Kydona

  Chapter 10

  Seven days eked by, and all of them wasted. The fall rains returned to once again clog the roads with mud, denying Marcus the chance to meet Garrison Commander Durand.

  The Kydonians, despite the poor weather, still waited at the bottom of the palace steps—sodden and miserable, though they gave no indication of the latter. Evgeny stared each time Marcus passed, but he refused to meet his gaze. He had problems of his own to deal with.

  Jacquelyn was true to her word: she wouldn’t speak to him. She sequestered herself in her house, refusing to reply to his letters. After a few days, he stopped sending them. At night, he sat alone on his bed and imagined her body’s heat behind him, her long legs squeezed around his waist, her lips working at his neck. It was almost enough to make him send for a courtesan, if only to warm his bed for a night—but honor wouldn’t permit it. That, and shame.

  Prompted by the latter, he drank until he worried no more. Vernon joined him, even took him out to the salons to cheer him up, but being surrounded by fawning courtesans only worsened his mood. He spurned their advances. Instead, he drank until his head swam, his mind floating in an inebriated purgatory where emotion was forgotten and meaningless.

  It felt good, feeling nothing.

  The palace swelled with rumor—mostly speculation on the fire, but that quickly died as the fickle court took notice of Marcus’s plight. Their reaction could have been nothing but delight. Anything to the Boor Princeling’s detriment pleased them well enough. As an added bonus, his low-born love interest had faded away at last. Good riddance, they said. Common rubbish ought to have no place at court.

  His father couldn’t fail to take notice. He succeeded in conniving Marcus into a sparring match. With the rains falling thick, they fought the match in the circular chamber where Marcus had dueled Kaelyn what seemed like ages ago—the chamber where he had learned his mother was dying.

  Marcus flexed his grip around his sword’s handle, keeping a high guard that mirrored his father’s. With a grunt, he chopped downward. Metal clanged, and his blade bounced off Audric’s, steel reverberating in his grip. He followed with another chop, an inside slash, then another outside.

  Audric staggered under the flurry of blows, but he kept his footing. He sidestepped, deflected the next strike, and replied with a quick jab at Marcus’s exposed side.

  He whirled aside, avoiding it by a hair. Then the two stood facing again, sword tips crossed, legs tensed.

  “You still have it,” the king panted, grinning. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and caught on his brow.

  “So do you.”

  His father moved first this time—a step to the right, followed by a wide outside cut.

  Marcus reared back on his tiptoes. The blade’s tip grazed his belt buckle and swung wide, leaving Audric’s whole upper body open. Marcus swiftly threw his weight forward, swinging a hammer blow toward his father’s collar. It was a strike that might have killed, had Audric not blocked in time—but he managed, barely.

  “Whoa there,” he said loudly. He held up a hand. “Cool your blood, son. It’s a sparring match, not a death contest.”

  Marcus inclined his head, lowering his blade. “Forgive me, father. I’m used to practice dummies.”

  “They do tend to take beatings rather well, don’t they? Better than I do, anyway,” grinned the king. He looked over his practice blade, its edges nicked from the repeated blows. “Well, call it a draw, before this shoddy thing breaks and gets me killed.”

  “A draw it is,” agreed Marcus, but only because he had to. He knew he could have beaten the old man—though he might have accidentally murdered him in the process.

  They walked over to the stone wash basin at the side of the chamber. The water there was cool and crisp as he splashed it on his face.

  Audric wet his own face, and wiped it dry with a servant’s proffered washcloth, as did Marcus. Then his father said, “I’m sorry for what happened, between you and the girl.”

  Marcus fixed him with a stare. “What would you know about it?”

  His father met his gaze, nonplussed. “Not much. Only that you fair chased her out of the Atrium, there was shouting involved, and…” he raised his eyebrows. “Kaelyn?”

  Marcus didn’t see fit to reply.

  But Audric nodded with a knowing smile. “I always knew it could come to a head between the two of you, one day.” The smile fell. “I should have expected it would turn out this way. I regret it, truly, but—”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, father,” Marcus interjected. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next.

  “—this is for the best,” he finished. He held up a hand, preempting his son’s riposte. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the girl—I suspect you prefer it that way—but I’ve heard she’s very gentle. Very unassuming. A young woman like that doesn’t deserve the games they play at court. It would lower her, being involved in them.”

  She already was involved, Marcus thought. Scenes from that night one week ago flashed through his mind. “Which is true,” he acknowledged. “But that’s not the real reason you don’t want me back with her, father. What’s the truth? Try me.”

  “Very well then,” Audric said with a trace of anger. He lowered his voice, so even the servants and guards—famously tight-lipped when it came to their lords’ affairs—would not be able to hear. “I also know of her birth. A Writ of Name, I’ve been led to understand. A match with that girl is no match at all. Your peers will not accept such a marriage, and neither can I. Your duty as future regent demands a different path of you.”

  “Who ever said anything about marriage?”

  His father crossed his arms. “You were playing the girl, then? Because if that’s so, it would seem that I don’t know my son at all.” Marcus glowered, but Audric blustered on, “So what then? Would you keep up with her and make her your consort once you marry? Because you will marry, and it will not be her.”

  “This is something you have some experience with, father,” Marcus said—a low jab, but one Audric had walked directly into.

  “I have many regrets. That,” his father said grimly, “is the worst of them. I wish with all my heart that I had taken the time to know your mother, rather than… We might have grown to love each other in time, had we tried.” He sighed. “But I made my choice. That remains my regret.”

  It was a revelation, but not a very surprising one.

  “I don’t want you to have to make that same mistake, son. If you’re wise, you’ll take my advice: Leave it be.”

  Audric was the king; the last word was his privilege. He patted his son’s shoulder, but the reassuring gesture fell well short of its goal. He blew out a mighty sigh and left the chamber, handing his dented sword to a servant as he did. The servant accepted the blade with one hand and passed the king a sheaf of missives with the other, stacking a whole new pile of worries on his shoulders.

  Marcus didn’t have much room for pity as he watched his father go. The man was an old fool, in his eyes. He couldn’t even see how the high lords leeched off him, stealing his power for their own gain, like a pack of wolves nipping away at a wounded bull.

  In his mind, only fools gave advice which they knew made them hypocrites.

  Ultimately, he went to Jacquelyn simply because his father had told him not to.

  He was no connoisseur when matters came to baubles, but with a bit of asking around, he learned the name of a reputable jeweler who many noblewomen favored. He summoned the man to his chambers with a case of his finest wares. There was certainly a wide selection to choose from—earrings that came in hoops, whorls, or jeweled studs; necklaces with chains almost too fine to have been forged by human hands; bracelets dangling with precious stones; rings set with enormous diamonds; tiaras, waist chains, anklets, hair nets. Marcus gauged it all with a buyer’s eye and decided on a silver bracelet with tiny square links and diamond studs between—a relatively simple thing, not at all gaudy, which he th
ought fit Jacquelyn’s mild tastes.

  He had his stallion saddled and rode off for the Duchesne townhouse. Jacquelyn’s father owned a respectable trading company, so naturally he had bought a house near the Merchants’ Quarter of the city—a stroke of good luck for Marcus, because as he rode past the rows of shops and stands, he realized that he hadn’t bought nearly enough.

  By the time he arrived at Jacquelyn’s home, his slightly-miffed guards were laden with bundles of flowers, candies, dresses, and of course, more jewelry.

  The Duchesnes may have lacked influence at court, but they most definitely had no want for wealth. The building bore more resemblance to a salon than a home, which Marcus reckoned was Jacquelyn’s mother’s doing. A balcony encompassed the whole front of the second story, and a lush garden was just visible behind the tall iron fences.

  A single man-at-arms tended the gate. He bowed deeply as Marcus dismounted and approached. “Good day, sir,” he said.

  “That’d be ‘your highness’,” Kelly said loftily from atop his horse. He shifted the box of honey-glazed almond bunches to a more comfortable position under his armpit.

  The man’s jaw hung open. “Your—your highness!” he exclaimed. He felt to one knee and averted his eyes.

  “Stand at ease,” said Marcus. As the man-at-arms got shakily to his feet, he explained, “I’m here for Jacquelyn. Fetch her, if you would.”

  “At once, your highness!” The man rang a bell and fairly dashed to open the gate. “Please, wait inside, you and your men.”

  Marcus thanked him and walked through, his guards-turned-mules right behind him with the bundles of gifts. The Duchesnes’ man-at-arms looked quizzically over the packages but said nothing as the men carefully set them down on the walk.

  A pretty servant girl emerged from the house. She startled at the sight of the prince and his armed guards lounging in the front garden. Kelly grinned at her; she turned pale and looked at Marcus instead—an altogether more pleasant sight. “Good day, how can I serve you…?”

  “Your highness,” Gail and Kelly supplied, while Blaxley shifted his face into an expression that defied classification and went back to polishing his bow.

  “Your highness!” blurted the maid. “Elessa! I’ll go get the Young Lady Duchesne…”

  Marcus looked after her with bemusement. With Jacquelyn’s low station, he had never heard anyone else apply an honorific to her before.

  Minutes passed. Whatever Jacquelyn was up to, she was taking her time with it. Marcus had the distinct impression that she was making him wait. The scenery was pleasant; Cheryl, Jacquelyn’s mother, was either a fine gardener or had paid a lot of money for one. She had added a small fountain complete with fish, which Marcus entertained himself watching. His men-at-arms were not so easily occupied. Kelly hummed tunelessly, making Gail snap at him, and when Blaxley started sharpening his arrows in what could be construed as a threatening gesture, Marcus finally expelled them from the property.

  Eventually, the servant girl appeared at the front door. “She’ll see you now, your highness.”

  Fighting a rare twinge of nervousness, Marcus followed her in.

  Jacquelyn was waiting in a sitting room off to one side, perched rigidly on a couch. She acknowledged him with a colorless stare and didn’t bother to voice a greeting.

  “Jacquelyn,” he said. There was an easy chair placed perpendicular to the couch. He sat on the edge. He smiled at her, but her neutral expression remained. Soon it was evident that she had no intention of breaking the awkward silence herself. “How have you been?” he asked lamely.

  “I’ve been better.” Her voice was quiet and hoarse.

  He folded his hands, stared down at them until his knuckles grew white—trying to come to grips with the words he knew he had to say. His nails were biting painfully into his palms, but the words still refused to come. Instead, “My father told me not to see you anymore.”

  She took that in for a stretching moment. “What did you say back?”

  “I haven’t listened to him for a long time,” he answered with a shrug. “Not since I was a lad.” He had a speech all rehearsed in his mind—but as soon as he tried to remember how it began, it was gone. It left him with only the truth. “I’m not about to start listening to him now. I know what I want.” He reached for Jacquelyn’s hand, squeezed it in his grip. Even before he spoke again, he knew what a fool he was being. A wiser man would have taken his father’s advice—a better man, maybe.

  But that selfishness in him refused to let go. “I want you.”

  Jacquelyn turned her face away. “You want her,” she said with her eyes shut, as if to ward off her own words.

  “I told you it was a mistake,” Marcus insisted.

  Her eyes turned on him again, accusing. “Did she tell the truth? Did you sleep with her?”

  “Yes.” There was a lot of hesitation in that one word, but there it was. The girl tried to pull her hand out of his grip but he held on tight. “But I’m not with her. I came to you. I came to win you back. I’ll do anything. Please.”

  “Then say you’re sorry.” She saw the way he hesitated. Her eyes flashed. “You never say you’re sorry. Ever. Even when you should. I just want an apology—a real apology—for once. Then maybe I’ll take you back.”

  “What should I even be apologizing for?” he demanded, exasperation setting in.

  Her disbelieving laugh came out as a cough. “Is that a serious question? Did you really come here without knowing what you did wrong?”

  “Alright!” It was an effort, but his pride began to give way to desperation. He had told the truth before: he wanted her, and he didn’t want to lose her. She was something special, a breath of genuinity in a world desperately lacking it. And finally, as he sank to one knee in front of her, his stubborn arrogance fell away completely. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you so I could dance with her at the Falltide. I did it again a week ago and I’m sorry for that too. I know I’m stubborn and I get angry for no good reason sometimes, and I don’t always treat you the way I should—but I’m trying, I really am. That’s why I’m here. So please. Please take me back. Nothing would make me happier, I swear it.”

  Jacquelyn’s smile started off tiny, but it grew and grew with each word, until at last she sat there beaming at him through her tears. “That was good,” she half-laughed, half-sobbed.

  He laughed with her. He had never known relief so intense in his entire life. His body felt light, as if a weight had literally been lifted off his shoulders. Clichés existed for a reason. “You’ll take me back?”

  She nodded, and he pulled her into an embrace. He inhaled the scent of her hair—and for the first time, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this was what love truly felt like.

  “I’m so happy,” she giggled against his neck, kissing it. “You have no idea.”

  “Well I had another plan ready, if you’d believe it. There’s a God-damned mountain of presents on your walk.”

  She let out an ecstatic squeak and ran for the door. “Oh my God!” she screamed, her hands at her face. She practically vaulted into his arms, covering his face in kisses. “I’m so glad you didn’t show me this before, I would’ve taken you back right away and you’d have never learned…”

  He groaned aloud.

  Jacquelyn shushed him long enough to glance outside once more. “Take me upstairs to my room,” she said with a sly look. “My parents won’t be home for a while.”

  Marcus raised his brows. “What about the presents?”

  “They’ll be here when we come back,” she said. His favorite naughty grin was back, the one that promised a solid hour of mattress-squeaking sin to come.

  Which was one offer he was more than happy to accept. “Fine by me,” he smirked, lifting the girl in his arms and carrying her up the stairs.

  He found himself in a necropolis, a forest of mausoleums and headstones reaching from the mist-covered earth. He recognized this place, vaguely, but he
couldn’t quite ascribe a name to it. Thinking on it, he didn’t recall how he had gotten here, either. But he knew right away that he didn’t want to be here.

  Dark shapes lurked in the fog, ever present, never fully resolved. He had the distinct feeling that they were hunting him. But there was no escaping them; the fog was everywhere, and so were they. Dread began to rise in his heart—because he was dreaming again, he knew it, and no matter how hard he willed himself to, he could not wake up. Something wouldn’t let him.

  “Marcus. My son.”

  He spun around. There was his mother, pale with death, her burial shroud clinging tight to her scrawny frame. He froze, numb with fright. All he could do was shut his eyes as tight as they would go. “This is a dream, mother, let me wake up…” Despite himself, his eyes came open again—to find the corpse right in front of him. Her milky pupils stared, sightless. He smelled decay.

  “Go now,” she rasped. “You must not linger. Go.”

  He stayed, rooted to the spot by terror.

  “Go!” his mother shrieked.

  And he sat bolt upright in his bed, his heart thumping against his ribs. He scrubbed the sweat out of his eyes with shaking hands, and did his best to recover his wits. He had been having nightmares for weeks now. The ones in the past few nights had been particularly bad—despite making amends with Jacquelyn, and despite her warmth beside him. Never had the nightmares been as terrible as this, though. The stench of rotting flesh still hung in his nose, and he could practically hear his mother’s shriek echoing in his ears.

  “Marcus?” It was Jacquelyn. She was propped up on her elbows, studying him with red-rimmed eyes. She yawned and asked in a hazy voice, “Are you dreaming again?”

  He nodded.

  She patted the bed, and as he lay back down, she cuddled up against his side. “Better,” she mumbled. Then, just as quickly as she had woken up, she was asleep again.

  Marcus envied her. The last thing he wanted to do was fall back asleep, but with her up against him there was little choice. He tried his best to stay awake, but comfort and weariness gradually eroded his resolve until at last, his unwilling eyes shut on their own.

  Then he was back in the necropolis, the wet fog cold on his skin. A stone angel looked down on him, her face crumbled away. Mist rolled around his feet, and those hulking, formless shapes were surrounding him once more. Terror engulfed him again. He knew his mother would be waiting for him.

  “Why are you here?” her deathly voice demanded.

  He didn’t turn around—just bowed his head and closed his eyes. “I’m dreaming,” he said to himself. “She isn’t real.”

  “There is no time! Go at once!”

  A hand locked on his arm with ice-cold fingers and pulled him around. His mother’s skeletal face glared at him, hung with strands of thin dark hair that fell out in patches.

  “Marcus! Wake up!” she cried. “Wake up!”

  He did. Now there was no mistake—this had been no ordinary dream. His arm ached where his mother’s fingers had dug in, vice-like. He rolled up his sleeve, expecting to see marks. There were none, but he couldn’t deny the pain.

  Well, there was no point in going back to sleep now. Carefully, so that he didn’t wake Jacquelyn, Marcus eased out from under the covers. He glanced at the window. It was pitch dark outside, and still raining. Cold goosebumps popped up on his skin as he pulled on some clothes, then boots, and finally his longsword. With a last longing glance at the bed, he slipped out of the bedroom, through the foyer, and out of his chambers.

  “Your highness?” Darkness obscured Blaxley’s features—just as well, since he had none worth mentioning—as he sat on a chair in the hall, but Marcus heard his tired yawn well enough. “Is the day too short for you or something?”

  “Come on, Blaxley. We’re leaving.”

  To his utmost credit, the man-at-arms hesitated barely an instant before he got to his feet. “Right, as you say. Where to?”

  Marcus had to think about that. His mother had told him to go, but she hadn’t seemed to care about the destination. There seemed only one logical choice. “The necropolis.”

  It was raining outside, just as it had for the past week. Storm clouds, invisible against the black sky, spat showers from the heavens, dousing the unfortunate city below with water. Ancellon’s sewers were overflowing, unable to keep up with the downpour. The stench of human waste was overpowering even high above on the palace steps.

  “Are you sure about this, your highness?” Blaxley inquired. He looked over the square below, parts of which were ankle-deep in water.

  “Not exactly,” Marcus said, privately thinking that his mother had picked a hell of a time to send him out on an errand. Steeling himself, he stepped out from under the Atrium’s sheltering roof and into the falling rain.

  By the time they reached the stables, they were soaked. One sleeping groom was manning the bay. He grudgingly saddled two horses for them, and before they’d even left, he was on his chair snoring again.

  Heroes’ Square wasn’t the storm’s only victim. Ancellon was practically a lake. Its streets were transformed into flowing rivers, covered in inches of murky brown water. The horses splashed through it without complaint, though their heads hung low with unvoiced misery. Their road was the Royal Way. The city stewards had lit the lampposts, which was a blessing; if not for their dim yellow light, Marcus and Blaxley would have been utterly blind.

  Rain and wind buffeted Marcus’s face and turned his hair into a tangled wet mess clinging to his scalp. His muscles trembled in a useless effort to battle the cold. He could feel his mare quivering between his knees too, made skittish by the intermittent peals of thunder. He clenched his teeth and rode on, hoping to God that he’d been called out here for a reason.

  Without warning, a flash of lightning turned night into day, and thunder split the air with a deafening clap. Marcus’s horse whinnied, panic-stricken, and reared back on its hind legs, flinging him off its back. With a terrific splash, he landed in the water. Hard cobblestones were not far beneath the surface. Pain lanced up his left side.

  “Shit,” he gasped, spitting out water that tasted like just that. The mare galloped off into the night without a second thought.

  Blaxley was already helping him up. “You alright?”

  “Did something to my wrist,” Marcus winced, flexing the joint. It moved, albeit stiffly. “No, I’m alright.” He looked up—and caught motion on a nearby side street. A number of dark figures were jostling around in a tight bundle. He thought he could hear shouting above the wind and rain. He loosened his sword in its sheath. “Over there, let’s see what’s happening.”

  They left Blaxley’s horse milling in the middle of the Royal Way and half-waded, half-strode toward the commotion. As they approached, it became clear that they had chanced onto a scuffle. There were five men in all. Four of them had formed a loose circle around the fifth and were knocking him around inside it, swiping punches and lashing out with low kicks whenever he regained some balance. Marcus heard the distinctive packing sound of fist meeting flesh, punctuated by grunts of exertion.

  “Fight back, you piece of shit,” one of the attackers jeered.

  A right hook put the unfortunate fifth fellow on the ground. He wallowed in the rank water for a moment before rolling to his knees. “Come on, you’ve got more than that,” said another coward, with a kick to the gut for good measure. This time, the fellow sank down and didn’t get back up.

  Marcus drew his sword. The four men still standing whirled at the sound of ringing steel—and he recognized them. Especially the biggest of the lot. “Leave off, de Martine,” he said levelly, though his pulse raced with anger.

  Jaspar’s shoulder’s tensed. “De Pilars,” he said in mock greeting, covering his tension with a laugh. “It’s a bit past your bedtime, isn’t it, Boor Princeling?”

  “Your mother wasn’t keen on letting me go,” replied Marcus.

  Jaspar laughed again. “That’s good. R
eally good. I’d say the same of yours, but she isn’t taking many lovers these days, is she?”

  Even with the freezing rain, Marcus felt his blood running cold with rage. “So what’s all this, de Martine? I didn’t think even you were low enough to kick a man while he’s down.”

  “This?” The big lad gave the prostrate form a hard toe in the ribs. It wheezed, cursed up at him in Kydonian—in a voice Marcus recognized. Evgeny Pronin’s. “We’re settling an old score, here. It doesn’t concern you.”

  “Settling it four-on-one, eh? That’s something you’d stoop to, alright.” It was all he could do not to charge the cowards and take them on himself. He gave in just enough to take a step forward.

  They presently drew their blades.

  Well and good. Four cowards against one proper swordsman were good odds, in his mind. He tossed his sword point in circles, all nonchalance. “I’ll tell you what. You all leave, right now, and I won’t put a mark on any one of you. I won’t even tell your precious fathers what you’ve done.”

  Naive “Might be that we’re in the mood for a proper fight,” one of them braved. Marcus recognized that one, too. “No fucking quality,” he’d said once before—to his and Vernon’s backs.

  “Might be that I’ll follow my own advice and give you a pretty scar, de Mexvel,” Marcus retorted. “That weasel face of yours could still use one. Then I’ll take you, de Martine, while the rest of your mates run for it. And my man here,” he tossed his chin at Blaxley, who had suddenly appeared on a rooftop overlooking the scene with his bow drawn, “will shoot them at his leisure.”

  The coward tried to raise another taunt, but Jaspar cut him off with a hand gesture. He took a step forward, spreading his arms wide. “So it’s come to this, eh? You’d spill noble blood over some Kydonian wretch.”

  Marcus chuckled without amusement. “That depends on how you define noble blood. Because me, I don’t see any of it here.” He pointed his sword. “Your move.”

  Jaspar’s blue eyes flickered up at Blaxley, whose string lost more twang with each moment spent in the rain—then at Marcus, whose contempt had met its equal. “Fine.” He sheathed his sword, wisely reckoning that a duel with the crown prince was not at all to his advantage. “Your time will come, de Pilars,” he said over his shoulder. He passed Evgeny, then disappeared into a side alley. His worthless friends followed, looking back at Marcus disdainfully—but only once they were at a safe distance.

  “Don’t keep me waiting too long, de Martine!” Marcus called. Once they were gone, he sheathed his own sword and hurried over to Evgeny. The Kydonian was on his knees again, holding his ribs—but as ever, his expression betrayed no pain. Marcus helped him up by the armpit, admiring his stoicism all the while. “How bad are you?”

  Evgeny covered up a cough. “I will live,” he said grimly—which was true, but only just. Blood ran freely from a cut on his brow, his eyes were already beginning to swell, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. Ignoring the dizziness he surely felt, the young Kydonian stooped to retrieve his cap from the water. He wringed the water out of it and carefully pulled it over his blonde hair.

  Marcus started leading him off. “I’ll take you to the palace. I’ll have a chirurgeon see to your wounds.”

  “Thank you,” Evgeny said, but he gently pulled Marcus’s hand off his arm. “But this is not necessary. I will sleep and I will be well in morning.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He nodded.

  If there was ever such thing as a man, Marcus decided, Evgeny was a prime candidate. He cracked a grin. “You’re a tough bastard, is what you are. Where’re you staying, then? We’ll take you there.” Evgeny was willing to allow that, at least. He led Marcus to a nearby inn, quite close to Heroes’ Square. They trudged inside, trekking rancid water, and settled by the hearth to dry off. Holding his hands close to the orange coals, Marcus asked Evgeny, “So what happened?”

  As it turned out, the chain of events had been rather predictable. For reasons he would not specify, the Kydonian had been wandering the streets alone when Jaspar and his minions happened across him. They had followed him until cornering him in the side street. “You came not long after,” he finished. “And what of you, Elessian prince? What has brought you here at such late hour? And,” he added in a suspicious tone, “with such fortunate timing?”

  “Well.” Marcus frowned, thinking about his recurring dream—about his mother’s walking corpse screaming for him to get out of bed, and the all-too-real pain in his arm when he hadn’t. She had wanted him to save Evgeny. The only question was why. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  Evgeny nodded slowly. “You would be surprised, if you heard some of the things we Kydonians believe. But, you may keep your secrets, for you have let me keep mine.” As he spoke, he fished a tiny wineskin out of his pocket. He took a draught and offered it to Marcus, who accepted.

  He followed with a swig of his own. Vodka. Fighting down a grimace, he offered it back to Evgeny, but the young man waved his hands and pointed to Blaxley. The man-at-arms drank gratefully, gave the skin back, then retreated to go stand by the door, keeping a watch for danger.

  Marcus leaned over. “If you wish it, you can press for compensation from Jaspar’s family. I would stand by your claim. They’d be obligated to pay.”

  “Perhaps,” Evgeny mused aloud, “instead of coin, this family—these de Martines—they would sponsor us, so that we might speak to your Parliament.”

  Marcus’s chuckle had some bitterness behind it. “You would have a much better chance at coin.”

  “Then I wish nothing.”

  Marcus stared at the embers. “What’s so important that you would stand in this hell-spawned rain for weeks on end? Now look at you—your eyes are almost swollen shut, and the first thing you think of is talking to Parliament. Why?”

  “It is my task. My duty. I must not fail.”

  “What would happen, then, if you did fail?”

  The Kydonian regarded him for a long time before answering—and then, with just one dreadful word. “War.”

  Marcus’s stomach felt hollow. He rubbed his jaw, fighting the urge to ask all the obvious questions—why, when, how—because he knew it would do no good. “You’re certain of this?”

  “Yes, your highness.” With his set tone, there was no reason to doubt him, though Marcus wished with all his heart that he had been lying.

  Now—now, those half-forgotten nightmares that had plagued him for weeks were fresh in his mind. He remembered seeing black ash swirling round and round, stirred by wind that stoked the raging fires surrounding him—a once-great city reduced to ruin, its people lying butchered in the streets, sprawled between toppled temple spires and burning buildings.

  This nation will crumble, and with it, every nation in this circle of the world. Mirela’s words were becoming more prophetic by the day. Everything was beginning to fall into place. Marcus saw it all—a nobility corrupted by power and wealth, a people disillusioned by poverty and never-ending war, and a king too weak to mend the rift between them both. And even as Elessia rotted from within, new threats continued to rise from without. The northerners, emboldened by their recent victory, would no longer be content to raid small coastal villages. Lyrian pirates would continue to humble the Elessian navy while fattening themselves on merchant shipping. And now, Kydona threatened to rise again, plunging Elessia into a war that it could not afford.

  Evgeny knew his duty; so did Marcus. He could not allow pride to stand in his way, not for a matter this important.

  There was only one more question for him to ask. “If I were to grant you my sponsorship, and if you spoke with Parliament—could we prevent this war from happening?”

  “Yes,” Evgeny said, promptly.

  Marcus nodded. He could already hear the nobility denouncing him, his father censuring him, all of Elessia despising him as a collaborator and traitor. But it was the right thing to do. “Then I am your sponsor.”


  †††

  The Sanctum’s galleries were packed with nobility—a baying mass, protruding with shaking fists, oscillating with obscene gestures that dazzled the eye with their variety. There was little to distinguish Elessia’s nobles from the commoners they ruled. Their refined accents made their bellowed oaths all the more ridiculous, and their ornate dress was disheveled from hours of heated stalemate.

  Government, Marcus thought, was an ugly thing up close—no matter the ideals that it was founded upon.

  King Audric sat on his gilded throne at the head of the chamber, elevated on a platform that rose even higher than the Parliamentary galleries—but his crown sat crookedly on his head, and sweat beaded his harried face, both reminders that even though Ancel’s blood ran through his veins, he was still just a man.

  The Council of Highest were just as fallible. The seven high lords sat on smaller seats to each side of their king, looking either angry or annoyed. Lord de Isnell murmured a message to his steward, who proceeded to deliver it to his supporters in the galleries via a series of complicated hand signals. Other stewards conferred orally with their masters’ opponents. If politics meant cutting deals, then the deals were lying in pieces.

  Marcus sat on one of the many seats lining the floor below the galleries, just close enough to befit his station. The cushion had once been luxuriously stuffed, but half a day after meeting his ass’s acquaintance it was flatter than a sheet of parchment and notably less comfortable. He shifted, feeling blisters coming on.

  “Apple?” offered Vernon, producing yet another one from his coat pocket. The fruit’s skin was a mass of tender spots, and Marcus suspected his best mate of concealing a bite on the other side of it, so he declined. Shrugging, Vernon chomped into it, spattering the floor and nearby nobles with juice. “Wish I’d brought a wineskin,” he said with his mouth full.

  “Wish they’d just table the business,” said Marcus, frustration bubbling through his tone. He had been listening to Parliament’s bickering for hours on end as they debated on how to best reconstruct the archives. There existed copies of almost every record that had been lost—in the Royal Watch’s forts, and in the possession of various lords and dukes throughout the chamber—but Parliament had succeeded in complicating the mundane task of copying those in turn. It was an orgy of accusation and shady negotiation—because in fact, there were those who stood to profit by the loss of certain records, and they were more than willing to negotiate to ensure that those records stayed lost.

  But of course, they disguised their self-serving motives as noble-intentioned. “I merely suggest that the wording of this particular record could have been miscopied,” one protested to a steward. “My own records would indicate just that.”

  The steward adopted a skeptical look. “So you can recall the precise wording on this particular tax document, my lord? It’s rather obscure, I’m sure you know. My Lord de Morent had heard many claims such as yours today, and all of them equally suspect. He will not be receptive.”

  The lord scowled. He leaned in and said in a low voice, “I assure your esteemed lord that I will be… grateful… for his support in this matter.”

  With a sly nod, the steward departed.

  “Well played, my lord,” Marcus commented, just to let him know that he wasn’t as smooth as he reckoned. The man turned up his nose and looked away. In truth, Marcus could not have cared much less. Parliament was an honorless arena, a maze of bribery and back deals, and he would have been a fool to think it otherwise.

  He just wished they would get to the business that truly mattered. Just outside the doors, in the entry of the Keep, the Kydonian emissaries were waiting.

  He looked up at the head of the chamber; his father was staring back at him with his eyes set and his mouth drawn into a frown. Marcus knew why: his father had heard Parliament’s order of business before the day began. He knew who stood outside, and who had put them there.

  The king was not pleased.

  Marcus met his stare evenly. He even smirked. “Get it over with, old man,” he said half-aloud.

  “What’s that, now?” Vernon asked, spitting pieces of apple everywhere. He looked thoughtfully at the core, mulling it over, then popped that into his mouth as well.

  “This day is about to get more interesting,” Marcus told him.

  “Oh, brilliant. I’m all out of apples. And I’ve got to piss.”

  As Marcus shook his head, the noise in the Sanctum began to die down. He looked to the throne again and saw his father standing, his arms spread. The conversation gradually quieted as people took their seats, frowning unhappily—except the stewards, who looked nothing but grateful for the reprieve.

  King Audric raised his voice. “My dear lords. This has been a long day, and a trying one for us all. The matter of rebuilding the Royal Archives is a matter that will not be resolved with one day of debate. But I assure you, we will resolve it in weeks to come. With that promise, I hereby declare the matter tabled until the next session. Two days hence,” he raised his hands again, waiting for quiet as the chamber rumbled with discontent, and as it did, he continued, “two days hence, we will adjourn once more to discuss it. For now, however, we must move on to our last matter.”

  Chatter rose once more as Elessia’s lords speculated on what this could possibly be.

  King Audric’s jaw muscles clenched. His eyes carefully avoided Marcus as he pronounced, “This esteemed Parliament recognizes Andrei Miasoedov Pronin of Kydona.”

  Silence born of shock fell over the chamber. The reinforced doors boomed as the bolts came undone, then groaned apart. A trio of figures stood silhouetted in the opening, gazing over the packed galleries with impeccable composure. A chamberlain tapped his cane on the floor, and the Kydonians began their long walk up the aisle.

  The silence died quickly, replaced by an insulted uproar. Nobles were on their feet, shaking their fists at the emissaries as they passed. They shook their heads and muttered indignantly to their neighbors, unified for once not by duty or patriotism or honor, but by contempt.

  To their credit, the Kydonians took no notice of the clamor surrounding them. They moved with careful dignity, their eyes staring straight ahead under their caps, their long coats dragging on the floor behind them. None of them acknowledged Marcus as they passed him—not even Evgeny.

  Marcus did the same. He kept his face rigidly passive as he watched them go by. In the privacy of his thoughts, though, he wished them the best of luck.

  “That’s far enough,” his father said as they neared the base of his throne. His tone, like the words themselves, was undiplomatic at best.

  The Kydonians halted side-by-side at the base of the steps, a lesser mirror of the spot where they had waited so long for this recognition. They bowed as one in their queer eastern manner. The nobility had fallen more or less silent, but their snickers were audible. “Simpletons mimicking better men,” said the lord beside Marcus.

  He almost reminded the man that he had just bribed a high lord to cut his own expenses, but opted against it.

  From atop his throne, King Audric made a lazy gesture at the emissaries below. “Speak your business, sirs.”

  The nobles hummed, pleased by the lack of proper title—but again, the Kydonians would not be moved. Andrei took a half-step forward, bowed once more, and said, “Your majesty, King Audric. Lords of Elessia.” If his lined face had not been of a grim set before, it certainly was now as he stared around the chamber, his grey eyes hard enough to bore holes through stone. Custom dictated that speakers thank the assembly for their graciousness and generosity, but Andrei Pronin, whether by accident or design, dispensed with the courtesy.

  His next words were quite the opposite of customary. “We come to your country in name of our Tsaritsa Nadiya Sidorovna Yeskevich.”

  The racket that arose then was close to deafening, but it was no longer mere indignity. Men cried out in disbelief, consternation, even fear.

  Marcus kept his silence, but
he was cursing himself yet again as a fool. Evgeny had given him only a fraction of the truth.

  King Audric’s face was red. His voice was laced with fury as he spat just one disbelieving word. “Tsaritsa?”

  “Nadiya, born of Sidor and Ishild, youngest of their children and guardian of our motherland.”

  “Sidor and his wife are dead, sir,” pronounced Audric, dangerously. “Their line is extinguished.” A kind euphemism. The tsar’s son, the tsarevich, had been slain on the battlefield at his father’s side. His wife and daughters had been put to death in their palace as the city Kamengrad burned around them—an evil deed, but a necessary one, enacted so that none of them could rise to claim their birthright in the future.

  But with a shake of his head, Andrei confirmed that that was precisely what had transpired. “Nadiya Sidorovna lives,” he declared. “She sends with us tidings, and makes offer.”

  Again, Audric’s eyes found his son, blaming him for this disaster. In his disgust, he did not keep Marcus’s gaze for long. He raised his hands, quieting the shouts of denial and outrage from around the chamber. “Very well then, emissary. If we cannot ignore this imposter laying claim to Kydona, give us her offer, so that we know what we’re about to reject.”

  Grim laughter echoed. As it did, Andrei gestured toward his son Evgeny, who stepped forward, unfurling a rolled parchment. He read aloud, and in much better Elessian than his father, “Sixteen years ago, Elessia waged war on the motherland, and conquered her thus. The time since has proven that Kydona has not been merely defeated, but subjugated. Elessia claims to have brought the light of justice to Kydona, yet our people see none of this. Instead, they suffer. Our lands are ruled over by lords whose foreignness makes them ignorant and therefore cruel. These men have no understanding of Kydona’s people. They do not speak our language and so do not hear our pleas. They scoff at our Gods and punish those who worship them. They demand unfair labor of their serfs and take much of the crop, so that we starve in winter. They conscript the ablest of men against their will to work in the mines, which is slavery and an abomination against any God. They deny the people weapons, yet give no protection against raiders from the north. These Elessian lords enforce their rule through soldiers, men who commit unspeakable crimes yet face no justice.

  “The motherland has endured thus for sixteen years, and shall no more.

  “I, Nadiya Sidorovna, as tsaritsa and protector of Kydona’s people, offer these terms. Despite Elessia’s many transgressions, I wish earnestly for peace between our two nations, and so I name the following terms in good will.

  “All Elessian lords shall immediately relinquish any claim to Kydonian land.” Angry murmuring filled the Sanctum—but the tsaritsa was not finished. Evgeny pressed on with his reading. “All Elessian strongholds east of the Utmar Mountains shall be vacated, at once, and all Elessian soldiers within shall surrender their arms. All Kydonians held in bondage or custody shall be immediately released. Elessia shall recognize the sovereignty of Kydona and her ruler: I, Nadiya Sidorovna. King Audric shall pledge non-aggression for the remainder of his reign and shall recognize the border as agreed between Tsar Sidor and King Basil. Finally, all Elessians shall depart Kydona across this border upon the first rainfall of spring.”

  Evgeny paused for his next breath—during which time a lord shouted, “Preposterous!”

  “How dare she!” cried another.

  “Hang the dogs, all of them!”

  More and more joined in until the chamber reverberated with calls for blood. The dreadnaughts lining the sides stirred, gripping their spears tight as they eyed the discord from beneath their plumed helmets. Audric sneered down at the three Kydonians with enviable disdain, likely agreeing wholeheartedly with his noble peers.

  For his part, Marcus watched with masked unease, and wondered what kind of hell-spawned storm he had unleashed by allowing the Kydonians their time with Parliament. Their offer could mean only war. This tsaritsa’s terms may have been justified and reasonable in her mind, but to the lords of Elessia, they were a slap across the face—a low blow, aimed straight at their pride.

  Audric spread his hands again, but with everyone so bent on hurling venom, few took notice. He stood, his mouth moving to form soothing words that were immediately lost to the cacophony of shouts and curses. Finally he nodded at a chamberlain on the side of the chamber. The servant hauled on a cord, unleashing a peal of heavy bells. Ringing pierced the chamber, reverberating almost painfully against Marcus’s eardrums.

  Parliament fell into a brooding silence. In it, the king addressed the Kydonians once more. “And what does your tsaritsa offer in return for her reasonable demands?” His voice was calm, but his fists were clenched at his sides, quivering with barely-suppressed rage.

  At his father’s nod, Evgeny picked up where he had been interrupted. “In return, I offer clemency to all Elessians residing in Kydona. All are granted safe passage to Elessia. There shall be no retaliation of any kind. No tribute is demanded, and no recompense is desired. In order to ensure lasting peace between our nations, and as a gesture of faith and good will…” The young Kydonian stopped dead. His eyes tore through the line a second time, then a third, not quite believing what they had read.

  “Well?” The king prodded, his patience all but spent.

  Evgeny’s throat worked visibly—perhaps the most emotion Marcus had ever seen him display. “…as a gesture of faith and good will, I offer my hand in marriage to your royal heir, the Lord Prince Marcus Audric de Pilars.”

  For one precious moment, all was still as the assembled lords of Parliament looked at each other, stunned by the audacity of this false queen and her lackeys. Eyes turned on Marcus, who held his composure despite his roiling thoughts, stirred by the impossible prospect of taking this tsaritsa as his wife.

  His father let out chuckle, low and dry. “This must be a joke. No regent would offer terms like these and expect us to accept them.” The forced laughter quickly faded. Audric stood with fire in his eyes. “No, you insult this honored Parliament. You connive your way to the spot upon which you stand, like the snakes you are—snakes in the employ of a harlot! This woman has no claim to Kydona, a land which Elessia won in righteous battle. And yet she expects us to willingly abandon it, simply because she demands it? And she goes further still! She dares to play at magnanimity! Faith and good will?” He snorted with outraged disbelief. The chamber harrumphed in agreement.

  Audric glared down at the Kydonians with menace and contempt. “And how does this tsaritsa intend to act, once we reject these ludicrous terms?”

  Andrei inclined his head. “We shall defend our motherland.”

  “She threatens us with war?” the king near-shouted in his fury, his eyes fairly bulging out of his head. “Give your God-damned tsaritsa this reply: we reject your terms. A thousand times, we reject them! We treat your words as a declaration of war. Indeed, we welcome it!”

  The men of Parliament were standing too—the high lords, the dukes, all on their feet, jeering and rattling their fists at the three emissaries below. The Kydonians, for their part, wore somber expressions. Surely they had known their mission would fail. With such insulting demands, how could they have possibly succeeded?

  The declamation last a long time. Gobbets of spit took to flight, spattering at the Kydonians’ feet. The railings on the galleries shook from the boos and taunting whistles. Salvoes of insults echoed off the walls. Above it all, the king signaled for the guards to come forward, his face tensed between grimness and satisfaction.

  Marcus watched the king’s dreadnaughts clamp their armored gauntlets over the Kydonians’ arms—first Evgeny, then the Kydonian whose name Marcus hadn’t bothered to learn, and finally Andrei. The old foreigner stared up at the king with what might have been fury, though his flint-grey eyes and solid-hewn face made it difficult to tell at the best of times.

  “You have been warned, Elessian king!” Heedless to Andrei’s yells, the guards hauled him and his f
ellows from the chamber, as a parent would steer a wayward child. Evgeny passed once again—only this time, it was Marcus who refused to look his way.

  Instead, the prince gazed down at the tiles, wondering to himself why his mother had woken him and sent him into the rain, why those red stars had fallen on the eastern horizon—what he had done wrong, if heeding both those signs had only succeeded in bringing war to Elessia, once again.