She saw Allegreto drop his bloody hand from his wound and look up.
"I am Ligurio’s only living heir," she said, lifting her head. "I am Monteverde. And I won’t let them destroy it like this. Take both of them."
No one moved. They all stood looking at her with a baffled horror, as if she had burst into flame before them. Elayne glared back, her eyes stinging with fierceness, with the force of her grandfather’s vanquished dream.
"Take both of them," she said again. She didn’t look at Allegreto; she could not, but she felt him there, a motionless shadow at the edge of her blurred vision.
The Englishman made a sound, half a laugh and half a grunt. "Do you mean it, Princess? Because I’ll end with my head on a stake if I follow you and you draw back from this."
"I listened to what you said in camp," she said. "I will not have war against ourselves. And that is what will come of it."
"She speaks true," Franco Pietro said hoarsely. "Kill me if you will, but all of Riata will rise against you for it. We’ll never let a Navona sleep easy in the citadel."
Allegreto sprang upright from the wall, holding his arm against his chest. "Brave words!" His lip curled. "See what’s left to rise when I’m done with you. I’ve never slept easy since I could say my father’s name or yours—that will be no great burden to bear."
"You won’t sleep in possession of Monteverde one night, easy or not." Franco wrenched at his bonds and went halfway to one knee as he tried to step forward. "We’ll burn it to the ground before we let you take it!"
Allegreto grabbed his throat, grimacing as he dragged him up. "I’ll see you swing from the gates long before you can burn anything, Riata. Before morning I’ll see it!"
Elayne reached down for the hilt of his sword. The handle turned in her fingers, slick with his blood, but she held it tight as she straightened. "Philip," she said sharply. "Arrest them both."
Allegreto dropped his grip on Franco and glanced at her as she raised the sword. "Elena," he said, almost below his breath. "Do not."
"Both of them."
Philip jerked his chin. One of his men moved hesitantly, lifting his hand toward Allegreto.
"Elena!" There was no fear in his voice, or even anger. It was disbelief.
"I won’t hurt you. No one will hurt you or Franco. You’re both in my protection." She had no way to enforce her words, no guard or garrison at her command, but she said them. She said them with Prince Ligurio’s will, from the power of his vision of what Monteverde could have been. Could still be, if she had the heart and resolve and good fortune of a thousand angels at her back.
She had bound him once in a game before her, a defeated warrior at her command. In stark reality he was bleeding, and she was only a girl, untried and outrageous in what she asked, the sword tip trembling in her hand. She could not force him—she did not think all of Philip’s men could, or would, prevent him from walking out the door if he willed it.
His mouth was set. With each breath the muscle in his cheek drew taut—pain or fury, she couldn’t tell. He looked at Franco Pietro and Philip and bared his teeth. His dark gaze passed to Elayne.
He stared for a long moment at her. His look held all the truth between them, that he had trusted her, when she knew he had never trusted anyone before. That he had let her take his defenses and put his life in her hands and love him.
"Allegreto," she said. "Help me."
He blinked at the sound of her voice, turning his head a little, as if he heard it from a great distance. And with the same bewilderment, the same blank pain, he lifted his face upward like a prayer. "Ah, God," he said in a helpless voice. "Don’t do this to me."
"For me," she whispered, serving him a betray
al that went deeper than Franco Pietro’s blade.
"Monteverde bitch," he said softly.
Franco made an incredulous sound as the fetters clattered in the bandit’s shaky hand and closed on Allegreto’s wrist. The Riata looked up at Elayne, scowling.
"You’ll have what is rightfully yours," she said to him. "Navona will have again what was his. As it was under my grandfather. Will you accede to it?"
Franco wet his lips. He glanced at Allegreto and back at Elayne. "I don’t comprehend this." He thrust out his chin. "What of our betrothal?"
"There is no betrothal."
"You forswear it?"
"There is nothing to forswear. I have given no consent."
"That contract!" he exclaimed, instantly understanding her. "Damn the English pig, is Lancaster behind this?" He grunted as he shifted on his wounded leg. "Have you sold us to the English?"
"I have not," she said.
"Better the English than Navona," he sneered. He was breathing deeply, his face creased in pain and hate as he looked at Allegreto. "Has he got another bastard like himself on you?"
In the half-light Allegreto lifted his eyes from the fetters on his wrist.
"No," she said bluntly.
She saw the faintest brush of Allegreto’s lashes, an instant of some expression that passed over his face, impossible to comprehend before it was gone. He stared at her coldly. Elayne felt her heart break inside her throat, tear into pieces that would never mend.
"What of my son?" Franco Pietro asked. His voice rose. "I want my son."
Elayne thought of the boy with a blade at his father’s throat. "Matteo will stay with me, until I deem otherwise. He will not be in Navona’s power."
"I don’t trust you, that you come here this way," Franco Pietro exclaimed. "In secret, and at his hand."
"Then we must wait until you can," Elayne said. "I’ll do my best to be just. But Monteverde is first. Before Riata. Before Navona. Monteverde is what we all are, before we are anything else."
* * *
With a troop of bandits she took d’Avina. It all happened swiftly, like a spark in a dry field of corn. Philip held the mint, easily seized when everyone in town had run to the fire, and easily defended once his men closed the great outer doors in the massive wall. The fortress of Maladire was hers, the small remnants of the Riata garrison surrendered to Philip’s men, cut off to anyone who could not pass the secret entrances.
She ordered Philip to have the bell rung in the piazza. In all of their blood and battle wounds, she took her prisoners. She allowed Zafer to bind up Allegreto’s arm in a sling with his turban. Franco had to be half-carried, unable to walk on his leg. But Philip’s bandits were efficient jailers. They moved their injured captives through the underground ways, up through the mint, and out onto the torch-lit dais in the piazza with speed.
She still carried Allegreto’s sword. She stood foremost on the dais, overlooking the uneasy crowd of people gathering below. The freezing air burned her cheeks and turned her breath to frost.
Be clever. Lady Melanthe had said it. Be bold if you must, and act on the edge of a moment.
Prince Ligurio would approve it. She felt so sure that he would approve that it was as if he stood beside her and whispered what words to say.
"I have come here first!" she shouted, her voice a cry that died away in echoes in the night. "I am Elena of Monteverde, and you are my father’s and my grandfather’s people." She looked down into the eyes of a man who stood just below her, a young miner from his clothes. "And my people."
He stared up at her, his grimy face intent in the firelight. His mouth opened, and he gave a little bewildered nod as she held his gaze.
Elayne nodded back to him. She lifted her face. "Tonight in the fortress, while the bridge burned, the leaders of Riata and Navona fought." She gestured back to Allegreto and Franco Pietro with the sword. "Look at them."
The miner looked, wide-eyed. The crowd around him looked, murmuring, and saw what she wanted them to see—two men bloodied and torn by their combat.
Below her, there were richly dressed men in fur, and thin-clad miners mixed with women and children. They filled the piazza now, a sea of faces fading into darkness. She knew there were Riata among them, and others loyal in secret to Navona. She knew the Riata would lose from what she did, the Navona would rise. But there were others, too, all those who belonged to neither house, those her grandfather had written of who only suffered from the endless discord.
"This is what Monteverde has been," she said over the crowd, holding up the bloody sword. "A battleground for wolves! And I’ve come to put an end to it. I’ve come in the name of Prince Ligurio and my father, to rule in peace, and with equal justice. I have no allies. I am not of Navona, nor Riata. I have nothing to overpower you—only these few outlawed men who stand beside me." She raised her voice in fierce emotion. "But it isn’t bandits who have bled Monteverde of concord or peace!"
She looked down at them as her shout died away. There was utter silence in the piazza, only the hiss of torches and the soft groan of the snow underfoot as people stirred.
"By chance you will not have a woman over you," she said into the quiet. "It will be your choice. Tonight I hold the mint and the castle and these two men by my small force. Tomorrow, in the morning, you’ll each bring a stone, every man and woman of you, and place it in a pile. This is how you chose your leaders long ago, under the old republic. There will be one for each of us. Franco Pietro della Riata. Allegreto della Navona. Elena di Monteverde. So look at us here—at what we are—and think of what you want for yourselves and for your children."
She stepped back, lowering the sword, turning away. In the silence Allegreto stood in fetters, gazing at her like a man watching a comet cross the sky.
The young miner raised his fist. "Monteverde!" he yelled. Someone in the back took up the shout. People pushed forward, reaching their hands toward her. She felt a spurt of fear, but they weren’t enraged—they were smiling as they pressed and shouted, taking up the chant.
She dropped the sword and knelt down and touched their hands.
* * *
It was not until the bells tolled midnight that she had a moment to stop and feel the magnitude of what she had done. To feel fear. Philip and Zafer and Matteo and Margaret and even Donna Grazia had demanded her notice. She’d conferred with the bandit on where to place the prisoners, she had put Matteo and the dogs in Margaret’s care, and exchanged a hard hug with the freckled maid that needed no words. Dario hovered near, standing over them with his blunt jaw set. He stayed close as a tearful Donna Grazia begged a moment that became near an hour to pour into her ears the story of how the Riata had killed all her brothers, and yet she had forgiven them for her late husband’s sake, and how terrified she had been of Allegreto’s plans, but she could not deny her aid to him for the sake of her brothers’ name. She ended in a confused and joyful pledge to Monteverde, above any house, holding Elayne’s hands in hers until they were wet with tears.
It was while Donna Grazia wept over her fingers that Elayne began to know her own fear. The woman was so grateful, and unquestioning, so afraid that Elayne would think her a Navona or a Riata and punish her for either—Elayne began to see all the peril of being caught between—of what could happen now. Dario already saw it, she realized; he had shadowed her from the instant she had left the dais, so close to her that he wouldn’t even allow Zafer near. He was afraid of her assassination, she realized with a jolt. Afraid that even Zafer might attempt it.
She sent them all away, but Dario. In the rich chamber that held her grandfather’s book, she sat again on the stool and turned the pages, trying to read, trying to resurrect the feeling that Ligurio stood with her and guided her. The book itself was a guide—it held her grandfather’s exact vision of the laws and functions of the new republic, and warnings of how to circumvent those who would pull it down. But there was nothing to tell her what to do in this moment, how to cross the yawning chasm before
her. Nothing to give her the words to persuade Franco Pietro to relinquish his power, nothing to protect her, no plan for escape if the people voted tomorrow for Riata, and left her and Navona to his mercy. Nothing but what she knew Allegreto had meant to do—kill him.
"Dario," she said. "I must speak to your master."
"If you mean Allegreto Navona, Your Grace, he’s no longer my master," Dario said. "My allegiance is wholly yours."
She glanced at him, a little shocked, though she knew he had devoted himself to her safety since the camp. "Thank you," she said. "I need you now."
His square, strong face was grave in the lamplight. "I would warn you of Zafer, Your Grace. I can’t say what’s in his mind, or Margaret’s. I watched them close when they were near you."
She couldn’t think of Margaret as an enemy. "Surely not..."
"Zafer is dangerous, my lady; I beg you will never forget it. Il Corvo commands him, and always will. Margaret—" He shrugged. "I can’t say of her. She seemed to have true affection for you, but she’s great in love with Zafer, and devoted to her master, too."
Elayne looked down at the book before her, rubbing the green velvet sheath under her fingers, more shaken by this division of loyalty within their small company than by anything yet.
"Philip Welles will stand by you, I believe, my lady. And I owe my life to you. I think the people will accept you. But the houses won’t be broken easily. Welles was right to warn you not to set them free of the fetters in their chambers. I’m certain that Navona can escape the tower if he’s not chained."
Of course. It would be impossible to imprison Allegreto in a Navona stronghold.
* * *
She and Dario had an argument outside the door in Maladire’s tower. He didn’t want her to enter alone, not even if she kept her distance from Allegreto. But she ordered him to stay outside with Philip’s man on guard, leaving him red-faced and angry with her, his hand resisting the door even as she closed it behind her.