CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The house was an empty shell. From where she stood on the dried-up yard, Josey could see into the interior, gutted and charred. Half the roof had collapsed. A shambles that had once been her home.

The parlor where her foster father had taught her to play the harpsichord was charred and ruined, all the furnishings gone. I wish he was here now. I could use his advice.

Josey touched her stomach through the heavy coat. A life was growing inside her. Soon it would be plain for all to see, and that would bring questions, for which she had no answers. She’d only ever been with two men, but either could have planted this seed within her. No! It is Caim’s child. Please, lords in heaven, let it be so.

A shadow came from around the back of the manor and slowly resolved into Master Hirsch. The adept stopped a score of paces away and turned toward the sagging arbor so he could pretend he wasn’t watching her. Josey leaned against a decorative fountain and squeezed her eyes shut. What kind of world am I delivering a child into? Violence stalks the streets of my city. If the riots can’t be quelled, I may be forced to flee for my life, for the second time. Is this how my mother felt before the revolution?

A horseman rode down the street and stopped at the gate where Captain Drathan kept vigil. The captain had been against her coming out so late, but Josey had overruled him. She needed to get away from the palace, which had begun to feel like a prison. Voices murmured, and then someone entered the yard. She was surprised to see it was Hubert. She’d left him in his office to work out the details of their Akeshian problem.

“Majesty,” he said as he approached. “I’ve just received word from the north.”

Josey’s stomach fluttered. “Word from Caim?”

“No, from the unit that was sent to the border. Colonel Restian reports that his company was attacked near Durenstile by brigands, or men disguised as brigands. There seems to be some uncertainty on the matter. But the colonel has retreated to the town to await reinforcements.”

Another horseman cantered up to the gate. Reinforcements? She didn’t have enough soldiers to keep the peace here in Othir. What could she do for Colonel Restian?

“How long can they hold out?”

“The town is well fortified,” Hubert answered. “But provisions will become a problem unless we establish a supply line.”

“Send a message to Duke Mormaer. Ask what aid he can send.”

“Mormaer may be reluctant to volunteer additional resources, having just sent a levy of troops to quell the problems in the west. Perhaps Count Dervest of Valia could be persuaded to help. I believe his wife is from one of the border provinces.”

“Ask them both. And draw up a list of other lords who have ties to the north. Maybe we can string together a coalition …”

Josey let the words fade away as Captain Drathan rushed across the dead grass, a hand clamped on the pommel of his sword. She couldn’t bear any more bad news. Her insides felt as delicate as spun glass.

The captain made a quick salute. “There is trouble on the Opuline, Majesty. Lord Farthington’s estate is under siege by a mob of rioters.”

Anastasia!

Josey fought to keep her voice from trembling. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Not that we’ve heard, but the crowd is sizable and determined. The estate will fall if something is not done.”

Josey headed for the gate. “Captain, assemble the guardsmen to meet us on the way to Opuline Hill.”

“Majesty, I don’t advise—”

“Do as I ask, or turn in your commission.”

He saluted and sprinted ahead of her, calling his men to arms. Josey was glad she’d worn her riding leathers as she shrugged off her bulky jacket. She thrust it into Hubert’s arms as he jogged to keep up.

“Majesty, this is a matter for the watch.”

“Then why aren’t they handling it?”

He grimaced. “I admit that may be a problem, but your friendship with the Lady Farthington is well known. This attack may be a trap meant to—”

“I’m going, Hubert.”

Hirsch appeared as Josey exited the gate. Her bodyguards waited, their weapons bared. The adept cleared his throat.

“Let me go ahead and check it out, lass. Before you ride out all hot and bothered.”

Josey shot him a look that must have been fierce, because it shut him up without further comment. Hubert opened his mouth.

She held up a finger. “Don’t say it.”

“I’m going with you.”

Josey paused. She could see the vehemence in his gaze. “I—I’m flattered, Lord Chancellor, but perhaps you should return to the palace. I believe Captain Drathan can handle my protection.”

“Majesty, I insist.” He stammered when she arched an eyebrow. “I mean, please allow me to go.”

Josey turned toward the horses. “All right, Hubert. But we must leave at once.”

Captain Drathan waited with a pair of soldiers in battered scale armor.

“We’re ready, Majesty,” the captain said. “I sent word to strip every man-at-arms from their post. These are the men who brought the message. Major Volek and Sergeant Merts. They recently arrived from Mecantia.”

One of the soldiers was quite large, bigger even than Markus had been, while the other was only an inch or two taller than she was. Both had firm, deep-set eyes that reminded her of Caim. Hard men. Not the kind to disintegrate under pressure. Each had a sigil of a jungle cat in red enamel stamped over their hearts.

“I don’t recognize your insignia,” Josey said.

“We’re Crimson Tigers, ma’am,” the sergeant said. “Army special tactics and reconnaissance.”

“We would like to ride with you, Majesty,” the major said. “If you’ll have us.”

“Fine,” Josey said. “Now let’s go.”

A trooper stood ready with her steed. Just the sight of the magnificent gray stallion made her blood quicken. True to his name, Lightning had required every ounce of her skill to manage on their short rides around the palace grounds. Now she would see if she had truly mastered him. Stepping onto the box provided, she slid into the high-cantled saddle. As soon as her toes touched the stirrups, the stallion jerked sideways.

“Easy, big boy,” she whispered. “Don’t make me regret this.”

She settled into the seat as the soldier handed up the reins. The stallion’s ears twitched, but he stopped fidgeting. With the captain leading, they rode down the Esquiline’s broad avenues to the base of the hill, where they met the rest of her bodyguards. Josey looked over them. Three score men, but they looked pitifully few for the task. Major Volek and Sergeant Merts sat apart on tall, broad-chested warhorses.

Captain Drathan approached her. “At your order, Majesty.”

“Ride, Captain. And let nothing stop us.”

At his command, the soldiers filed past the rows of darkened homes. Josey was afforded a place in their center. Hirsch, his face hidden within the hood of his cloak, rode on one side of her, and Hubert on the other. The Crimson Tigers followed behind. When Josey glanced over her shoulder, Major Volek winked through the slit of his lowered visor.

The streets resounded with the noise of the company, the horses’ steel shoes ringing against the hard stones like a continuous peal of thunder. The forward riders galloped ahead to clear a path, even though the streets were empty. Here, where the feet of the five hills of Othir met, the palaces of venerable noble families lined wide boulevards. Beyond the walls surrounding the manors they passed, Josey caught glimpses of expansive gardens and parks. The city has two faces. This one is like a beautiful dream. And the other, torn by violence and pillage, is a nightmare. Can they ever be reconciled? She didn’t know, and that apprehension created a cold lump in her chest.

The company passed through a string of plazas. As they passed through the largest, the Pleazzo, with its quartet of famous Sighing Fountains splashing in the empty silence, Josey’s thoughts went to the emperors who had ruled this city before her. History spoke of the hardships they had faced. Would the line end with her? It was a daunting thought.

They rode out of the Pleazzo and up the Opuline Way. Refuse filled the street. Broken windows watched their passage with jagged stares. A boutique specializing in ladies’ hats had been gutted; wreaths of smoke rose from its blackened remains. With a start, Josey recognized the store. She had bought a hat here just months ago, but it seemed like an eternity. That was the day she had met Hubert for the first time, the day her life had changed forever. Josey looked up at the skyline. The hill rose steeply for several blocks before leveling off in a rounded plateau, its summit occupied by gate-lined avenues and haughty manors. When High Town was first built, the richest families had settled here on the Opuline, which offered the best views of the countryside beyond the city’s walls.

As Captain Drathan led the company up the boulevard, a wild susurrus filled the air. Josey stood up in her stirrups to see over the shoulders of her guards. Clouds of black smoke blanketed the hilltop. Hubert and then Hirsch urged their steeds ahead, and Major Volek and Sergeant Merts came up on either side of her. She tried to make eye contact with the soldiers, but both men’s gazes were focused on the streets, the rooftops, the alleyways. Just like Caim.

She remembered watching Caim sleep in their room at Madam Sanya’s brothel, how he had tossed and twitched like a man possessed by horrible nightmares. She longed to feel his strong arms around her.

A wail snapped Josey’s attention toward the front of the company. Grand mansions clad in marble and granite rose along the avenue. Household guards congregated behind their stout gates, but so far these manors looked to have escaped the wrath of the rioters. The smoke lay farther up. The pall lay thickest ahead, where a massive statue marked the center of Torvelli Square. Fear wrapped its iron fingers around Josey’s throat as the vanguard of her soldiers accelerated into a canter.

Josey could see Anastasia’s home now. A mob of people surrounded its stone walls; the iron gates heaved back and forth under their press. As she watched, a burning torch sailed over the wall and struck somewhere inside. A moment later, another pillar of smoke added to the haze surrounding the house. At Captain Drathan’s command, the company halted a hundred paces from the mob. He turned in his saddle to look back at her. She barely caught his words over the din.

“What are your orders?”

Josey squeezed the reins in her hands until she thought her fingers might break. They had come this far, but now she didn’t know what to do. If she unleashed her soldiers, people would die. Her people. But if she held back, Anastasia’s family might be killed. Josey searched for a bloodless solution, but after several heartbeats of observing the fury of the mob as it attacked the manor gates she understood the truth: there was no peaceful resolution. She had to decide whether to act and be responsible for the deaths that occurred, or do nothing. Hubert met her gaze; there was anguish in his eyes, which shocked her a little. She’d had no idea he felt so strongly. Still, the choice was hers.

The power over life and death. That is rulership. I’ve never wanted anything to do with it, but here I am.

Josey pointed forward. “Advance, Captain! If any oppose you”—she took a deep breath and let it out in a silent gasp—“do what must be done.”

With a nod, the captain closed his visor and led the soldiers forward. At the first contact with the mob, Josey tried to steel herself, but the screams and shouts that filled the avenue sliced through her defenses. One hand placed over her belly, she flinched with every blow that landed. Her blood cooled with every body that fell to the ground until her insides felt frozen. But with the cold came detachment.

“Caution, lass,” Hirsch whispered at her ear.

Josey nodded, but in her heart she knew there was no such thing. Caim had taught her that. She pictured him beside her now, his mouth twisted into a cocky smirk. The image banished her fears. No caution and no fear.

Using her knees, she pressed her steed to follow the soldiers into the swirling melee.

It seemed like days had passed, or perhaps weeks, but in truth the sun’s glow through the clouds had hardly moved across the dreary sky by the time they won through to the gates.

Josey, surrounded by five blood-spattered men including Major Volek, sat astride her horse as her bodyguards cordoned off the area around the manor entrance. One of the iron gates had crashed inward; the other stood as a mute observer to the morning’s repugnant events. Seven of her soldiers lay dead upon the clay bricks. More than forty citizens were sprawled beside them, their limbs arranged in a mockery of sleep. Josey wiped a hand across her face to hide the wetness gathering in her eyes.

The fighting had been fierce from the onset. One moment her guardsmen were advancing at a steady trot; the next moment the mob turned as if united by a single brain and swarmed. Inside her cocoon of protectors, Josey was afforded the opportunity to watch her bodyguards in action. They remained cool and professional even when the orderly action devolved into sheer butchery. The citizens were armed with clubs and bottles, but soon after the first flush of battle, a group of better-armed men emerged from the crowd, and Josey glimpsed the gleam of mail armor under bulky robes as the mob moved to engulf her position. If not for the ferocity of her bodyguards as well as the relentless efforts of the two Tigers, they would have been pulled under the tide of bodies. In the end, it had not been Volek and Merts or even Captain Drathan who turned the tide, but Master Hirsch, and not in the brutal manner she would have imagined.

As the crowd pressed in around them, with missiles flying over their heads, the adept had inexplicably urged his steed past the ring of soldiers and into the press. Josey was so shocked she couldn’t even shout for him to stop. At any moment she expected to see the adept dragged from his saddle or spitted on a pike, but Hirsch tore through the crowd like a hound through a flock of geese. Wherever he rode, people fell back in terror. Josey didn’t understand until the adept turned so that she could get a glimpse of his face. It was horribly changed. Instead of his normal features, a demon’s visage—gleaming like ruddy brass, eyes glowing, smoke pouring from his gaping nostrils—lurked beneath the brim of his hood. His steed’s eyes, too, gleamed like burning coals. The combination of coordinated tactics and sorcery proved too much for the citizens, who broke away by ones and two, and then in greater numbers. Josey wished speed to their footsteps.

Finally, with the battle done and the most immediate wounds tended, Captain Drathan rode up to Josey. The commander sat straight in his saddle, but his eyes showed the toll this action had taken. She started to congratulate him but stayed her tongue. No, accolades would only twist the knife that has been struck in this man’s heart. He has done his duty—may the Gods bless and forgive him—and that must be enough. For both of us.

The captain saluted. “The gate is secure, Majesty, but I suggest we move inside the walls. There is still a danger of counterattack if the enemy is able to regroup.”

Enemy.

The word pierced Josey’s breast. She didn’t let it show.

“Very good. Move your men inside.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “And do whatever you call it to make sure the manor is safe.”

Captain Drathan’s helmet dipped. Turning his mount, he shouted, “Second and third teams, set up a defensive position inside the gate. Fourth team, sweep the grounds. First team, prepare to breach the house.”

Josey swallowed at the harshness of the words, but at least her nerves had settled. A little. Or perhaps she was in shock. Her hands felt like lumps of cold iron inside their gloves as they gripped the reins.

Major Volek approached, leading his horse. Both man and beast were covered with blood, and worse. The major had removed his helmet. His sandy hair was matted with sweat. He was younger than she expected, perhaps in his middle thirties.

“Shall we accompany you inside, Majesty?”

She pulled the reins to turn her horse; the beast obeyed without any trouble. Almost as if he feels my pain and understands.

“Where is Master Hirsch?” she asked.

The major pointed down the street. “I saw him just a moment ago. Shall I retrieve him for Your Majesty?”

Josey gazed across the expanse of bloodied bricks and the bodies scattered upon them. “No, Major. Thank you. Proceed.”

Sergeant Merts appeared from somewhere. He and Major Volek led her through the manor’s broken gates. The courtyard was a mess. Garbage lay scattered across the lawn; parts of the shrubbery were blackened from fire. Soot streaked the house’s façade, and a few of the windows were broken, but it appeared as if the structure had avoided significant damage.

Hubert beat them to the entry, jumping down from his steed with sword in hand. Sliding out of the saddle, Josey hurried up the short flight of steps, the soldiers just behind. The large door opened, and a man-at-arms in leather armor moved aside. As she entered the atrium, Josey started for the double staircase, but a choking sob brought her to a halt. They turned to the parlor, Hubert leading the way. Josey had to run to keep up.

Anastasia was inside. And alive, thanks the heavens! She sat on the same couch where Josey had poured out her heart on a cool autumn day that felt like forever ago, but she was not alone. On her lap lay the white-haired head of an old man, his eyes closed. He wore an antique military uniform from the days of the old empire. The folds of the jacket seemed to swallow him, the pants billowing around his legs. Hubert stood beside the couch, arms at his sides. The only sounds were the dripping of the water-clock on the mantelpiece punctuated by Anastasia’s sobs. Her friend glanced up, and the heart-wrenching look in her eyes stole Josey’s breath away.

“’Stasia,” she whispered.

She knelt beside the couch and buried her face into Anastasia’s shoulder, both of them crying. Words tumbled into her ears, but it was a long time before she could make them out.

“I’m sorry,” Anastasia mumbled again and again. “So sorry, Josey.”

Josey lifted her head from the sodden patch she had made on Anastasia’s sleeve. “Hush, hush. Don’t say another word. There is nothing to be sorry for—”

“I held it against you, Josey.” Anastasia drew in a ragged breath. “I held Markus’s death against you. I didn’t mean to. I know he wasn’t the man I thought he was, but I loved him, Josey. I really did.”

Josey touched her friend’s cheek. “I know you did. And I don’t blame you for a moment.”

Anastasia smiled, but it was a smile tinged with melancholy. “When they started throwing things at the house, father’s heart couldn’t stand the strain.” She smoothed the front of his jacket. “He hasn’t worn this old thing since I was a little girl. I didn’t even know he still had it. Doesn’t he look handsome?”

“Very handsome,” Josey said, her throat thick with emotion.

In her mind she saw her foster father, the earl, sitting in his bedchamber with a gaping hole in his chest. She wrapped her fingers around Anastasia’s hand, needing to feel that warmth.

“I promise he’ll have a hero’s funeral. But you must come back with us to the palace. It isn’t safe here anymore.”

Tears ran down Anastasia’s face as she gazed down at her departed father and nodded. Relieved, Josey looked up to Hubert.

“Tell the staff to prepare for the move. Quickly, before the mob returns.”

With a firm nod, Hubert hurried out of the room. There had been an expression on his face when she glanced up, a look of sorrow she wouldn’t have expected from him. He returned moments later with a troubled frown.

“Majesty, I think you had better see this. It’s Master Hirsch.”

Josey got up and followed him out of the house, to where a squad of bodyguards waited. At a gesture from Hubert, they led the way back to the street. Josey glanced at Hubert, but he said nothing until they turned down the alleyway running alongside the mansion. Two soldiers standing in the narrow lane made smart salutes. Sergeant Merts sat beside them, holding a bloody rag to his side. The other man was partially covered by a muddy cloak. As Josey approached, she saw it was the adept. She pushed through the press of guards to get to him. Hirsch was on his back, eyes closed. His face was such a pale shade for his normally bronzed skin, she thought he was dead. She braced herself as she knelt down and started to lift the cloak, but the adept took a shuddering breath.

“He’s alive!”

Hubert eased her to her feet. “Yes, but perhaps not for much longer.”

“What happened?”

Sergeant Merts shook his head. “I saw him come down this way, following someone maybe, but when I got here he was on the ground. Looks like someone struck him from behind.”

Josey looked down the alleyway. “All right. I want everyone mounted up and ready to leave in ten minutes. Understood, Lord Vassili?”

Josey left with her escort as Hubert called for stretchers to be fashioned. She was beyond tired. She wanted to collapse where she stood. Instead, she steeled herself and headed back to the mansion, to her friend, and to all the problems piling at her feet.

Brilliant light flashed in the oriels high above the great hall, casting stark shadows across the walls as Sybelle lay upon her back, one bare foot resting on the leg of the throne. The thunder soothed her nerves. Distant shouts and occasional screams whispered in the stone beneath her head. She smiled at her lover.

Erric, my love. So strong. So handsome. Why don’t you smile for me?

She sat up with a pout, and then the memory crashed down upon her. He was dead, and she was alone. She’d been alone as long as she could remember, growing up in a palace of cold black ice where no one ever sang or cried, in her father’s court where she’d been expected to play the role of the silent princess. Everyone abandoned her eventually. Just like Erric.

When a voice in her head whispered that the Duke of Liovard had not left her, that she herself had slain him, she clawed it to pieces and tossed it to the winds. She would never harm her sweet love. She had brought him to this chamber where they often sat in state together. He even had an audience—palace servants, rebellious prisoners, and even her son’s Northmen. The power of their blood thrummed in her arteries as their dripping heads orbited around the throne on sorcerous tethers. She did not know how much time had passed save that the torches around the room had gone out. The shadow play on her lover’s face gave the illusion of life. She could almost believe …

Sybelle crawled up the throne and climbed onto Erric’s lap. Ignoring the strange way his legs shifted beneath her, she caressed his face. His whiskers tickled her palm. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his mouth. Though his flesh was cool, there was fire enough inside her for both of them. Tears ran down her cheeks and into her mouth.

Sybelle did not notice the pressure in her chest until the pain was almost overwhelming. She looked around to see the shadows of the chamber oozing forth, gathering in the center of the floor. They spun in a spiral, faster and faster, until a hole formed in the air. Her blood chilled. With Erric and Soloroth dead, there was only one who would contact her.

She slid down from the throne as a figure appeared in the window. Her lord and father, seated on his basalt throne. His stern voice seized hold of her heart.

“Sybelle. You have not made contact in days. Tell me why.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “Great lord, my son, Soloroth—your grandson—is dead.”

The image blurred, and Sybelle realized she was crying, something she hadn’t done since she was a child. It was a strange sensation, almost like rage but wrapped around a core of hopelessness.

“Compose yourself and tell me whom you allowed to slay your progeny.”

“The scion, Lord.”

There was a long silence before he spoke. “Why have you not told me of him before? I am disappointed in you, Sybelle.”

She bowed her head, fighting back a sob. “I had no choice. I knew your lordship would intervene.”

“You were correct. I would have taken steps. Perhaps I could have prevented this. But now I leave it to you. Eliminate this threat to our plans, Sybelle.” His face loomed larger, his refined features daubed in shadow and starlight. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my lord.”

As the aperture darkened, the pressure lifted from her chest, but the intoxicating tang of sorcery remained in the air. The shadows continued to spin, extending outward with dark tentacles until they formed a circle of darkness ten paces across. Sybelle stepped back as figures emerged from the gateway, six warriors encased in suits of dark armor. She knew them on sight. The Talons were her father’s personal cadre of assassins. Said to feel no pain and no emotion, they were completely loyal to the Lord of Shadow. The last time she had been in their presence was nearly two decades ago, when a squad had accompanied her and Levictus on the night they retrieved her sister from the mud-lord’s estate.

Sybelle trembled as the portal snapped shut, and the mordant wind of its closure ruffled her hair. The Talons watched her, their eyes impenetrable behind black steely masks. One came forward. He did not bow or acknowledge her, but merely held her gaze. She frowned, but he could have been carved from obsidian for all he reacted.

“What are your orders?” she asked.

“To serve the daughter of House Tenebrae.”

A warm sensation ebbed in her stomach as she considered the one desire that lay tantamount in her mind: to track down and kill the scion.

The lead Talon turned his head to the side. “Intruders have entered this structure.”

Sybelle stretched out her senses through the stone walls. At the entrance she tasted coppery blood and the sweet savor of death. With a smile, she flicked her fingers. The Talons melded into the darkness, leaving her once again alone. Soon her son’s murderer would pay for his crimes. And then there would be nothing and no one to stop her.

Smiling, Sybelle sauntered back to her lover.