Chapter 5
Marcus woke with a start, his heart drumming against his ribs. He’d been having nightmares again. His mind came into focus, and the memory of the dream faded until all that remained was the very end: piercing, sky blue eyes, staring with implacable patience.
Last night. He remembered now. He had tried to persuade Jacquelyn into spending the night in his bed, and she had admitted she badly wanted to, but she couldn’t.
“I’m not like that. I’m a good girl,” she had said, bashfully.
He would have smiled at the thought, if not for the pins and needles filling his sleeping arm. He hauled the limb from beneath him and pulled it straight, massaging the blood flow back into it. “Good girl,” he murmured. He’d never met one of those before. With a grunt, he rolled off the mattress and made for the washbasin by the window. The overcast skies obscured the sun, but the water in the bowl was lukewarm. It couldn’t be past midmorning. Good, he’d promised to meet her around noon.
His clothes from yesterday were no longer piled on the floor where he’d thrown them off, but on the dressing table lay a parchment envelope, reeking faintly of dried sweat. The letter Kaelyn had given him. It had sat against his breast in his tunic all day, forgotten.
He picked it up. The seal was plain, just as Kaelyn had said. Curiosity came easier without her to distract him. He broke the seal and opened it. The letter inside was wrinkled and browned, and the inked text was smudged, but Marcus could still make out the text.
Your highness, Forgive my unsubtle words. I write only because the need is great. You do not know me, but I was, and am, a dear friend of your mother. She has entrusted me with knowledge which she ultimately intended to impart upon you, but only once the time was right. Heartbreaking as her death is, that time has not yet come. Once it does, I will contact you, but until then, you must tread lightly. Your recent actions have made you powerful enemies. You threaten to undermine all they have sought to achieve, and I warn you now, they will not long tolerate your meddling. If they have not yet made this clear, they soon will. Tread lightly, or Elessia perishes with you. May God keep you, prince. I remain your loyal servant.
Bemused, Marcus checked the reverse side for a signature, which was of course absent. There was scant evidence of his identity. The wording and careful script pointed to a male author—obviously educated, but the letters lacked serifs, so he likely did not run in noble circles. But even those facts were unremarkable, and almost useless.
The message had him craving more, but he knew finding the sender was a hopeless cause. If this man’s information was as vital as he claimed, he would have taken many precautions to protect himself. It would have passed through many hands before finding him.
He read it twice more, committing it to memory, and tossed it regretfully into the fireplace. The dull embers flared briefly before consuming the parchment, curling, blackening, disintegrating it.
Sighing, he made for the wardrobe. He picked out simple things—leather riding breeches, black Royal Watch-style tunic, boots. The only item he paid real mind to was his sword. He eyed the row of them lining the rack on the wall, wondering which side of the line to walk: decorativeness or practicality. It was a short debate. He picked out his favorite longsword—the one with the laminated blade that could hack down a tree if put to that end, and the wire-wound grip that fit so comfortably into his fist. It was a beautiful blade, to a soldier’s eyes. A weapon. A tool for killing.
He slid it into its scabbard and belted it to his thigh. The letter could have been a fabrication, just like the gypsy Mirela’s tarot reading—but it paid to be prepared.
The Atrium was even more crowded than usual this morning. The Falltide Ball was barely two weeks away, and the preparations were just beginning. Servants were hurrying around, carrying furniture and bundles of ribbon, shouting decorators close on their heels. In the middle of the flood, overseeing the whole thing, was the Lady Beauvais. Marcus’s total lack of surprise didn’t make him feel any better.
The king’s mistress was a stunning woman. She had the same crimson hair as Kaelyn, but her eyes were emerald, her lips were fuller and her form slimmer. There were faint lines of age around her eyes, which did nothing to dampen her beauty.
She saw him looking—or more likely, she had spied him long before and only now pretended to notice. It was the sort of game courtesans played. She passed her stylus and pad to a servant and began making her way over, smiling.
“Dreary morning, is it not, my young lord?” she greeted. Her tone was friendly but her voice was quiet and sultry like silk whispering on marble. It was undeniably erotic, and purposefully so; everything about her was carefully honed to make her absolutely irresistible.
It had worked on King Audric, but not on his son. “That it is, Lady Roslene.” He met her gaze neutrally. Roslene was a special kind of courtesan, one who operated without the benefit of payment. Drawn-out affairs were her specialty. He remembered the stories—how, in her youth, she’d drifted from lover to lover, abandoning them when they were no longer useful to her, working her way into ever-higher circles using her wiles and her looks. Even today, many considered her the most beautiful woman in Elessia. She knew it, always had known, and she used it to her advantage.
Her lovely smile broadened. “Here I am, boring you with the weather. I trust you’ve heard the theme of this year’s Falltide?”
He glanced to either side. He saw sprigs of juniper, tall clay vessels with pointed bases, large plaques of mosaic tile… “I suppose Lyrian?”
“Very good! Yes, my intent is Lyrian port. A seaside getaway, if you will. Oh, and these baubles aren’t the half of it, I assure you. My girls will be quite the spectacle this year…” She trailed off, eyes flickering in the air as she made an addendum to her mental notes.
It gave Marcus time to remember last year’s ball. The theme had been “white north” or something, but it had been quite the spectacle. Servants had perched in the rafters high above, tossing handfuls of white confetti while the courtesans pranced around the floor below. They had dressed as barefoot snow nymphs in white dresses, or as trappers or God-knew-what with furred brown cloaks and little or nothing beneath. It had been a feat to make it through a single dance without tripping over your partner.
“I’m not sure how you could top last year’s spectacle, if I’m honest,” he confessed.
“Hmm, yes, it was a tad raunchy now, wasn’t it? But appropriate. There’s no reason to cover up too much for the last warm celebration of the year.” Roslene was disturbingly similar to her daughter. Just so—her deep green eyes had a hint of challenge in them. “I do hope you plan on attending.”
He thought about the letter. “Of course.”
“And may I ask, which young woman has the honor this time?” He couldn’t quite tell if there was a veiled accusation in the question or not. There could have been, and he wouldn’t have blamed her.
“You have enough surprises in store, my lady. Let me keep my own.”
She laughed and clapped her hands. “Bravo, your highness. Well. I’ll let you be on your way.” Soon as she turned away, the servant had handed back the stylus, and she presently scribbled a new note on her pad.
Marcus stared after her for a moment. He tried his best not to picture Roslene at last year’s ball, sitting at the head table at King Audric’s left hand, the queen at his right—Roslene caressing his father’s arm, Geneva feigning indifference. It was a difficult memory to keep out of his mind. His near-hatred for the king’s mistress came roaring back.
Shrugging it away, he started for the entrance. There was a constable posed awkwardly at the top of the palace steps outside, plumed helmet tucked under his arm. “Your highness,” he said with a bow, “the guardmaster sends word. We’ve found the tunnel.”
Marcus almost glanced at the sun, but the skies were cloudy and grey from horizon to horizon. He supposed he still had time. “Very well, lieutenant. Show me.”
It took nearly h
alf an hour’s ride through Ancellon’s packed streets to get there. The place was not unusual in any way—just a thin two-story building on a curved block lined with identical buildings. A smoky-windowed tavern took up the lower floor, and the upper floor’s windows were dark. The front door was ajar. More than a dozen armored constables kept watch outside, with more at either end of the block. A curious crowd had gathered beyond.
The guardmaster strode out of the front door. He scowled down at the street gutter and hopped it to reach Marcus. “We were at it all night, your highness. Searched half the houses in this quarter before we got to this one. The tunnel’s in the cellar. It’s no trifling thing either. Must’ve taken years.”
Marcus’s boots squeaked on the cobblestones as he dismounted. “Take me there.”
The guardmaster led him into the building. The tavern stank of mildew. Its floors and walls were blackened by years of smoke. He looked at the shelves of glass mugs behind the bar. “Dusty,” he remarked.
“Indeed, your highness,” the man said with a tired smile, brown mustache drooping. “Folk around here say no one’s been in or out for three years.” He worked his way behind the bar, stooped, and grunted as he pulled open a squeaking trap door. “Hidden under a rug. It’s a good thing one of my sharp-eared lads searched this place, or we wouldn’t have been so lucky. Come on, then.” With a deep breath, he climbed backwards into the hole.
Marcus peered down into the darkness and followed.
The smell of decay was much starker in the cellar. The rotten shelves sagged under the weight of still-sealed wine bottles. Wooden kegs with rusty taps lined the walls. Only one thing was out of place: a shelf, pulled out from the wall on a hinge to reveal a dark opening, about the width of three men’s shoulders.
The guardmaster beckoned him on. He carefully stepped through the doorway and down an unseen flight of steps until his head disappeared beneath the floor. Again, Marcus followed, this time with some trepidation. He didn’t mind the dark, except when sudden falls were likely.
He counted each step. There were twenty-two of them, each about a foot tall. Then his foot met dirt, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Damned torches… no air down here…” The guardmaster struck a flint, and with a shower of sparks, a torch came lit. Now the scale of the tunnel became clear.
“Look at that,” Marcus breathed. The thing was wide enough to fit a cart, tall enough too. The passage stretched off into the darkness at a gradual downward slope. The only noise, apart from their breathing, was the steady drip of moisture from the wooden supports.
The guardmaster gestured down the length of the tunnel. “It goes for a good mile—more, probably, but we can’t be sure, what with the cave-in and all. Aye, there’s a big one about half a mile through, about where the wall ought to be. Completely blocked off.”
“Any idea of the purpose?”
“Aye.” He turned around and picked up something leaning against the wall. He held it up—a sword.
Marcus took it, feeling but not showing deep unease. The blade was long and broad—good workmanship, strong, sharp. “This is a Watch sword, guardmaster.”
The man nodded with a troubled look. “We found a few pike heads too. They’ve been smuggling weapons, looks like. Armor, maybe. And look at this.” He bent and ran his fingers along a deep rut in the ground. There was an identical one that ran parallel. “Cart tracks. You can see a hoof furrow here in the middle.”
The uneasy sensation deepened. “This was an operation.”
“A large one, your highness. Takes a lot of men a lot of time to dig a tunnel this big. Between the men, weapons…”
Someone with plenty money and patience had paid for this. And he had either paid his men for their silence, or he had it through loyalty. The second possibility was by far the worse. “Have you apprehended anyone? The tavern keeper? His family?” Even before the guardmaster replied, Marcus knew the answer was no.
The man shook his head. “No one’s lived here for a long time. We’re looking through the archives for sale records but I don’t expect we’ll find anything. This was well-planned, your highness.” He thought. “Except the cave-in.”
Marcus looked at the blade in his hands. The edges were rusted. “We’re late. They’ve been done here for quite a while.” Again, that letter was in his thoughts. All they have sought to achieve…
The sense of foreboding was leaving a bitter taste in his mouth—either that, or the mildew. “Guardmaster,” he said sternly, “no one learns this tunnel’s purpose. Clean up any evidence of it, then notify Master Blanton that you’ve found the tunnel. Follow any leads you can, but do it quietly. Did you ever find the other entrance?”
“Still searching, your highness.”
“Search on, then. Keep me posted.” He held up the sword. “No one hears of this, understand?”
The guardmaster nodded.
Marcus dropped the sword and started up the stairs, driven by the need for fresh air. He dearly hoped no more secrets would find their way into his day. But he had learned long ago that hope was the first step on an often-short road to disappointment.
Jacquelyn was waiting for him in Heroes’ Square beneath the statue of King Basil Demo. Marcus gazed up at his grandfather’s likeness as he led his horse forward on foot. The old king’s destrier was symbolically up on one hoof—the mark of a heroic demise. True enough, his death had helped give the Battle of Slain Kings its name.
He looked back down at Jacquelyn and realized she wasn’t alone. The girl standing beside her was shorter and broader, with sharp but chubby features and curly black hair. She glared at Marcus as he approached.
“Jacquelyn,” the prince greeted. He bowed, but not too low so he wouldn’t accidentally tug on his horse’s lead.
“Marcus,” she smiled. “This is my friend Molly.”
More like chambermaid, he thought as he looked her over. “Hello Molly.”
“Hello.”
Sensing the reason she was here, Marcus told her, “I have plenty of protection, Molly, and there’s at least one other lady who’ll be along. You may leave.”
The girl looked sourly at her mistress. “Is that alright?”
“Alright. Yes,” replied Jacquelyn with an anxious look. She rolled her eyes at Marcus. The two of them tugged on their reins and moved along, while Molly walked off at a brisk pace.
Jacquelyn whispered, “I’m sorry. My mother made me bring her along. She said she didn’t want me left alone when you went chasing a deer.”
“There’s a point,” agreed Marcus, “but I’m doubting that’s the real reason she came.”
The girl blinked. “You think?”
Marcus grinned at her. “She was a courtesan. She knows how lads work.”
She made a face and quipped, “I should have known what you’re about, after last night.”
“I took you home, didn’t I? Or was that kiss on the cheek too much for you?”
The mock argument lost steam after a couple more minutes. By then, they were at the edge of the square, almost at the great triumphal arch marking the start of the Royal Way. The great structure towered above their heads, every inch of its black marble surface inscribed with the name of an Elessian victory. There was very little space left—just a few square yards at the very bottom corner, and a blank plaque at the top.
“What’s that white space for, up there?” asked Jacquelyn.
She likely only wanted to break the silence but Marcus answered anyway. “That’s to mark the year of Ancel’s return.”
She nodded, and they walked under the arch. It was clogged with people making their way in and out of the square. The Royal Way beyond was lined with stands—most of them farmers making a last bid to make some coin before winter.
Not far past the monument, Marcus saw a bald, wrinkled man in a sackcloth robe hunched against a tree, his head bowed so low that it was nearly between his knees. Behind him stood another man with all the stoicism of a block of gr
anite. He wore a dark brown robe with the hood pulled low over his eyes. His arms were crossed; one sleeve was pulled back to reveal a silver bracer. Marcus knew he would have a dagger tucked into a sheath behind it, in addition to the austere bastard sword slung across his back. A Celaran monk, standing guard over a Mendicant priest.
“Can we walk on the other side?” Jacquelyn looked at the pair uneasily.
“Why? They’re not going to hurt you.”
She bit her lip. “What if I trip over the priest? The Celaran will murder me.”
Marcus had to laugh at that, though she may have been serious. “He’d probably make an exception for you. Probably.” He looked at the monk with vague pity, wondering at the fact that any parent still adhered to that ancient tradition—giving their son away at age seven to the Brotherhood, destined to spend a lifetime guarding over Elessa’s temples and priests, just because he’d had the misfortune of being born second. And the Mendicant—what a life, begging for coin in order to demonstrate his utter servitude to God’s will. To be one with the poor, whom the Blessed Lady had so loved.
He dug a trice out of his pocket and tossed it in the priest’s dish as he passed. “Pray for me, father,” he said, as the tradition went. He hadn’t gone two steps before the priest made a terrible rasping noise. He spun, concerned—but the priest wasn’t dying, just staring up at him through drooping eyelids. “Blessed Elessa said,” he wheezed, “That which a man gives is a measure of his worth before the Lord. But woe unto him who measures that which he gives, for he is vain, and lost to the Lord’s grace.” He settled back against the tree, eyes closing.
Marcus waited a moment longer, but the priest was clearly finished. “Thank you, father.” He walked on, mulling it over.
“They don’t usually say anything,” Jacquelyn said in a hushed voice, glancing back.
“You’re right, they don’t.”
“What did he mean?”
“It was a fancy way of saying, ‘Give others more than you give yourself.’”
“What about the second part?”
Marcus shrugged. “Don’t ask anything in return.”
She made a sound of comprehension, and they walked along thoughtfully. “Are we allowed to get on our horses now?”
In fact, they could have mounted as soon as they left the square, as the old law went. Marcus helped Jacquelyn into her saddle before smoothly vaulting onto his. People were much quicker to move aside when faced with a horse—especially one with a prince on top. They made a path as they cheered for him, a path obstructed only by the hands reaching out to touch his shins. He smiled and waved his way up the Royal Way until finally, they arrived at the North Gate.
The rest of the hunting party was waiting for them there. “My lord prince!” cried Ronold de Gauthier. “Joining us at last, I see!” Vernon waved from beside him, and at his side was a beaming Eliza de Laumaurne, one of the great beauties of their young generation. Her father, from whom she had gotten her straight raven hair, hovered sternly in the background.
“He looks upset,” Jacquelyn murmured.
“That’s because Vernon is next to his daughter. Can’t really blame him, honestly.” He smiled and raised his hand in greeting. “My thanks for waiting on me.”
“I trust you have a good reason,” Jiment de Laumaurne said dourly.
Ronold grinned at Jacquelyn. “Well, look at this! This lovely young lady’s holding you up already, eh? One look,” he waved a finger in her direction, “just one, and I know she’s trouble!”
The girl simpered, blushing. That was a relief; she’d been nearly glaring at Eliza this whole time. Marcus had hunted all sorts of creatures—from deer to foxes to boar—but women were the most vicious and territorial by far.
Marcus shortly introduced Jacquelyn to everyone, and they were off for the royal game preserve. The ride through the countryside was slow and leisurely—filled with boisterous conversation and lewd jokes, which Lord Laumaurne could not have appreciated much less, especially with his daughter joining in. They were accompanied by the sight of the countryside, its flowing grass green despite the grey skies, its rolling hills and scattered copses of trees pleasing to the eye.
They arrived at the preserve at midafternoon. It was a small forest, just thirty or forty acres of carefully-cultivated trees. The lower branches were cut off so as not to snag riders, and most of the brush had been cleared away, leaving just enough so that there was still some sport involved.
The gamekeeper met them just outside the forest to pass the men their bows, arrows, and wrist guards. The ladies went unarmed, which had them a bit sour-faced.
“I want one!” Jacquelyn said, with Eliza in agreement.
“You wouldn’t hit anything,” Marcus said.
“Aye,” Vernon piped in with a smirk that warned of a forthcoming bad-tasted joke. “Especially you, Eliza. Imagine you trying to draw a bowstring. Hell, with those tits of yours? They’d get in the way, is all they’d do.”
Her father turned beet red. “Now see here—”
But Vernon’s father slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on now, Jiment, it’s just a bit of fun. You don’t mind, now, do you, young lady?”
Eliza looked pouty herself, but Vernon cut in, “Sorry Eliza, bad joke. But seriously. Those tits are heavenly. I’d cry if you went and hurt either one of them.”
She laughed as Marcus and Jacquelyn grimaced at each other. If Vernon kept up like this, he’d be dead within the hour.
The gamekeeper waited half an hour for the sky to grow a smidge darker. Then with his nod, the hunt began. Leaving their horses tied at the tree line, the party made their way into the forest. The thick leafy canopy high above blotted out much of the sun’s brightness. Their rhythm-less footsteps on dry leaves was the only sound. All around them were bare tree trunks, evenly spaced. It all summed up to a mood that was tranquil and eerie at once.
“It’s so pretty,” said Jacquelyn, gazing around in awe.
He stole a glance at her. Bright pinpoints of sunlight shone through the trees to highlight her light brown hair; it made her look lovely. “It is,” he agreed, though not about the forest.
They rode along at the back of the party. In front of them were Vernon and Eliza, walking scandalously close together, practically leaning on each other. Eliza’s father kept looking around at them with undisguised suspicion, paying no attention whatsoever to the hunt. Ronold, on the other hand, was taking it altogether too seriously; he advanced at the head of the party, just in front of the gamekeeper, in a sort of walking crouch with an arrow already nocked. He scanned the forest ahead alertly, oblivious to the gamekeeper, who kept whispering in his ear and gesturing off to the right.
“I think it’ll be a while before we find a deer,” murmured Marcus.
Jacquelyn sighed with relief. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she said with a shrug, “They’re just so cute.”
“Tasty, too.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. They walked on for a while, talking quietly of small, inconsequential things. Marcus was in the middle of telling a story about his father when he noticed Jacquelyn had fallen behind.
She was standing on her tip toes behind him, her mouth twisted with consternation as she tried to disentangle herself from a branch that had caught on her dress. “Damn it…” she kept whispering, fingers working.
Marcus went to help her. “Here.” He snapped off the end of the branch so she wouldn’t have to stand on her toes anymore, then started working it free. “Lace. Of all things, you had to wear lace.” But he got the job done, remarkably without tearing any fabric. By that time, their companions were all but gone. Far ahead, he caught a flash of Vernon’s blonde hair—then his friend vanished into the trees, and the two of them were alone.
All of a sudden, the darkening forest had lost its charm, at least for Jacquelyn. “Oh no,” she whimpered.
Marcus knew they weren’t quite alone. Even now, his men at arms were watching, hidden from view, vigilant as
ever. Still—there was something to gain from pretending otherwise. He took the girl’s hand. “You’re acting like this is a bad thing, being alone with me.”
“I don’t want to get eaten by a bear.”
Chuckling, he pulled her along after him. Truth be told, he was in no real hurry to rejoin the others. He moved at a strolling pace, stepping carefully over the many gnarled roots, avoiding snapping twigs. Jacquelyn followed his lead admirably, her footfalls noiseless, her breathing steadying as she warmed to the game. When he looked at her next, she was smiling again.
They walked quietly for a while. Along the way, Marcus saw a leafy bush gathered up around an old tree trunk. Despite the lateness in the season, its white flowers were in full bloom. Jacquelyn was eying them appreciatively, so he picked the largest of the bunch and handed it to her with a flourish.
She smiled her thanks and tucked it behind one ear. “What?” she asked, seeing him stare.
“You’re beautiful,” he grinned back.
It had always amazed him, the wonders a well-placed compliment could work. Flattery accomplished precisely nothing—but genuine praise, it made a woman melt. That’s what Jacquelyn did just then. She had that odd bifurcated expression that women did so well—a smile of satisfied longing, so deep that she looked near to crying. It was the look that told Marcus she was his.
He gently pulled her in close by the hand, wrapped the other around her waist.
She wore that grin again, the one with the naughty twist. “What are you doing?”
He glanced back to make sure the others were still out of sight, then returned his gaze to her hazel eyes, barely an inch from his. “Nothing you’d mind,” he said, and closed the statement with a sound kiss.
She was a courtesan’s daughter, but she didn’t kiss like a courtesan, which for Marcus was a nice change. It wasn’t a dance of tongues or a prelude to anything more. Locked lips, that was all—but it was all they really needed.
When they broke apart, Jacquelyn was out of breath. She’d been holding it in the whole time. She giggled with embarrassment at Marcus’s amused look. “Sorry…”
“Wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“No!” she laughed, and gave him another peck to just make sure.
“Well.” He paused, glanced back. “I suppose we should catch up to—” Suddenly, his eyes sprang into focus over the girl’s shoulder, all notions of romance forgotten. “Stay still.”
She went rigid, smile vanishing. Her eyes darted from side to side. “What is it?”
Marcus unslung his bow in one fluid but steady motion, so as not to startle the deer. In the same movement, he drew an arrow from his quiver. “Doe,” he whispered, so low he barely heard himself. “Turn around, very slowly.”
She did so, one hand clamped to her mouth.
A plump doe stood thirty yards away, half-concealed by a broad shrubbery. Her head was pointed directly at them, her large ears standing straight up, thick white tail fluttering sporadically. She was staring at them, chewing almost thoughtfully.
He stroked the arrow’s fletches as he nocked it on the string, steadying the point against the shaft with one crooked forefinger. Jacquelyn had backed away, clearing his line of sight. The frozen deer encompassed his vision. Easy shot—impossible to miss.
The girl gasped behind her hand, “Don’t!”
“What?” He was incredulous. The string was already drawn. The arrow point quivered in place.
“Don’t kill it!” she squeaked. “What if it has babies?”
His whole arm was starting to tremble with effort. It was a strong bow, built to kill over distances of sixty, seventy, eighty yards. The taut string yearned for release, and his muscles ached in agreement. The deer stared on, as if daring him to loose the arrow.
Jacquelyn wasn’t having it. “Please don’t…” she said piteously.
Now his arm quaked. A quick internal debate ensued. It was just a damned animal to him, but satisfying as a clean kill was, it wouldn’t win him any favor with Jacquelyn. Let it go, he decided. He began to ride the string forward—
—and the deer bolted. In a flash, its head whipped around, its body following, and its powerful hind legs propelled it away.
Marcus reaction was entirely honest, and completely the opposite of what he’d intended. As if of its own volition, the arrow point tracked the deer, his fingers went loose, the string twanged, and the arrow went hissing through the air with murder in mind.
An hour later, Jacquelyn was still sobbing. Eliza was doing her best to comfort her, but Marcus didn’t envy her the task, not with the gamekeeper dragging the doe’s gutted carcass out of the tree line just a stone’s toss away.
“Fine shot, my young lord,” Ronold cried for the third time. He thumped the prince’s back. “You should’ve stayed to see the field dressing. You cut her heart straight in half!” He grinned, wolf-like. “Wish I still had the eyes for a kill like that.”
“Maybe someday, my lord, if you try hard and believe in yourself…” The joke didn’t have much heart in it. Marcus was too busy looking worriedly at Jacquelyn, who sat on a log under Eliza’s arm, covering her face with her hands.
Vernon elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “Bloody fine work, mate,” he said lowly.
“It was,” sighed Marcus. “What a damned mess.” He scratched his hair in exasperation. “At least Lord Laumaurne is happy.”
Jiment looked as if he was about to break into a jig. He was alternating his triumphant glance between Vernon and his daughter, who were now separated by a comfortable twenty yards.
Vernon sniggered. “More fool him. Eliza’s still going to Falltide with me.”
“You asked?”
“Mate, just who in the hell do you think I am?” his best friend demanded, all indignation. “She asked.”
Marcus snorted, shook his head. “Ass.”
“Cock. Call it what you want, mate, but my limp fish is halfway in the water, and yours is gasping for air. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I didn’t mean to loose it.”
“Right.”
“Really, I didn’t.”
“You dolt,” cackled Vernon, smacking him across the back. He looked over the deer as the gamekeeper unceremoniously threw it in the back of a waiting wagon. “Maybe she’ll lighten up once she gets a heaping plate of venison. Put that Martha to work, eh? I’d eat the damned thing raw, long as she’s cooking.”
Marcus smiled wryly, but a look at Jacquelyn told him she wouldn’t be eating for a week. He stood up, patting his friend’s shoulder, and approached the two girls. Eliza saw him coming. With a last word to Jacquelyn, she rose and made her way past him. “She’ll be alright, just let her work through it,” she murmured as she went by.
“Jacquelyn?”
“I s-said don’t kill it!” she said between heaving breaths.
He sat on the log beside her. Over the next few minutes, he did his very best to explain his mistake. He came uncharacteristically close to saying he was sorry, but he held back. “I didn’t mean to upset you, but come on Jacquelyn—it’s just a deer. You knew we were hunting today. I thought you wouldn’t have a problem.”
“I know it’s stupid,” she sniffled. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that anymore. You don’t ever have to apologize to me, for anything. Alright?”
“Alright,” she said with a weak smile.
A few minutes later, they were mounted and ready to depart. Blaxley, on horseback, signaled all-clear from a hill a mile away. “Route’s clear,” Kelly observed. The setting sun deepened the ugly cleft on the man-at-arm’s scalp. Eliza’s nose twitched; Jacquelyn, so close to regaining her color, quickly went pale again.
“Off we go?” Gail asked.
Marcus didn’t hear him. He was squinting at the trees. All of a sudden, the space between them was oppressively dark. The leaves didn’t stir for want of a breeze. A vague feeling of menace hung unsettlingly in the pit of his stomach, weighing him down i
n the saddle.
Gail trotted his horse up beside him. He scanned the forest’s edge, frowning—though in itself, that was not unusual. “Did you see anything?”
After a moment, “No… no. Let’s go.” The party heard him, and Ronold and Jiment started off in the lead, already beginning a new conversation, with Vernon and Eliza close behind. Jacquelyn waited on Marcus, who paid her a smile.
He gently kicked Morin’s flanks. His favorite gelding whinnied, pleased to finally be off.
It was the last sound Morin ever made. From the forest there came a high-pitched click—Marcus’s brain instantly recognized it as a crossbow—followed by a sharp hiss of split air. That sound he knew as well, but even when the bolt was being shot downrange, it had been frightening enough. And then there was a sound that was new to him: a dull, wet thud as the crossbow bolt struck home.
All this passed through Marcus’s mind without quite registering. Not until his horse fell away beneath him did he consciously realize he was under attack. On pure instinct, he launched himself out of the saddle as Morin fell, breaking his fall with a head-over-heels tumble. Head reeling, he staggered to his feet. Beside him, his faithful gelding was lying on his side, hooves spasming feebly as his dying nerves came to grips with the bolt buried in his eye, right up to the fletched end.
Shouting surrounded Marcus. Kelly had appeared beside him, sword drawn, using his body as a barrier between his prince and the unseen assailant in the forest. Gail was charging the tree line at a dead sprint. Jacquelyn was screaming.
“Mate! Mate, you alright?” Vernon skidded to a halt on his horse, ornate sword in hand.
“I’m… fine! Kelly, get off!” Angrily, he threw his guardsman’s grip off his arm. “Bastard killed my horse,” he snarled, and drew his blade. “After him, come on!”
The three of them plunged into the woods. Kelly automatically took up position twenty paces to his left, only just visible through the trees, while Vernon took the right. The golden filigree of his sword’s guard would give away his position at a glance, but there was no point whining about it. Wordlessly, they began their advance. They moved briskly at a half-crouch, eyes searching, swords angled for a rapid first strike.
The gloom had deepened. It was tough to make out much of anything apart from tree trunks. Bushes and roots, once mere annoyances, were now snagging obstacles. Every so often, Marcus heard muffled cursing from Vernon’s direction. Of Kelly, there was no sign. He had to assume he was alone.
He prowled farther into the dark forest with only his padded footfalls and quickened pulse for company. Alone, the darkness was oppressive. Shadows covered everything. Bushes were black smears, tree trunks were dark spires, the ground was a matte carpet. The assassin could simply lie down on the forest floor and Marcus would walk right over him without knowing it. Any moment now, a powerful hand would tug his head back and slice a grin in his throat.
Marcus rubbed his neck as an imaginary pain flared up.
Twigs rustled.
He very nearly froze then, but he fought through the indecision in an instant and sprang forward, sword already coming down, a wordless cry on his lips. The blade bit through the bush in front of him before burying itself in the earth, sending dirt and leaves flying. A hare darted out of its broken shelter and fled in panic.
Marcus almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the moment—but in that same moment, a dark figure rose up from behind the bush. It stumbled, caught on something, and began staggering off in the opposite direction.
“Here!” shouted Marcus. “Over here!” He cut around the bush and gave chase. The assassin wasn’t more than ten yards ahead of him, and he was running with everything he had. He wove between tree trunks and hopped bushes, half-tripping in his haste to get away. There was a stubby sword in his hand; no sign of the crossbow. Each time he glanced over his shoulder, Marcus heard panicked gasps for breath.
Some assassin, he thought, but he wasn’t having such a great time of it, himself. There was an uprooted bush clinging to one ankle; his cheeks were scored from low-hanging branches that the gamekeeper and his assistants had missed. He tripped over a jutting root, swore, but just managed to right himself and keep going.
“Here! Ahead of me! Head him off!” he yelled, bludgeoning a branch aside. He heard a faint affirmative from Kelly. Of Vernon, there was no sign. His wheezing oaths had faded some time ago. “Damnit, Gail,” he panted. Just where had the man gotten off to?
Without warning, Marcus burst into a clearing. It was a small space, barely illuminated by the dying sunlight. There were clumps of matted grass scattered about where deer had made their beds. At the far side of the clearing stood his quarry.
He was in no way remarkable. He had dark, tousled hair; a round, almost boyish face pocked with old acne scars; and an average build clothed in peasant’s brown.
“You dropped your crossbow,” Marcus pointed out with a careless toss of his sword point.
The man’s looked around frantically. There were bleeding cuts all over his face and hands, the result of his run-in with the wall of thorn bushes behind him. He brandished his shortsword at Marcus. “Stay back!” he cried in a common drawl.
Marcus took a step forward. “That blade won’t do you any good. Drop it.”
The man’s sword trembled. He abruptly made a dash for the woods—from which Gail promptly emerged, looking more than a little miffed. “You aren’t going anywhere, fucker.”
The assassin swallowed as he backed away, his sweat mingling with his blood. He was visibly quivering. He looked back at the space to Marcus’s side, the only escape remaining to him. Marcus hoped he opted for it; Kelly was almost certainly waiting for him there, ready to disarm and subdue him.
He and Gail tightened the snare with a step forward.
And the assassin tumbled to the earth—straight onto his upended blade.
“No!”
Gail quickly knelt and rolled the man over. His eyes bulged, his lips were pulled back in a horrible grimace as he clutched the sword embedded to the hilt in his innards.
Marcus had worked with blades all his life, but he’d never seen one put to its true practice. It was a terrible sight. The wound looked almost like sliced leather—except for the blood. It gushed out of the rent in the man’s skin to coat his hands and soak his clothes, dripping onto the grass. His sweat-glossed skin was already acquiring a waxen pallor as he became less a man and more a corpse. There was yellow bile at the corners of his mouth. With every exhaled breath, blood foamed out of his mouth and nose.
Gail shook his head. “He’s a goner.”
Marcus considered the dying man with something approaching pity. “You don’t have much time left. Do some good with it, man. Tell me who put you up to this.”
His eyes flickered at him, filled with agony. His mouth moved silently, but no words came out—just blood and vomit, leaking in yellow rivulets down his cheeks. Then, with a final wretched gasp, his body slackened and went still.
Gail stood up, sheathing his sword. Even with the blood glistening on his hands and the half-gutted corpse cooling at his feet, he was as collected as ever—same scowl, same dead grey eyes. Once, he had found a fly in the dregs of his mug, and he had looked more upset than he did now. “You hurt, your highness?”
Marcus shook his head robotically. He felt hollow, just as he had when he’d watched his mother die. “Bastard killed my horse.”
“Good horse, Morin,” said Gail with a nod. He steered Marcus away, squeezing his shoulder. He knew what was going through his young charge’s head, but he wasn’t going to say it aloud.
Despite the nausea, Marcus appreciated it.
Bushes rustled ahead. The two of them had their swords half-drawn again before Vernon tumbled out of the woods. His face was bleeding, his hair was all askew, and his fine shirt was dirt-streaked and torn. “Fucking Ancel, man, is it fucking dark in there!”
Both Gail and Kelly rounded on him. “Fucking who, now?”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Vernon was suddenly morose, having forgotten how very little chevaliers appreciated blasphemy against their Aspect. “Well, did you catch him or not?”
“Somewhat,” said Marcus. He gestured behind him.
Vernon caught sight of the corpse and turned green. “Shit. Nas—” He turned away just in time to puke at his feet. “Nasty,” he finished sheepishly. “You do that, mate?”
“No. He did.” He was still trying to wrap his head around that fact: that a man could fall on his own blade rather than break his silence.
They dragged the body out of the forest. They wrapped it in a blanket and threw it in the wagon. The deer was left to rot. Marcus made Jacquelyn cover her eyes the entire time. She asked the same question as Vernon—which made him wonder why his own friends thought him capable of murder. That troubling thought lingered as he rode home. He shared Jacquelyn’s saddle; her groin was planted comfortably against his rump, the scent of her hair filling his nose.
When the news spread the next morning, Ancellon would be in an uproar—an understandable reaction, given the head newly impaled above the North Gate. Maybe someone would recognize the assassin’s face and come forward, but in all likelihood, the people would just snicker and take bets on which eye the crows would gouge out first, and the man would remain forever anonymous. Regardless, there would be questions tomorrow. The Council of Highest would call an emergency meeting in the Sanctum, and they would pepper Marcus with questions for half the day before releasing him to the horde of gossip-hungry nobles lurking outside.
He thought about what Elessia’s lords would ask him, how he would reply, as he left Jacquelyn at her townhouse’s gate. Later on, safe in his own bed, he stared at the fireplace where the cryptic and now-prophetic letter’s ashes lay. He thought about secret tunnels filled with rusted swords. He thought about his mother—how she had warned him to watch everyone—and the gypsy woman who had told him to watch only himself.
He ruminated on all of it, and didn’t sleep.