Flametouched

By Brian K. Fuller

FLAMETOUCHED

Copyright © 2016 by Brian K. Fuller

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

First Edition

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A big thanks to those picture books

of sabertooth tigers I flipped through as a kid and

to Jane Austen’s novels I read in college.

The wild and the civilized – always better

together.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Prologue

The voice only he could hear started teaching him when he was just a boy. While much of the instruction whispered to him over the years jumbled about in his memory, the first lesson, the very first step in a journey nearing its completion, he would never forget.

He had just lifted one of the flat, gray slate stones in the field of one of his father’s tenants. Four Peacock beetles scrambled around in the depression, sunlight accenting the delicate purple and green lines on the bulbous carapace of their bodies. Each beetle was the size of a man’s thumb with spindly, barbed legs and long antennae flailing in confusion, fumbling to understand the strange change in light and pressure.

The soft pricks of the tiny legs didn’t bother a boy like him, though he knew his sister wouldn’t feel the same. Carefully he pinched a beetle between his thumb and forefinger and held it up to the sun to get a better look at the purple and green patterns on its back, the lustrous sheen shimmering wherever the sun struck it.

He placed the insect in his palm and it circled about, antennae tickling his skin, probing where it might go to escape its confinement. He remembered thinking that a few of the little creatures in his sister’s bed would frighten her into enough screaming and yelling to deserve a whipping. Father had made it clear that at all times his children were to control themselves and be civilized, beetles or no.

After he had admired the beauty of the Peacock beetle a few moments more, the steady, whispering voice spoke for the first time.

Crush it.

It should have surprised him more, but it almost seemed a part of him, a silent partner that had finally decided to speak up. Oddly, he couldn’t recall any effort to disagree or even an attempt to think at all. Perhaps it was because the Voice sounded like his own, though it clearly wasn’t his mind or his ideas.

So without a second thought, he took the thumb of his other hand and ground the beetle into his palm, its pus-like innards popping all over his skin and spattering onto his clothes, mixing with the shattered fragments of its delicate shell. The beauty had fled, replaced by a sloppy goo that was, even to his boyish mind, ugly and revolting. He felt a sense of loss, a wrongness, as if something good had gone.

It is only a beetle. Your emotions blind you to its insignificance. Crush another.

He pulled another beetle from the depression, this time squeezing his victim between his finger and thumb until it exploded. The antennae continued to wiggle for some time afterward. Odd.

Another.

Soon he had exhausted his supply of Peacock beetles, and by the end of a day spent pulling up slate and destroying the creatures, the sense of loss he had initially felt was gone, too. By the end of that week he had massacred more beetles than he could count. He chopped them in half with knives, pulled their legs off, threw them on hot coals, smeared them into rocks, lined them up and jumped on them one by one, and on and on in an endless and macabre roll.

Of course, all was done in secret beyond the watchful gaze of everyone. The Voice insisted on secrecy. The lesson was a gift for him alone. He was special. So when it told him to poke the eyes out of a fish, he did it. When it told him to maim a rabbit and throw rocks at it until it was dead, he did it. When it told him to pull the wings off screaming baby birds and feed them to the dogs, he did it. Sometimes it took days, sometimes months, but the Voice showed him again and again that he need not feel any remorse for these acts of destruction. Death was a part of life. Feeling sad or guilty for causing it was nonsense.

Gutting the family dog when he was fifteen set him back in his progress. Its yelps of surprised pain struck an odd nerve within him. The Voice berated him for his guilty feelings and he felt ashamed. It took two more dogs and one of the hunting hounds before he could slaughter them with equanimity. His father believed a sabercat hunting in the area had done the deeds and had even set out to track it down. The father invited his son along on the expedition, but the son declined so he could go to the reeds by the pond and stomp on duck eggs.

Of course, he kept up pretenses. Luckily, this took little work. His father punished his sister for her exaggerated weeping and moaning over the dog. The sister sought comfort from the brother and he gave it. She did not have his understanding, after all, and was to be pitied. She did not comprehend the fundamental impermanence of everything, the power of working with death rather than running from it. She held on to her hope in the Eternal Flame, an undying relic of the past. She didn’t understand that it, too, could end. The Voice told him so. It promised to show him how to do it.

When he married, the Voice’s lessons helped him rid himself of his new bride’s annoying pet bird. It was pure white, large, and loud the whole day long. He bashed its head against a rock until it shut up and then gutted and de-feathered it. His cooks had no idea what it was when he brought it to them and had them baste it in butter and serve it as part of dinner. He wanted to laugh as his weepy, whining wife bemoaned her escaped bird while she washed it down with red wine. The Voice chastised him for his mirth. Just as there should be no pain in death, there should be no pleasure, either. All life came to an end, and it didn’t matter at all.

His regret returned when he smothered his first born child, a delicate boy. Again the Voice scolded him and steeled his mind and heart with its stoic inculcations. It required the murder his second born as proof that he had absorbed the lesson. The second child, a girl, was born when winter and the Wasting Wind beat against the house. After he had smothered her cries, he blamed a servant for leaving the window in the nursery open. His family considered him merciful when he refused to seek any sort of revenge upon the frightened, defensive maid. The Voice didn’t require her life, and he rarely took the initiative without its prompting.

And so, when four years ago he had attended court in Bellshire, the capital of his nation, Bittermarch, the rhetoric of Ambassador Clout from the nation of Creetis—long antagonistic toward Bittermarch—struck a chord within him. The ambassador claimed the Eternal Flame nothing more than a parlor trick meant to help keep the House of Light in power and to lend the Queen a tool for controlling the people. She claimed the Flame genuine and unquenchable.

The Voice knew the truth. Everything ended. Everything. The Eternal Flame was no trick, but it could be killed just as readily as a beetle or a bird or a dog or a baby. So he went to the Ambassador and told him so, confirming the man’s carefully reasoned arguments with half-truths he knew he would find attractive. He had an ally.

But the time for the quenching had not come—yet. It took years to set his pieces on the game board and manipulate the already treasonous leanings of some of his peers. He never told them the truth of his purpose, of course. He had relied on seductive arguments that made the nobility feel cheated and less important than others. This was easily done as they seemed almost eager to feel slighted and exact revenge against their perceived oppressors.

The long wait for the final act was nearly over. Ambassador Clout of Creetis moved quickly now. His countrymen starved and he needed to find a way to take some of Bittermarch’s prosperity from them. The Voice had started to speak more frequently as the conspiracy prepared to bear fruit. He killed more. He understood the world more. He felt less, as was proper.

The unlearned and the ignorant would consider his actions a crime, his aims a heresy. The real crime was that no one understood but him. But when the Eternal Flame was quenched, when the eternal and unending became mortal and extinguished, the instruction for all would begin. He would make them understand. There was nothing on which one could rely for comfort or hope. Acceptance of the fickle, deadly world just as it was led to true enlightenment and peace. The Creetisians understood this better than Bittermarchians, but even they had not truly grasped it. The Voice had elevated him to teacher, and his lessons would come swiftly.

Chapter 1

Baron Davon Carver braced himself against a solitary oak, long rifle jammed firmly against his shoulder. Hunting sabercats near the edge of the White Waste in autumn was sheer folly; hunting them alone was stupidity incarnate. A hunter got one shot and one shot only against the agile beasts that ruled the Waste. They feared nothing and had in ages past developed a taste for human blood.

Experience was Davon’s only ally, and he hadn’t paid it much heed today. If his shot missed the furtive animal that lurked somewhere in the tall grass ahead of him he would have no time to fish another bullet from his bag and slide it into the breech loader for a second attempt. The sabercat would simply run him down and tear him apart.

Keeping one hand on the rifle, he removed his finger from the trigger and scratched an itch on his neck, another foolish thing to do. Sun and wind had tanned and weathered his skin during his frequent trips into the wild. His dark complexion made him, perhaps, the swarthiest Lord in all the peerage of Bittermarch, weathered face aging a twenty-eight year old into something that looked a few years older.

Standing in the cold, the first flurries of the season trickling down from a moody sky, he knew he was taking horrible chances with his life, but the knowledge had no power over his heart—he simply didn’t care. He wouldn’t have even hunted near the chill of the White Waste so close to winter if his marriage hadn’t turned his home into something far colder than the numbing breeze from the south that pushed his scent straight toward the sabercat.

His quarry was concealed in the long grasses of the rolling, northern plains that had all bent down, brown and brittle, in forced submission to the autumn cold that had stripped them of color and strength. He knew it was out there. Davon had waited for nearly fifteen minutes for it to emerge, the waning day getting darker and colder along with his thoughts.

At any time the sabercat could spring and use its massive, razor-sharp teeth to tear his flesh and sever his arteries until he bled out. Violent thoughts of his own brutal demise on an unforgiving plain miles from anyone failed to raise any sense of caution within him. He shook his head. Was death really preferable to going home to her cold, passionless expression?

“Good evening, Lady Carver,” he would say upon his return.

“Good evening, my Lord,” she would reply, gaze fixed through the drawing room windows to the woods near Frostbourne, a place she hated almost as much as she hated him. “Did you manage to kill anything?”

“No, but I was nearly gored to death by a sabercat this afternoon,” he might say.

“Hmmm,” she would hum in reply, not really paying attention.

How had it all gone so wrong? He had surprised her with musicians all the way from Bellshire. He had invited her obnoxious sister and her husband to lodge with them for the summer. He had brought her flowers, written her notes, complimented her incessantly, taken her on trips to every large town within a week’s distance so she could shop for the latest fashions. All he got in return was a steadily more practiced smile and an increasingly trite, “Thank you, my Lord.” He had even tried to pen a poem. A poem!

And there was no way out. While he had grounds to divorce her, he wouldn’t do it. Hadn’t he disastrously defended her honor while they were engaged? Divorcing her now on moral grounds would make no sense and sully her name forever. He refused to take the advice of his longtime steward, Saunders, and do what every other Lord did—take a mistress and be done with it. He did not want to hurt her. He did want her to love him, but she refused to engage him and nothing he had done changed her feelings.

A rustle in the grass seventy-five yards ahead of him banished his tormenting thoughts for a moment, and he reaffixed the rifle butt to his shoulder. He hadn’t even realized he had relaxed his stance. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy! Did he want the sabercat to take him down and kill him?

Be calm. Stay focused, he thought to himself, trying to clear his head of Lady Carver.

The flurries had nearly thickened enough to be called snow. It was late in the day, and he needed to get home before the temperature plummeted. There was no leaving now, however. If he turned to head back to where he had staked out his horse in the protected enclosure, the sabercat would take him down in an instant. Either he killed the cat or the cat killed him.

And then it came.

The hungry predator exploded from its hiding place and tore at him like a fierce mountain gale. Ears pinned back, the tawny sabercat whipped through the grass, yellow eyes wide and focused, curved incisors dripping in anticipation of a fresh meal to pass a cold evening.

Davon sighted down the barrel and waited for the large carnivore to get close enough for a surer shot. The intervening grass complicated his aim. Fifty yards. Forty yards. At thirty yards he exhaled and squeezed the trigger, aiming just below the head where the sabercat’s heart beat furiously and air swelled its lungs. All he got was a harsh plink! and a wisp of black smoke from the barrel.

A misfire.

Instinct ordered him to retreat behind the wide bole of the bare oak tree, pull the knives he’d fashioned from the teeth of a sabercat he’d killed two months earlier, and hope against hope to do enough damage to scare it away. Running was pointless. Clearing the bad cartridge and reloading was too slow.

But instead of panic, a strange calm settled over him like a warm blanket and he dropped his rifle into the lifeless grass at his feet. He had made an amateur hunter’s mistake, and that mistake was the perfect excuse to bring his suffering to an end. Stepping out from behind the tree, he closed his eyes, extended his arms, and waited for the sabercat to send him to the warmth and light of the Eternal Flame.

Lady Carver would be free. He would be free, too.

On its first pass, the sabercat blasted him to the ground with a heavy hit to the midsection. He landed hard on his back in the dense grass, the impact evicting the air from his lungs. Again, instinct told him to move, to attempt to save his own life. Again, his heart and his will simply refused. In an instant, the sabercat returned. Davon kept his eyes closed, listening as it rustled the grass nearby and finally settled over him. Its hot breath warmed his chilled face, and the tips of its claws dug into his skin where a single paw compressed his chest and made it difficult to breathe. Where would it start to tear into him?

He waited. And waited. The sabercat’s breathing gradually slowed and Davon swallowed hard and kept his eyes squeezed shut. Playing dead did not work with sabercats. They would eat anything in times of feast or famine. The beast had to bulk up for the winter now or risk death itself, so why wasn’t it chewing him up or toying with him? He had seen a sabercat play a gruesome game with a pronghorn for nearly thirty minutes before puncturing its neck and ending it. Perhaps the cat was bored and hoping his lordly catch would provide some squirming entertainment before finishing him off.

Davon opened his eyes.

It stared unblinkingly at him, golden irises almost seeming to glow in the weakening light. Perhaps all it wants is acknowledgment, he thought. It had won. It wanted him to show it. Davon met the sabercat’s primitive, powerful gaze for an agony of time, wondering what it was waiting for. The longer the odd scene played itself out, the calmer Davon felt, at least until the sabercat lifted its head and bellowed into the wind, a horrible sound that chilled him to the bone. It turned its head toward him again, and with one powerful swipe of its claws cut three lines down the length of his sternum, shredding his shirt and slicing completely through the strap of his ammunition pouch.

Davon howled in pain. His hand reflexively clutched at the stinging wounds. Now I die. His mind seemed to detach from the scene around him and he closed his eyes again, hoping the sabercat would be quick. But the expected mutilation never came. The warm breath on his face was replaced by the cold breeze and the chill pricks of snowflakes on his skin. The grass rustled as the animal stepped away. Dumbfounded, he struggled to sit upright, opening his eyes to find the sabercat calmly padding back toward the White Waste, tail swishing back and forth.

What game is this?

Keeping one eye on the sabercat, he slumped against the oak and grabbed his gun, clearing the bad cartridge. He reloaded as quickly as he could. The snow fell thick now, and he knew he had to leave, but he feared moving might attract the sabercat’s notice again. So he waited.

Do I value my life again? he wondered bitterly.

He couldn’t keep his mind or his heart straight. But as he sat and listened to the breeze bend branch and grass, an odd idea trickled into his mind, a solution to his awful marriage inspired by what he had just experienced.

At first he dismissed the unorthodox, preposterous notion, but the more he turned it over in his head, the more he realized he could pull it off. And so, like the odd person whom long familiarity makes normal to us, the idea became more comfortable and more comforting the longer he considered it. He would have to sacrifice many things to accomplish his design, but nothing on the list did he count too dear if it meant freedom from unrelenting misery.

A blast of cold air reminded him he needed to move. He stumbled as he rose, the cuts on his chest searing him with pain. Dirty claw marks. Not deep, but painful and easily infected. Fortunately, Saunders could wash and mend the wounds, a skill from his infantry days.

As he jogged the mile back to his horse, he felt a bitter sting that his wife would be the last to care that he was late arriving home. Her indifference always hurt, but his newfound plan brought him a renewed sense of hope. At last he would give her the one gift she would utterly adore and never have to thank him for.

He would give her his death.

Chapter 2

Davon had to force himself to keep from rubbing the gashes on his chest. They itched and burned, and the steady, jostling rhythm of the horse seemed to inflame them with each hoofbeat forward. He opened his long hunting coat to let the chill breeze numb the discomfort on his chest, but he paid for it with shivers.

The way home to Frostbourne manor led him out of the wild and through the township of Canton, the warm lantern lights of its houses edging through the cracks in shutters. During his father’s wasteful tenure, Canton had nearly gone to ruin, but Davon had revived it once his father had died, even going so far as to plow and harvest with the common folk until they could prosper on their own.

As he passed the modest general store to his left, the door cracked open, Mr. Thewberry’s head poking through the opening, wild gray hair catching the breeze. He had suffered greatly during Frostbourne’s poverty, but Davon had persuaded him to stay on until the goods and the money started flowing again. It had cost the man much in prosperity and comfort, but for his sacrifices for Frostbourne, the Queen had recommended Mr. Thewberry for presentation to the Eternal Flame. He was now Flametouched, the only one in Frostbourne Davon knew of.

Davon nodded in his direction.

“Is that you, Milord?” Mr. Thewberry said, stepping out onto the porch in his bedclothes. “It’s right cold for an evening ride! Why don’t you come in and warm your blood with a little tea and brandy? It’s been a while since you visited, and little Jillie loves your stories.”

Jillie was his granddaughter, a bright girl barely up to his waist. She did love a story, and the tea and brandy sounded nice, but his wounds wouldn’t let him delay. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Thewberry,” Davon said, slowing up a little and angling the horse toward the house, “but I’ve urgent business at Frostbourne and must return without delay. Give Jillie my best.”

“May the Eternal Flame bless you, Sir,” Mr. Thewberry said, raising a hand in salute. Davon could just make out the tiny flame-shaped scar on the man’s palm and wondered if it had hurt when the Eternal Flame had branded him.

An icy breeze numbed Davon’s chest, goosebumps sprouting on his skin. The winter wouldn’t hold back for much longer. Frostbourne was a minor estate situated in the extreme northwest of the Kingdom, as far from the capital city of Bellshire as one could get and still claim citizenship in the country. Its northern locale meant cold and snow paid Frostbourne their unwelcome visits rather sooner than everywhere else, and, like bad company, left long after their welcome had worn off.

Once out of Canton, Davon crested a small hill, the lights burning in the windows of Frostbourne manor blooming into view. Just a little farther, dear Ceril, he mentally urged his horse. His manor house sat just outside the dark boughs of the spruce-filled Windhill forest and was surrounded by a wall the height of a man to keep out dire wolves, short-faced bears, and the occasional mammoth that sometimes ventured out of the wood hungry for an easy meal. Six mighty blue spruce trees obscured much of the outer architecture of Frostbourne from distant eyes—one of Lady Carver’s chief complaints after she had taken residence at the manor. It took Davon nearly two solid weeks of argument to convince her that the thick, needled branches shielded the house from the wicked blasts of the winter winds and that he would not cut them down under any circumstances.

Davon sighed as he neared his home. Was he really willing to give up everything for her? Give everything to her? Strangely, he felt ready to do just that. That his despair had so poisoned his soul that it had killed his attachment to Frostbourne surprised him, but then again, that same despair had murdered just about everything. His pride was gone. His hope for brighter days and simple joys was gone. His sense of humor was gone.

After he had rescued his estate, his marriage was to be, in his own mind, the crowning achievement in the recovery of Frostbourne, and when the marriage failed, the rest did as well by association. It was as if an artist had painted a masterpiece and smudged it with a final stroke.

Wolves deep within the spruce-covered hills bellowed a mournful call and Ceril whickered nervously.

“It’s all right, boy,” Davon soothed. “Look. We’re there.”

After dark, the front gate was shut and locked, but the warm light spilling out between the shutter slats of the guardhouse signaled that Carter had not yet retired. The glow from the guardhouse window played on the two tooled, copper flames set into the stonework on either side of the gate. Normally, Davon would unlock the gate with his own key, but he thought it best to move as little as possible until he was nearer someplace he could collapse.

He stopped at the gate and whistled, turning his eyes to the sky while he awaited the Gatekeeper’s service. The flurries and snow had quit almost as soon as he had mounted the nervous Ceril and headed home after the sabercat attack. The movement of the ragged clouds had slowed, gaping holes revealing a deep black sky sequined with brilliant stars.

The guardhouse door banged open, revealing Carter buttoning up his blue jacket over his white shirt and trousers. Davon grinned. Carter was the son of a local farmer and an utter rascal. His father, one of Davon’s tenants, had begged Davon to give Carter some position to help him throw off the child and take up the mantle of a man. Davon had never employed a gatekeeper, though most other Lords did. Frostbourne had no problems with theft and poaching, and there were simply never enough visitors to justify having someone sit in a house at the ready all day long.

But as Davon eyed the thin young man with the tousled blond hair and near permanent smirk, he thought the posting had changed him—a little. The eyes still held that boyish hint of trouble, and there were people in Canton who still hated the lad for his history of pranks and tricks. Davon thought the completely improvised uniform he had insisted Carter wear had affected the most change, though having the less than commodious guardhouse as his own had no doubt helped. A change of clothes and situation could work marvels; Davon’s newly hatched plan to free himself from his wife depended on that axiom.

“Startin’ to despair of you, Baron Carver,” Carter said as he inserted the key into the lock and eyed the horse. “Nothin’ jump in front of your gun today, eh, Milord?”

“My rifle wasn’t up to it today,” Davon said, guiding his horse forward as the gate opened. “Would you please run ahead and tell Saunders to meet me at the stables?”

“I will. No need for the please, though. You’re the Lord, remember?” Carter said, a customary admonition for his Lord when he was too polite. “Lady Frostbourne never says please. She understands the order of things.”

“Just fetch him, Carter.”

The lock clinked shut and the gatekeeper chuckled. “That’s more like it, Lord Carver. Much better.”

Carter sprinted off toward the house, and Davon set Ceril to a nice steady walk, taking it slow to allow Saunders time to arrive. The horse snorted, a cloud of breath shooting into the night. “Almost home, boy,” Davon said, patting his neck. He was going to have to give up his horse. That thought struck him like a falling tree; Ceril had been his constant companion for years.

The stable boy, Dantree, met him outside the stalls. He was a pudgy, twelve-year-old lad with a kind, round face.

“You all right, Milord?” he said as he grabbed the reins.

“I’ve had better days, Dantree. Is Saunders here?”

“Coming, Davon!” Saunders jogged as fast as his well-traveled bones would permit, buttoning his coat with knobby-knuckled hands. He had a bald pate with bushy sideburns running down into a full, gray beard. Davon’s aging steward was a transplant from the army where he had served as a supply officer and field medic. Too rough for the genteel houses of Bellshire, Davon found him a perfect fit for the wilder environs of Frostbourne, though Lady Carver could barely tolerate his outspoken and often irascible nature. Lord Carver found Saunders as frugal and farthing-hoarding as he himself had been during Frostbourne’s recovery. It had taken time, but Davon had trained enough of the military-mouthed man out of him to make him palatable to the rest of the house staff.

“Help me down, if you would, Saunders,” Lord Carver asked.

“Help you down? What’s wrong with you?” Saunders asked, face screwed up suspiciously. Davon opened his coat, revealing the blood soaked shirt. “Flame and flood!” he exclaimed, reaching up a hand. “Did you take a fall?”

“No, no,” Davon answered. “Get me inside. I’ll need stitching up.”

“I dare say so,” Saunders agreed, slinging Lord Carver’s arm over his shoulder. “Bloody fool you are. Hunting alone is like running into battle with a bloody broom! Not to mention that your huntmaster is starting to think you mean to let him go with all your trips without him this fall. Let’s get into the kitchen.”

Saunders lifted the latch to the door near the stables and pulled Lord Carver inside the house. Ian, the cook, stared wide-eyed as the steward dumped his charge in a chair. “Don’t stand around, Ian!” Saunders admonished. “Fetch Lord Carver a glass of wine. No. Bring the whole bottle. The good vintage. And get some water boiling!” He turned to Davon. “Let’s get that shirt off you and see what we’re dealing with here.”

Struggling out of the coat and shirt pulled and twisted the jagged tears in his flesh, breaking open the scabs and setting the blood funneling down his sternum to his belly.

“Those are good and ugly,” Saunders said. “Shall I fetch the Lady of the house so she can help minister to her Lord?” The last was said with enough sarcasm to cut through Lord Carver’s pain.

“Leave her be, Saunders. Leave her be. Let’s get this done as quickly as we can, please.”

Saunders harrumphed in disdain and deposited the soiled clothes on the table before cleaning the wounds. Ian returned later with the bottle and Lord Carver upturned it and drank deeply, wincing as Saunders daubed a cloth around the cuts. Ian stoked the embers in the stove and set fresh wood inside. “It’ll take a bit to get the water boiling,” he said, worriedly eying the gashes.

“It’s all right, Ian,” Saunders said. “We need the spirits to do their work on our reckless Lord here before we get to the stitching. I’ve got to go find the alcohol and a needle. Make sure he doesn’t fall out of the chair.”

Exhaustion, wine, and sitting still had dulled the pain enough to where he thought he might just pass out, but Saunders returned and renewed his painful ministrations, straightening him in his chair and elevating his mind above the fog.

First, his steward cleaned the gashes with a warm cloth from the water on the stove, which hurt plenty; but when he applied the alcohol, fire erupted on Davon’s chest and he nearly fainted. He wiped the tears from his eyes while Saunders patted his shoulder.

“Remember the pain, My Lord. It’s a good remedy against future bouts of stupidity.”

“Thank you, Saunders.”

The old man had taken the place of a father when Davon had hired him, adding the finishing touches to what the young Lord already knew about hunting, shooting, and fighting. What Saunders lacked in manners he more than made up for in practical wisdom. Leaving him would be hard, too.

“Another bottle of wine, Ian. Quick!” Saunders ordered. “He’s going to really remember this part, drunk or sober.”

Davon drank more while Saunders threaded the curved needle. This wasn’t the first time he’d been patched up by his steward after his scrapes in the wilderness, but it was by far the most extensively he had ever been sliced up.

“This was done by a sabercat, wasn’t it?” Saunders speculated.

“Yes.”

Saunders jabbed the needle in and pulled the thread through. “And how did you get your sorry arse out of that one alive, Milord?”

Davon repressed a yell as Saunders jabbed the needle in again. “Well, I—”

“Is that you, Lord Carver?” a voice said sweetly from behind him—Lady Carver sounding strangely happy. Davon craned his head around. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes on a letter in her hand. She perused it carefully.

Lady Emile Carver was a beautiful thing, though pain-watered eyes distorted his vision of her. Coppery hair, green eyes, tall, pale—everything men wanted. When they courted she had often worn bright colors, but now she sported one of her many loose-fitting gray dresses, a dull blue ribbon around her waist offering the only dab of color. Davon often thought she chose gray to indicate that she was half in mourning. Soon, Emile, you can exchange it for black.

“I’m home,” he said, voice strained as Saunders resumed his gory work.

“Well, good. We just received a letter this afternoon from the Tahbors inviting us to their Day of Farewell celebration. It’s to be an entire week long! Balls and parties and plays for seven days! Tell me we can go, Lord Carver. It could hardly be missed.”

“Of course we’ll go, Emile. We go every year.”

“Very good. I shall write to inform them of our acceptance immediately.” She walked away without further comment while Saunders stared angrily at her.

“For the love of the Flame!” he exclaimed incredulously. “You think she might notice that the steward is performing surgery on her husband in the kitchen! Your bloody shirt is sitting right bloody there!”

“My back was turned to her.”

“Your naked back,” Saunders said, jabbing the needle in angrily, making Davon wince. “I guess she assumes that you just walk into the kitchen and disrobe on a regular basis, then?”

“Careful, Saunders!”

“Sorry, Milord,” he apologized. “You defending her infuriates me so. If you had a proper wife she would be here kissing your neck and holding your hand and sitting by your side and passing prayers into the fire until you were properly recovered. That beast of a woman has no proper affection!”

“It’s never good to talk about spring days to men in the dungeon,” Davon mumbled dispiritedly.

“You could have all the spring days you wanted, Davon,” Saunders pressed, pausing his ministrations. “I know at least three women in Canton who would bathe you in sunshine and warm water until you couldn’t remember winter any more. Let me fetch one to care for you!”

He had heard all of this a hundred times before. The servants couldn’t understand and never would. To the world Emile was a proper woman who had married against her nature. He knew why she had married him now. Her previous indiscretions stung him, especially since they led him to kill Viscount Cornton of Hightower in anger to defend her pretended honor, widowing his beautiful, young wife. But still he ached for and loved Emile. Or maybe he just loved the idea of her he had formed when they courted. She had been so different then.

Another needle pull yanked him out of the past. Saunders and Ian were discussing women they thought would fit his needs.

“The Widow Merriweather is only a year or two, well, maybe five older than the Master,” Ian was saying. “She’s not as pretty as Lady Carver, but has a good disposition and has a melon garden I’d love to get lost in, if you take my meaning.”

Saunders nodded. “Not an entirely bad choice, but mark my words, she’d want back. The Master needs someone who just wants to give. Lord Carver has given enough of his soul to that sour wench.”

Davon’s hand shot out and grabbed Saunders wrist. “You watch your tongue, Saunders. No more about this mistress business and no more disrespect for Lady Carver. Do you understand me, old man?”

Saunders yanked his hand away with equal anger. “You’ve lost your senses if you think Lady Carver would care one way or the other!”

“I said leave it alone,” Davon slurred, the wine’s effects intensifying his exhaustion.

Saunders and Ian shared a glance and the steward resumed his bloody work to its completion without further comment. By the time the last stitch was closed and tied off, Davon’s vision swam. He remembered little of the assisted journey to his bedroom where he had slept alone for uncounted months.

Sleep would be but a temporary escape, but when he woke, he would put in place a more permanent escape for Lady Carver and for himself.

Chapter 3

The outside world intruded on Davon’s deep slumber slowly. A vague jumble of swirling voices told him that people were coming in and out of his room, though nothing of what they said reached his consciousness. He alternately felt warm and cold, but never to extremes that would impel him to shift himself or to fully awaken. The dark in-between was dreamless. He wanted to wake, for he had work to do, but for time unmeasured he could not muster the will to shake off his weakness and open his eyes.

When his body decided it had rested enough and wanted food, it forced his mind to comply. Two sensations came to him with his nascent consciousness: a bright light waited behind his closed lids, and a hand, soft and warm, gripped his. He worked his eyes open, everything a blur in the brilliant sunshine flooding through his bedroom window.

As he stirred, the hand released. He tried to roll to his side, his wife’s name upon his lips, but the dark hair and statuesque figure beside him evidenced that the woman watching over him was not Emile, but her Lady’s Maid, Orianna Moreshire. She was a pretty, sweet girl, but at eighteen still a girl in Davon’s eyes. Emile liked and took advantage of her obliging, affectionate personality.

“I’m sorry, Lord Carver,” she said, discerning his disappointment. “The Lady Carver is busy preparing the household for the trip to Tahbor. She asked me to look after you during your convalescence. How do you feel this morning?”

Dead. Exhausted. Resolved. He took stock of his body. He felt groggy, weak, and sweat soaked. The wounds on his chest itched and burned and he went to rub at them, but Orianna grabbed his hand and prevented him.

“Saunders was very severe with his instructions. You are not to worry at the wounds. You’ll rip the stitching. It’s an awful thing, my Lord, as painful an injury as I ever saw. We all passed prayers into the fire for you.”

Davon exhaled and let his hand go limp as his side. “Thank you. How long?”

“You slept the night before last, throughout the day yesterday, and all through the night. You had a bit of a fever last night, but a few cold compresses put you right. Saunders says you should be up and about soon.”

Asleep for a day and a half! He struggled to sit up against the pillows, Orianna arranging them for him. Eyes clearing, he saw his kind ministrant’s face clearly for the first time: drawn and tired. She noticed him regarding her and looked away, pulling a stray strand of hair behind her ears. He grabbed her hand and kissed it hastily.

“Thank you. Please have Ian send up a meal, and then get some rest. I am sorry you were so inconvenienced by my stupidity. You are very kind.”

She stood and curtseyed. “We’re all happy to serve you however we can, Lord Carver, stupidity notwithstanding. I will inform Saunders and Lady Carver that you are awake.”

She left and Davon opened his shirt to inspect the wounds. The three lines of stitches were less angry and painful than he expected. Saunders did good work. He slung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, testing his head and limbs to see if they would be equal to the task of getting out of bed. A slight dizziness washed over him and he focused on the brightly lit grounds outside his window to steady himself. Nothing a little food can’t remedy.

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside and he ran his fingers through his hair and buttoned his shirt. The light, purposeful stride would be Emile on some errand.

“You are awake then, Lord Carver?” she asked as she entered the room.

A blue-gray dress today. The invitation to the ball had inspired the faintest trace of color in her outfit. “I am awake.”

“I trust that Orianna saw you through your ordeal satisfactorily?”

“Yes.” It should have been you.

“Good.” She fully entered the room, fanning herself. She was working up the courage to ask him something she feared he wouldn’t like, and he turned back to the window. He knew this routine so well that but for the specific request in question he could predict exactly what she would say. She would start by using his first name, something she only did as a device.

“So, Davon,” she began, “as you may recall from two nights ago, we were invited to Duke Tahbor’s for the ball. It begins in ten days.”

“I was informed you were starting preparations today. Why so soon?” Davon asked.

“The Duchess has invited us to come early. She would like us to arrive a week before the opening ball, which, given the two days carriage ride, means we would need to leave tomorrow or the day after at the very latest.”

“I see,” Davon replied. He knew what the dreaded request would be now.

“Since we will be staying an additional week, we will need to hire a wagon to come behind the carriage and carry our additional equipage. Might I have Saunders arrange it?”

Her tone indicated she was ready for a rejection. Davon usually fought these extra expenditures; with a little clever packing and a few personal sacrifices, the luggage racks on the carriage would suffice. But he hardly cared now.

“That will be fine,” he agreed. Her fan stopped in mid-wave. It took her several moments to coax it back into rhythm.

“Will you be quite recovered enough to go tomorrow?” she probed, still pacing.

Davon thought for a moment. With another day’s rest he could certainly survive a carriage ride, though the rough road wouldn’t do his wounds any favors. But his indisposition actually played to the advantage of his new plan.

“I’m afraid I will have to follow a few days behind you on Ceril. I doubt Saunders will let me be moved before then.”

“A pity,” she stated without emotion. “I’m sure the Tahbors will understand when I explain the circumstances to them, so you needn’t worry about causing offense.”

“Do convey my regrets. I will meet up with you all as soon as I can.”

“I shall.” She angled toward the door. “What would you have me tell them? That you took a fall?”

Davon wondered if Saunders had told her about his encounter with the sabercat. Did she think the truth too embarrassing to relate, or was she guessing at his injury based on his previous misadventures?

“A hunting accident.”

“Very well. I’ll send Ori to check on you throughout the day.”

“Let the girl be. The poor thing looked ready to collapse this morning. I’ll have Saunders around. Thank you for coming to look in on me.”

She frowned, perhaps sensing an accusation. “Get some rest, Lord Carver. Forgive this little intrusion.”

She left quickly and Davon lay back down and ran over his plan in his head. His wife’s departure would lend him plenty of time to get his affairs in order, and the lonely road between Frostbourne and Tahbor manor provided the dangerous wilderness he needed. The longhorned bison would be in mid migration toward the south, herds like giant dark clouds against the paling fields of autumn. Their destructive movements pockmarked the road for miles, accounting for most of the uncomfortable jolting of the carriage on the way to Duke Tahbor’s manor house. Add to this the predators circling the herd awaiting the weak and weary, and a perfect recipe for an unfortunate accident was mixed.

Saunders and Orianna entered a short while later. Saunders appraised the wounds and congratulated himself on his own good work. Orianna sat on the bed next to Davon, holding a plate with biscuits, boiled carrots, and ham. Davon realized she intended to feed it to him and took the plate from her. “I can feed myself, Orianna. I think I ordered you to bed.”

“Just let the girl feed you,” Saunders advised. “You need to move your arms as little as possible to keep from putting stress on the wounds. Go on, my Lord. Give her the plate. And eat slowly or you’ll upset your stomach.”

Orianna grinned and pried the plate out of his hands. “Just sit back, Lord Carver.”

Davon complied. “This is ridiculous.”

Saunders threw him a mischievous look and left while Orianna hummed a pretty tune and forked bits of ham into his mouth.

“I suppose you’re excited to go with Emile to the Tahbors tomorrow?” Davon asked between bites.

“Of course…but aren’t you coming?” she asked, face suddenly stricken.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to delay a couple of days to convalesce. Emile will go on ahead.”

Orianna furrowed her brow. “Surely Lady Carver will delay a couple of days to let you mend! I shall let her know that you are unable to travel tomorrow, and I’m sure she’ll change her mind.”

“She knows,” Davon informed her, and Orianna’s face turned angry. “Don’t blame her, Orianna,” Davon soothed. “She loves these trips to the Tahbors more than shopping, sunshine, and all the feast days put together.”

Orianna shot to her feet, face a dark cloud, and thrust the plate back into Davon’s hands. “What she should love is you!” she grumped, face on the verge of tears, and then stormed out of the room. Davon was accustomed to Saunders’s bitter commentaries about Emile, but Orianna’s fury took him off guard. The sooner I get out of Emile’s life, the better it will be for everyone.

Davon retrieved the fork from where it had fallen on the bed sheets and set to work on boiled carrots. Saunders wandered in a few minutes later.

“What’d you go upsetting Ori about?” he accused. “I’m sure she didn’t deserve it.”

“She was just upset that I would not be leaving with the party tomorrow. That is all.”

Saunders shut the door. “You know, Ori is quite a lovely young woman—”

“Don’t,” Davon admonished, tone sharp, though a mouthful of carrots dulled some of the edge of his ire. Now that Saunders was here, he could take care of one item on his list of things to do before he disappeared. “Have you heard anything about our northern counterparts that we should report to the Queen? Anything the servants have said?”

Saunders sighed. “Not much to be had,” he reported. “If the northern lords are thinking of upending her royal highness, they are doing a good job of not letting it leak out. Besides an odd increase of traveling between each other’s houses and the regular round of griping about the Queen, there isn’t much to say. Are you sure you’re hunting a real conspiracy and not some shadow in the political forest?”

Davon was sure of it. The Queen had asked him to keep an ear to the ground two years back for any unusual activities that might threaten her rule. Of course, spying wasn’t in his nature, but once he was aware of the Queen’s concerns, he began noticing little things when he went to the balls and assemblies, activities he detested. Nobles always griped about monarchs, but the tone had turned as bitter as the winter and as malicious as a starving sabercat. It was the kind of talk that led to furtive looks and secret meetings.

“If there isn’t anything now, there will be,” Davon concluded. “If anything alarming comes up during my absence, let the Queen know.” His plan would mean the Queen wouldn’t have his reports. Hopefully she had others she could trust to keep an eye on her grumbling northern aristocrats.

“If you’re going to the Tahbor’s, you’ll have a good chance to discover something,” Saunders offered. “All the northern lords will be there—if you can stand to talk to them.”

Davon grunted. He really couldn’t. “Anything else I should be aware of?”

Saunders pinched his bearded chin and then smirked. “Well, I did read in the papers that the Aid Society had sent the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company to deliver another load of goods to the ‘poor and needy of Frostbourne.’”

“Did they?” Davon asked.

“Of course not,” Saunders answered. “This is the third time we’ve been mentioned as recipients of their charity and the third time no wagon has come. Not sure if they’re lazy or just liars. Should we mention it to the Queen? She endorsed the Aid Society, after all.”

“Not yet,” Davon answered. “Probably just indolent wagoners not wanting to come this far north. Now help me up. I need to get moving.”

The next morning, Davon pulled on his black coat—the nicest one he owned—careful not to aggravate the wounds on his chest. His stomach and head still swam every now and again, but the time for Emile to depart had nearly come. His wife was leaving. He would leave, too.

Above the fire on the mantel he kept a small wooden box with thin strips of parchment and an ink bottle and quill, both emblazoned with the symbol of the Eternal Flame. He pulled a slip of paper from the box and took the ink and quill, moving to his modest desk and sitting. One last prayer for the flame.

Bless Emile with a safe journey, he wrote. Bless my plan with success so our pain can find an end. Keep Frostbourne safe and prosperous.

He stared at it for a moment. It was really all he wanted. Reverently, he approached the fireplace and slipped the parchment into the flames. While not the Eternal Flame itself, every flame was a child of that greater one, and as his paper blackened, curled, and disappeared into smoke, he closed his eyes and poured his hopes into the last prayer he would ever pass into the fire at Frostbourne.

He wasn’t a crying man and was surprised to find his eyes wet when he opened them again. This would be hard. With his handkerchief he dried his cheeks and steeled himself. He must appear as if everything was normal to avoid suspicion.

A soft knock at the door startled him.

“They’re nearly packed,” Saunders reported. “Better get out here.”

Davon found Emile and a frowning Orianna on Frostbourne’s front landing watching the coachmen and footmen wrestle the luggage onto the wagon and secure it. The coach and four was black, commodious, and richly styled. Davon knew his wife wanted to appear the equal of the Tahbors, not as a fawning, low class guest. The dresses she had purchased for herself and her Lady’s Maid were stylish and resplendent, and Davon couldn’t help but feel a pang for the days when Emile dressed like that for him.

The four members of the Wagon Guard groomed their horses and stowed their more modest belongings in saddle bags. The sun slanted down onto the drive, but a dark head of clouds rumbled to the north. Davon took stock of the wind. Long experience told him the storm would not invade any more southward than it already had—the travelers would have good weather, after all.

He and Saunders came to stand near the two women while the servants scrambled. Emile barely spared him a glance. Orianna, however, smiled and curtseyed.

“Good morning, Lord Carver,” she said.

“Good morning, Miss Orianna,” he returned.

“Lord Carver looks quite well today, Lady Carver,” Orianna commented. “Perhaps if we delay until tomorrow, he could travel with us.”

“And have the servants unpack everything? I think not,” Emile stated. “Besides, Saunders said Lord Carver would need at least another two days.”

“Yes, that is what I said,” Saunders concurred. “Perhaps Orianna should stay behind to tend to Lord Carver as I have my hands full trying to cover all the expense this trip is incurring upon the estate.”

Orianna’s face brightened momentarily before Emile could darken it again. “I couldn’t possibly travel without my Lady’s Maid. It would be ridiculous. Lord Carver looks well enough to manage by himself.”

“My wife knows me well,” Lord Carver said. Saunders covered a derisive laugh with a handkerchief and a fake sneeze. Orianna rolled her eyes and looked away.

“Not to fear, Orianna,” Saunders said as he walked back toward the house. “I’ll try to keep the sabercats away from him until you can see him again.”

“Sabercats?” Emile asked, expression troubled. “Is that what happened to you, Lord Carver? You were attacked by a sabercat?”

Saunders’s chuckling at Emile’s comment was cut off as the door shut behind him. Davon cleared his throat. “Yes. The gun misfired and the cat gave me a little scratch. That’s all.”

“Little scratch!” Orianna exclaimed. “It was a fearsome wound, Lady Carver.”

“Well,” Emile responded lightly, “I think it best that he rest for a few more days, then.”

How can there be no compassion? This question he had asked himself many times before. He shoved the thought out of his head; it didn’t matter anymore. After today, their marriage would be finished. After today, they could both start again.

The mounting of the Wagon Guard signaled the end of packing and stowing. It suddenly struck Davon that this would be the last time he saw his wife, and for the first time since its hatching, he considered abandoning his plan or taking more time to consider it. He had formulated it so quickly that it hadn’t had the benefit of seasoning, and if he failed it would certainly turn both their lives to misery.

There had to be some way for him to get through to the woman, to make her respect him at the very least. But then again, hadn’t he tried? He had never been good enough for her, and he didn’t know how or even if he could be what she wanted. She minced toward the carriage without sparing him a backwards glance.

“Safe journey, Emile. May the Eternal Flame smile upon you,” he called out to her, surprised that he could actually mean it.

She screwed her face up into one of her practiced smiles. “Thank you.”

He shook his head. Her mind and her eyes were already at Tahbor manor, Frostbourne and him miles behind even though the carriage hadn’t moved an inch.

Orianna regarded him wistfully for a moment. “Come quickly, Lord Carver. Take care of yourself.”

“You too, Orianna. Thank you for you care.”

“Let’s go, Orianna!” Emile shouted after mounting the carriage. “We’ve got to make Chopsworth by dark or we’ll be sleeping on the road!”

Orianna hastened inside the carriage, and with the crack of a whip the caravan was underway. Davon watched the horsemen and carriages pull noisily away, his wife not bothering to look back at him or wave.

That empty, dead feeling crushed him again. He had to go. His plan, however rash, couldn’t wait. He could no longer bear her misery or his own.

Chapter 4

Ambassador Horace Clout of Creetis relished early mornings. He liked streets of pristine snow, empty forests and fields, and whispering winds unburdened by the concerns and follies of human voices. He liked being alone, a strange trait for one whose business was manipulating the affairs of thousands of people. Mornings let him think. They let him prepare. Today he would stand in front of Queen Filippa of Bittermarch and accuse her of a crime against his nation that she didn’t commit. His mission relied on his ability to convince her—and her people—of his fabrications.

Queen Filippa had lived longer than the impatient Lords of her own Kingdom wanted, and certainly longer than the leaders of his own nation, Creetis, had expected. The old regent’s stubborn refusal to die and apparent intractable good health had, however, created the opportunity in whose service he now operated. Discontent in Bittermarch rarely reared its head. This surprised many Creetisian scholars who had believed that a nation based on such a silly superstition as the Eternal Flame would do as their distant ancestors—the Aua’Catan—had done: disintegrate into squabbling, primitive tribes.

Creete, the founder of Creetis, had united those tribes and enthroned reason, abolishing the ancient worship of the fictitious Primal Forces. Humanity flourished as a result. When Joris Pulsipher claimed to have found the Primal Fire again, he gathered followers and created unrest. That so many had flocked to Joris’s resurrected religion had shocked the Creetisian parliament of two hundred years ago. They acted swiftly and brutally, driving Joris and his cult south and west and across the Ice Fire Mountains as winter descended in its wrath.

Only the ragged outcasts didn’t die and they didn’t disband. The western side of the Ice Fire Mountains had proved a haven for them with a better climate and a richer soil than the empty plains of Creetis that were so often swept by bitter winds and driving snow. So against all expectations to the contrary, Joris and his people thrived. While they claimed their success as a gift and blessing of the Eternal Flame, Horace knew better. Strong leaders, not mystical powers, had lent them success despite their ridiculous beliefs and utterly chaotic form of government.

But Queen Filippa had at last committed enough critical mistakes for him to attempt to take by stratagem what Creetis needed: the wealth and crops of their western neighbors. Creetis, for all of its logic and reason, was no match for the whims of nature, and a long drought and severe chill had sent the food prices of his nation soaring. The hungry populace grew more discontent with every belt pulled tight. Creetisians needed a distraction to keep their minds off their bellies until he and his long germinating plan could get them food.

The Ambassador downed his toast slowly, savoring it. Bittermarchians had excellent food. The streets of Bellshire, Bittermarch’s capital, swelled with lines of plump faces. The Bittermarchians’ bellies hanging over belts reminded him he needed to do whatever it took to fill in the hollow cheeks of his countrymen back home. Of course, an ambassador couldn’t afford to appear as a sickly stick in front of a Queen, the House of Lords, and the House of Light. His own belly protruded a respectable distance in front of him, and he had forsaken the traditional plain clothes of his fellow political officers to appear in finery. Fashion was everything in Bittermarch, and he would not let the Queen or her court think less of him simply for his dress. He needed their attention squarely on his accusations, not twittering in corners about his lack of taste.

Of his three presentations that day, the Queen would be the most difficult. While he wasn’t disillusioned enough to believe that the Eternal Flame had granted her some magical gift of discernment, the fact that she had survived as a female on the throne in a Kingdom long dominated by men showed she had some shrewdness. He would need to work himself into a good fury before he attempted his ruse with the Queen.

The House of Lords would be easy. They were, by all reports, an excitable lot that Filippa had offended when she had raised the House of Light and its Flame fanatics above them. All he had to do was play to their prejudices, show them that the Queen was taking rash actions without their approval, and they would fall into line. Many already had. Horace had hatched his plan when the agricultural problems had first started years ago. Now that plan had to bear fruit, literally and figuratively.

He checked his watch, pulling it from the pouch on his vest and flipping open the golden lid. Fifteen minutes till eight. The Queen would see him first thing that morning. But there was one matter to attend to first, perhaps the most important one in the short term.

“Excuse me,” he said to the servant at the door, no doubt a Bittermarchian spy. “But could you fetch my personal attaché for me? He should be in the next room over to the west.”

The servant bowed. “Of course, Ambassador. I know who he is.”

Just a hint of a snotty tone, Horace noted. Not a regular servant, to be sure. He would order him out of the room as soon as his attaché arrived. Of course, to call Melchor Raines an attaché almost made him laugh. Melchor was the deadliest man Horace knew. Like the others who were part of the Fist—the elite guard of the Creetisian Parliament—Melchor possessed a categorical knowledge of how to stop a human heart, whether it was with poison, weapons, or bare hands. If the Fist had existed two hundred years ago, Joris Pulsipher and his silly fire would have been extinguished before he’d taken one step onto the streets to proclaim himself chosen.

The door snapped open and Melchor entered. Horace stifled a laugh and waved the servant out of the room. Melchor grinned humorlessly back. The spy and assassin had dressed as an effeminate Bittermarchian courtier. Powdered wig, powdered face, high stockings, tight white pants gilded with silver, a coat to match, and a fluffy cravat. He’d even gone as far as to paint a vanity dot on his face. Horace found the outfit positively revolting, though absolutely appropriate for their needs. Melchor executed a perfect bow and Horace clapped in appreciation.

“I should hardly recognize you, Melchor,” he complimented, signaling for him to sit across from him. “I’m sorry if the necessity of your costume causes you any mortification. Bittermarchian nobles all look like fools in their frilly getups. At least the food is good.”

Melchor nodded in agreement. While Melchor could act otherwise, he was, Horace knew, a taciturn, grave man. Horace had requested a different member of the Fist, but the Parliamentary committee insisted on Melchor, and Horace could hardly refuse. Melchor had a perfect service record and had never failed a mission. While an ambassador could have wished for a more jovial companion with whom to enjoy Bittermarchian largesse, he would put up with Melchor for the sake of success.

“Are our men all quartered and our contacts aware of our presence?” Horace asked.

“They are in place if there is a need. Another shipment went north this morning.”

“Good, good.”

Horace stood and scooted his chair closer to his spy; he couldn’t afford for this next part to be heard by the servant whose shoes cast a shadow on the crack at the bottom of the door. “We’re going to be wintering here to show how ‘serious’ we are about the awful events I am about to relate. Your mission during this time is to learn whom the Queen intends to appoint as the next ruler of Bittermarch upon her death. Speculation runs wild, but our people here have no idea who it is.

“The best we can do now is assume that it will be someone friendly to the Eternal Flame, and there are too many of those deluded souls to name. The House of Lords favors Duke Longford, but I have my doubts the Queen tends in that direction. If tradition holds, the answer is in her will, but that, of course, is hidden and locked away somewhere. I know it will be difficult, but we need to know who it is.”

“I will start an investigation immediately,” Melchor replied, eyes dead and disconcerting. “Am I to accompany you to your presentation before Queen Filippa?”

Horace gulped the last of his tea, finding it difficult to meet Melchor’s eyes and feeling a bit intimidated. “Yes. People need to get used to the sight of you. It will make your assignment easier. Well, we should get to it. If you could leave me for a few minutes, I need to prepare. Please wait for me outside the doors to the Hall.”

Melchor nodded and left without a word. Horace closed his eyes and ran through his presentation in his mind, trying to invest himself with the outrage he would feel had the fabricated event actually occurred. His lips had to be turned down. His face a little red with anger. His eyes alight with indignation. How could Bittermarch claim to be a civilized nation? The blood of his countrymen demanded action! Sustained but controlled fury. He gathered it up inside himself, grabbed the bag with his theatrical props, and strode to the Main Hall in a pretended huff he could almost believe.

Melchor awaited him there, now fully in character. His eyes were alight and empty with child-like curiosity, his pose perfectly formal. “I shall take that for you sir,” he said, grabbing the worn leather prop bag. “Let me know if there is anything else you require.”

“Very good, Mr. Raines. I am fine for now.”

At long last guards on the inside pushed the tall, darkly stained doors open. The Chamberlain motioned them forward. Horace had to smile. The entrance to the main audience hall had a small antechamber in which stood a giant bronze ox, proudly displayed, representing the beast that had hauled Joris and the cooking pot he claimed held the Eternal Flame across wintry plains and mountains. The ox was situated so that the head faced the throne, meaning that all who entered the main hall immediately found themselves staring at the beast’s arse. No doubt the Bittermarchians considered it symbolic: their ancestors had followed that arse to their refuge and new home. For a Creetisian, it was a matter of humor.

The main hall was large and circular, with marble floors and walls of granite. An upper gallery ringed both sides, a place where those who wished to observe the Queen’s dealings could sit. Above this were tall windows rising up to the domed ceiling. A central window in the middle of the dome allowed a warm yellow light to fall on a raised dais where an ornate tripod stood. From that tripod hung the Primal Fire burning in its two-hundred year old black iron kitchen pot. Such a ridiculous thing. It burned silently and without smoke in its homely receptacle, flames dancing naturally about. Some trick of the House of Light and its Flametouched cultists. Horace wished he could contrive a way to bring in a bucket of water to douse it with or a club to knock the whole contraption down. Two guards stood at attention near the holy object, unfriendly eyes fixed upon him.

He focused his gaze elsewhere, gaging his audience. Few of the Bittermarchian nobility occupied the seats in the gallery. Unfortunate, Horace thought. The Bittermarchians hardly considered him a novelty anymore. He had considered letting his invented accusations leak to attract more interest, but in the end he decided that surprise would be a more favorable ally against the Queen than an audience that would likely jeer every word he said. The Queen sat at the far end, and the Ambassador and his attaché strode purposefully forward. The hall, Horace thought, did not serve its regent well: it was decidedly functional and masculine, and it dwarfed rather than aggrandized its monarch.

“Well, Ambassador Clout,” the iron haired, wrinkly woman said with her sharp voice. “You must have a very particular complaint to trouble yourself to come all the way to Bittermarch so close to winter. Did our cows cross the mountains and eat some of your grain again? I hear you’ve little to spare these days. Or perhaps some of our soldiers were philandering with the farmers’ daughters along the border? Maybe you just needed a good meal?”

Horace concentrated, the Queen’s barbs stoking real fury to use for his fake accusations. “How dare you make light, Queen Filippa! I am here on the gravest of matters. An outrage! I would not have come at all if the situation were less dire, but I cannot let this grievous offense pass. You bring us to the brink of war!”

She hardly blinked and the ambassador worried. She had always been a hard woman to read. Some excited mumbling broke out in the gallery, so he hoped that the Queen’s lack of concern did not stem from a poor performance on his part.

“You don’t say, Ambassador,” she said tonelessly. “It’s been a long time since war has rolled off anyone’s lips in this Hall. Pray, tell us what dire accusations you have. I sense they must go beyond your regular parade of complaints.”

Horace visited Bittermarch at least once a year to gripe about something, so he knew he had to overcome the seeming pettiness of his previous outrages. Straight and powerful. “You ordered soldiers from Touray across the Cloud River to attack one of our villages. You killed nearly one-hundred twenty of our people! Some in our Parliament already call for war!”

“Ridiculous, Ambassador. Utterly ridiculous. As if your starving nation has anything we would attack you for. We simply have no motivation to do such a thing. What evidence do you present?”

Her placidity was killing him. Horace signaled for Melchor to retrieve the props from the bag. “We have eye witnesses, your Grace, that saw nearly a hundred Bittermarchian soldiers storm into Rontag just as the sun came up and begin slaughtering everyone. Shooting. Stabbing. Looting. All the while shouting ‘For the Flame’ while committing these atrocities. Here are the uniforms of two of the men some of our brave countrymen managed to fell.”

Melchor handed him two sets of bloody coats, shirts, and breeches, eliciting a gasp from the ladies in the gallery.

“And where are the bodies that go with the uniforms?”

“I have ordered them to be returned to Captain Hargrave in Touray. You may write him, if you wish, to confirm their return.” The bodies were, in actuality, Bittermarchian soldiers Melchor had shot while the two were riding patrol.

“I shall. And what of witnesses?”

“I will summon some if my word is not good enough for you. I surveyed the town myself not two weeks ago. Your skepticism dishonors me! Surely you are not so callous as to treat such an atrocity lightly!”

The Queen shifted forward in her throne, the first movement she had made. She held Horace’s eyes for a while. Using her gift, the Ambassador mused. She smiled when she finished and leaned back in her throne, resting her arms on the golden arm rests. “No need for witnesses, Ambassador Clout. Your word is enough for me to go on at present. I shall initiate an investigation. I assume you will stay until its conclusion?”

“I will. I refuse to leave until this matter is put to rest and the people of Rontag receive justice! I demand that—”

“No demands, Ambassador, none at all until I have thoroughly reviewed the matter. I will be thorough, and I warn you that it could take some time. I must give this accusation all the respect you seem to think it is worth.”

She wasn’t worried or flustered and could barely be called interested in his accusations. Had she seen through him? Did she really consider him just a Creetisian clown? He had to push her out of his mind. He would find a much more receptive audience in the House of Lords where he would paint the creaking Regent as an old woman losing her grip on reality. He exhaled sharply, still trying to project impatience and anger.

“Very well, your Grace. I expect regular updates and I will in turn inform my parliament of your progress.”

“Will that be all, Ambassador?”

He thought for a moment. “My people in Parliament are curious as to whom you will appoint as your successor. We haven’t heard if you have chosen or made your choice public.” It was worth a try.

“I’m afraid I’m not quite thinking of the grave, Ambassador. I feel quite fit, actually. I think I may be able to hear your complaints for several years to come.”

Arrogance. If she only knew her danger. She might not be ready for the grave, but the grave waited for her with open arms. He would push her into its welcoming embrace soon enough.

Chapter 5

Couric Masterson, founder of the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company of Bellshire, stared at his clerk. Couric had hired Samwell because he was young in his profession, thoroughly docile, and as malleable as bread dough. But after only a year of work the young employee had said the words that signaled that Couric would need to find another clerk to replace him: “Mr. Masterson, you should look at this immediately!”

As two other clerks before him, Samwell had noticed discrepancies he shouldn’t have noticed. At least the poor lad had the innocent nature to assume the irregularities were the result of error or neglect and bring them up to his boss for immediate attention.

Couric used his gnarled hands to pull his gray hair—stringy, long, and greasy—into a ponytail. He smelled of market broiled meat and last night’s rum, and Samwell involuntarily flinched as the bony face and beady eyes of his employer squinted in the dim light of the records room and reviewed the evidence spread out for him peruse. Couric didn’t need to look but put on a fine show of it anyway. The Aid Society’s funds poured in regularly once Queen Filippa had added her stamp of approval. None of the nobles who contributed even thought about the money anymore; the funds simply purchased them a sense of their own goodness. No need to wonder where it went.

“I can see what you mean, Samwell,” Couric praised him disingenuously. “That was very sharp of you to catch.”

The young clerk beamed back, proud of himself, and Couric had to stifle the urge to grind his teeth. Finding another clerk was going to be tedious. Couric needed someone who could do actual clerking, but at the same time he required a simple soul who was stupid enough not to notice some fairly obscure gaps in the bookkeeping.

“It’s late, Samwell,” Couric said. “Let me buy you a drink and send you home.”

The Caravan Master had left two days ago so Couric was going to have to do this little housecleaning chore himself.

“Thank you, Sir!” Samwell said, still basking in the glow of his discovery. Couric regarded him. The year spent hunched over in the dimly lit records room of the warehouse had bent the young man’s frame and bleached his face to an unhealthy white hue. Dark raccoon circles framed his bloodshot eyes.

Maybe I should cut a window into the room, Couric thought as he grabbed his shabby brown coat off the hook near the door. If his clerks had something to stare at besides books, perhaps they might enjoy longer tenures at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company. Perhaps one of the spicy paintings of pretty ladies sold in the Bristol Market would have the same effect at lower cost and effort than a window.

They emerged from the warehouse into the empty Morton District, the autumn evening chill and damp. Couric did his best to endure Samwell’s excited recounting of how he had tracked down the error. The previous clerk had smarts enough to realize what he had found and demand payment to keep quiet. Couric wondered if perhaps paying him would have been wiser. Finding the right sort of clerk willing to work long hours in room barely better than a prison cell was increasingly difficult in good economic times. At the very least, the poor conditions ensured that very few prime candidates ever darkened his door.

The Morton District contained much of Bellshire’s shipping and manufacturing industry and was full of squat offices huddled next to hulking buildings. Just after sundown most of the laborers had gone home, though officers and clerks often stayed until much later. Couric guided Samwell south toward the Crooks, a dilapidated, impoverished part of the city with winding lanes, confusing alleys, and plenty of cheap ale.

“You sure it’s safe to go in there after dark?” Samwell asked worriedly once he realized where they were headed.

Couric pulled a pecan from a bulging store in his coat pocket and cracked it with his teeth. “We’re just taking a bit of a shortcut to a place I know in Southgate. It’s got some tasty little serving wenches.”

Couric was more interested in the river that separated the Crooks from Southgate. The dodgers and toughs in the Crooks knew Couric and wouldn’t pay him any mind; Couric was never careless enough to carry anything of value while walking in Morton or the Crooks. They had already tried to boost money from him and gotten nothing but lumps on their skulls in return.

Samwell’s eyes and shoulders twitched and tensed with every raucous call and shuffling stranger as they ventured farther into the Crooks. Got no iron at all, Couric judged. Guess he gets by on his smarts. Gradually, the uneven cobblestone through the Crooks gave way to a gravel path winding through a small wooded area that acted like a fence so the well-to-do of Southgate wouldn’t have to suffer the sights of their uncouth neighbors across the river. Tall, bare oaks stretched their arms out above them, the bridge nearing.

Samwell continued to crow about his discovery. “So the more I think about it, the Caravan Master probably knew about the problems. In fact, I think he may actually be taking advantage of you, Sir,” Samwell opined. “Of course, I couldn’t prove that just with the books.”

“Really,” Couric said noncommittally. “I wouldn’t say that anywhere near Dales if I were you.”

The Caravan Master was a mighty brute of a man with arms the size of hog shanks. Everyone at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company feared him, Couric included. Dales worked for the money and the adventure and cared little who was the boss or what he was ordered to do. Couric needed him, though, for the man had no scruples, either.

Time to get this ruse underway.

“Did you hear that?” Couric said, angling off the road and stopping for a moment.

“Hear what?” Samwell asked, following like a faithful dog. The night was full of sounds from in front and behind them.

“I thought I heard someone yelling for help through there, near the river,” Couric explained, trying to act concerned. “Come on!” He jogged into the woods toward the water. “Hello there!” he yelled as Samwell followed, face perplexed. As they neared the wide river, Couric slowed, darkness difficult for his worsening vision. He didn’t want to end up in the river himself.

“I don’t see anyone,” Samwell said, arms wrapped around his chest. Couric reached into his coat and grasped the handle of the thin bladed knife he always carried.

“Look by the bridge,” Couric instructed coming up from behind his clerk. “I think I see someone moving over there.”

Samwell turned and exhaled a plume of warm breath as he gazed toward the bridge. “I don’t—”

Couric rammed the knife into Samwell’s back and the clerk arched backwards, face fixed in a silent scream. A few more thrusts of the knife finished the job and Samwell collapsed, eyes wide and face even paler than usual in the moonlight. After wiping the knife on his victim’s pants to clean it, Couric resheathed it and went in search of rocks to stuff in the corpse’s pockets; it wouldn’t do to have him resurfacing before the water ate away enough of his face and features to make him unrecognizable.

Couric took Samwell’s boots and gloves to sell in the Crooks on the way back and searched the young man’s pockets to make sure there was nothing in them that would help identify him. Now the tricky part. Getting the body into the river without falling in himself wouldn’t be easy in the weak light. Tomorrow he would put an advertisement in the paper for a new clerk and this time he would hire the right sort of fellow. There were enough clerks in Bellshire that they should be hunted to keep the numbers down, but if any more of them vanished from the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, someone was bound to notice.

Chapter 6

The herd of longhorned bison blanketed the distant hills. From where Davon surveyed them from astride Ceril, the massive beasts appeared peaceful and unthreatening, but he knew that the slightest provocation, such as the thunderous clouds rumbling behind them, could send the destructive herd into a chaotic, ground churning stampede. Deaths at the hooves of the migrating herds of bison and mammoth were reported every spring and autumn in the papers, and when poor weather threatened, the swelling obituaries doubled the pages of the weekly news. Traveling during migration was an idiotic business, another reason he disdained the Tahbor’s seasonal invitations.

Davon eyed the sky and the herd again, wondering where to set up his ruse. Under no circumstances did he wish to suffer the shame of actually dying during his attempt to appear to have done so. While he doubted anyone would be the wiser, for the few terrifying seconds it would take for the bison to grind his bones to powder, he would suffer under the onus of his own stupidity.

As luck would have it, the storm was driving directly south towards his position, and when the booming thunder and flickering lighting got close enough, the herd would at least move in his direction, if not bolt in a panicked frenzy.

Tonight his plan would require him to sacrifice one final beloved item: his horse. After a wistful pat on Ceril’s withers, he hopped down, undid the saddlebags and tack, and created the scene of his fake demise next to a broad oak directly in the predicted path of the herd.

He did everything as he normally would when in the wild. He created a fire ring, lit a fire, set up his canvas tent, and hung his equipment over a branch. The next part, however, was a little more ridiculous and unsavory. His plan depended on someone believing that a man had been killed but to the point of being unrecognizable. To this end he had killed a deer and slung it over his horse. Removing the freshly skinned carcass and pulling an extra pair of traveling clothes from his bags, he set about gutting the beast and scattering copious amounts of its blood and entrails on the clothes. He placed the befouled clothing and the carcass in the tent, knocked the tent down so the bison wouldn’t avoid it, and led Ceril away toward the dim forest nearby to wait.

His rifle he kept for the moment. The nearby woods were an excellent place for predators to lie in wait to attack the herd, and he didn’t want another repeat of his hunting disaster. The wounds, though much improved, still ached and itched, and he had to catch himself to keep from scratching at them.

Once safely into the dark of the forest, he tied Ceril to a branch and slumped down to wait. He hoped the whole business would be over before dark so he could further groom the scene. Nothing out of place could remain. He would have to remove all the recognizable animal bits and place a few props to ensure that his identity as the supposed victim was unmistakable.

“Hi’yah!”

The voice of a wagon driver echoed into the woods a few moments before the pounding of hoofbeats and the creak of wagon wheels. Davon edged toward the road until he had a good view, wondering who was risking the weather and the herds besides himself. In a few more moments, a single, empty wagon whirled by in a rush, driver hunched over and flogging the horses for everything they were worth. A faded sign was painted on the wooden slats: Boot and Wheel Caravan Company.

So they did come as far north as Tahbor. Idly Davon wondered if the wagon would turn north and actually head toward Frostbourne, though the lack of cargo made him doubt it. Clearly, this driver had finished his task and knew he had to get as far from the herd as possible before disaster struck. Sure enough, at the fork in the road, the wagon turned southeast and was gone.

After plucking some long grass from the edge of the wood, Davon headed back to where Ceril stood by the tree and fed him the tender plants. If the Boot and Wheel Caravan would come as far north as Tahbor, why wouldn’t they take the extra day or two to come to Frostbourne? Though, Davon noted with some self-satisfaction, Frostbourne took care of its own poor and needy. No charity from the Aid Society was necessary.

A flash of lightning and a pounding boom ripped through the sky as large drops of rain pattered against the leaves around him, slowly at first. Enough of the thick canopy of the forest had resisted the call of autumn that Davon figured he would have a few minutes of dryness left once the heady, swollen clouds burst. With another crack and rumble, the rain pelted down and thunder shook the ground; the herd was on the move.

Davon stood up and kept his eyes sharp. While most of the bison would avoid his sylvan refuge, some few of the beasts might turn inside the forest. The shaking of the ground and the deafening noise amplified, Ceril snorting nervously. Davon’s heart quickened, the reverberation and racket of the stampeding animals louder than anything he had ever heard.

Through the slits in the trees he saw the first of the runners bolting by, urged onward by the vociferous sky. In moments a solid wall of brown slashed across his vision, rattling the forest. Ceril reared back and screamed, snapping the branch Davon had tied him to. Davon reached out to grab him, but Ceril bolted away, galloping south with the herd. Goodbye, old friend. An ache within him swelled with the noise. With Ceril’s departure, all ties to his former life seemed severed.

The rain finally defeated the protection of the foliage and dripped down on him as the bison continued their frenzied run. The herd rumbled by for nearly a half an hour before they thinned enough for Davon to risk approaching the campsite to see how his little experiment had fared. Pocked and uneven, the road he had followed to get there and the field where he had set up his camp were a sloppy, soupy mess sucking at his boots. Bison droppings and spoor littered the ground. Several of the weaker bison had fallen on the field while others milled about in the slackening rain.

As he had hoped, the stampede had obliterated his campsite. A single stake had kept the tent near to where he had set it, but everything else had moved southward. The carcass in the tent was pounded and broken, bone and flesh mushy and pulped. Still, he had work to do. Quickly, he stripped away the bits and pieces that were most obviously not human, a dirty, disgusting task. These he hauled away into the forest for the scavengers to pick at. Next, he took his ring from his finger and placed it conspicuously in the wreck. He would place the rifle in the mix after he had survived the night.

Once done, he moved a mile away to distance himself from the scavengers that would no doubt be attracted to his bloody mess and the dying bison. If a few dire wolves or sabercats picked at his fictitious remains, the ruse would be complete. He would walk to Chopsworth the next day. Few recognized him there, and if he arrived after nightfall, he could leave word of the scene with the undersheriff, buy a horse and a gun, and make his way east with little fear of being marked.

After an hour, the storm moved off for good, grumbling in the southern sky. In the daylight which remained, Davon constructed a crude lean-to and searched for wood dry enough to burn so he could warm himself. A lingering sadness hung over him, but something else was dawning: hope in the prospect of a new life.

Baron Davon Carver was dead.

Nothing could fetter him, now. It was just like when his parents had died. He was alone with nothing but his wits and abilities to make the best of a dismal situation. He wouldn’t survive in the wild during the winter and he would need to earn money when what he had ran out. There was no place better to find anonymity and work than in Bellshire, the biggest city in Bittermarch.

By the time he arrived in Bellshire a week later, nature’s first weak attempts at winter had turned the outer streets into a dingy, viscous mixture of slush and mud. The air had not turned cold enough for the snow to persist much beyond noonday, save where it clung in shadowy recesses and on north-facing roofs. The allotment of money he had allowed himself was nearly gone. He would, for the first time in his life, have to take active employment. This thought cost him no pride. In his younger years he had worked as hard and in as much filth as any common laborer while he scrimped and saved to rescue his family estate from his father’s foolishness.

Of course, if he could avoid mucking out stables or scouring chimneys, he would. Ideally, he wanted to work as a caravan guard as it would have him out-of-doors and traveling, but the demand for guards died in the winter season along with people’s desire to travel. After checking the job postings on windows and in the papers, he realized he had a more serious problem: no real experience or references. Any comfortable job with decent pay demanded references, and he hadn’t even decided what to call himself yet.

Missing the powerful Ceril, he steered his rather average quarter horse toward less savory parts of town. Even convicts of the darkest hue could find employment amid the narrow streets and darkly streaked brick buildings. As poorly dressed as he was, his clothes were a cut or two above the average denizen of the Crooks, a place he had heard of but never beheld during his few previous visits to Bellshire. Whatever his clothing, he was sure he appeared down on his luck, though his somber demeanor and the rifle slung to his horse kept the riffraff at a distance.

At last he found some postings attached to the glass window of one Iron Hand Tavern. Its relative lack of stains and filth suggested it was an establishment someone actually cared about. After skimming the usual round of advertisements for chambermaids, guttersweeps, and farmhands, he ran across one that that piqued his interest:

Immediate need for a clerk. Boot and Wheel Caravan Company. Must be able to start immediately. Salary. Sixty hours a week. Contact Couric Masterson directly at the office.

Davon smirked and rubbed his chin. The Boot and Wheel Caravan Company. That name kept popping up. Maybe he had dismissed the reports of their phantom shipments to Frostbourne a little too hastily. Who else might they be defrauding? The Queen herself? Had the Eternal Flame led him to this very spot, some place he might still do some good for Queen and country despite his self-imposed poor circumstances?

While not formally trained as a clerk, he had learned the trade after his father had killed himself. He had kept his own books for nearly six years before he had the means to employ a steward to do it for him. He might not have the familiarity with all the legal and financial documents that a caravan company might use, but he doubted it would be too difficult to muddle his way through. Clerking was certainly preferable to anything else he had run across thus far.

After warming his blood with an ale and then inquiring about the location of the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, Davon mounted his horse and headed to the Morton District. Unlike the Crooks, the Morton district was composed of wide streets with large, utilitarian buildings. There were few windows and very little in the way of architecture or greenery to cheer anyone. Rough looking men milled about big warehouses or wandered the streets on unknown errands. No one spared Davon a glance.

He found the offices of the company in question in short order, the sign a worn, simple affair with dark letters on a white board. The small brick building sat next to a much larger one made of wood and plaster. A single, thin window next to an unadorned door was all the decoration afforded the ascetic edifice. Davon roped his horse to the rail and made his way inside through the heavy, squeaking door. Everything here seemed lifeless and downtrodden.

Did he really want to spend sixty hours a week in such a gloomy place? Just until the summer, he reassured himself. Then I’ll apply for something else.

The front room to the office was quiet and empty with a single desk littered with papers. Small stacks of books lay on the ground, and rectangles of less dingy hue than the rest of the walls indicated that pictures once hung there. It felt as is the place was being abandoned, save for a faint whiff of liquor on the air. He called out to no avail. Perhaps the job posting was old and the business had failed. Time to start over. He turned to go and noticed a paper stuck to the door with a crudely drawn portrait of a young man.

Missing: Samwell Biggs, clerk for the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company. Last seen leaving work on September 15. If you have information, please contact Investigator Miles Purvis at 45 Parkhale Street.

That explains the opening, Davon mused as he yanked the door open, finding himself face to face with a ponytailed man in a long, leather coat. He had hard eyes and an unpleasant demeanor and grimaced for a moment, staring at Davon as if trying to determine if this were a customer or a thief. The horse at the rail seemed to sway him to the former.

“What did you come for? Need something hauled, do ya?” the man asked.

“Well, no,” Davon replied. “I’ve come about—”

“Then off with you.” The man shoved his way past Davon and into the office. “Got no time for freeloaders or solicitors.”

“I’ve come about the job posting, Sir.”

The man threw himself down in a beat up chair behind the desk and pulled a pecan from his coat, snapping it open with a practiced bite of his teeth. Several moments passed as the man regarded him, savoring his treat. “Don’t look like a clerk to me,” he finally said. “Look more like a caravan rider. What’s your name?”

Davon opened his mouth and snapped it shut. What was his name? What was his history, for that matter? The man regarded him suspiciously while Davon’s mind spun. “Well, Sir,” he said, working quickly to dispel the awkward moment, “I am…David Harper, and I rode into Bellshire just over an hour ago, so my clothing is more for traveling than for clerking, you understand. I am in need of work and saw your posting. I came immediately, fearing the position might already be filled. I can return later more appropriately attired, if you wish.”

“You’ve got a fancy tongue in your head,” he observed. “Where have you worked before?”

Time for the big lies to start. “My father was a steward for a small estate. The master of the house allowed me to work under him in a clerkship capacity. I did this for six years. My father passed away recently and I was not offered the opportunity to replace him as steward, so I traveled here to find work.”

The man barely reacted, pulling another pecan from his pocket and snapping it open. “So you’ve never worked in commerce before?”

“No, Sir.”

“And do you know anything about what we do here at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company?”

“Standard shipping, I would assume. As I said, I just—”

“Yes or no will do,” he corrected, taking a swig from a flask he kept stowed in his coat. Davon knew this wasn’t going well, but the fierce looking man kept his eyes on him, sizing him up. “And what kind of salary do you expect?”

Davon really had no idea. “I thought forty pounds a year would—”

The man choked and then started laughing. “So you show up here like looking like a filthy beggar without a clue and barely any experience and want forty pounds?”

Maybe the Eternal Flame hadn’t directed him here, after all. “Sorry, Sir. I have clearly made a mistake coming here. Good day.” He turned toward the door, but the man held him up.

“Now hold a moment there, fellow,” he said. “I’ll tell you what. I know a hard case when I see one. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll pay you thirty, but you have to understand that this may be temporary. You see, Samwell there was well liked here and just up and disappeared one night. If he returns, we’ll likely kick you out.”

Davon was shocked. “I…thank you, Mister…?”

“Masterson. Couric.”

“Thank you, Mr. Masterson. When should I start?”

“Why, right now. Got behind something awful since Samwell disappeared.”

“Is there anywhere to stable my horse?”

Couric guffawed. “This ain’t no estate, Mr. Harper. Sell it. I’m guessing you’ll need the money to pay rent, and no, I won’t give you an advance.”

Davon walked toward the door. “I’ll sell him and return forthwith.” He extended his hand to Couric who stared at it.

“Well hurry up! I ain’t paying you to sell horses!”

Davon nodded and made a quick exit. Something, indeed, did not smell right about the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, and not just the liquor-soaked Mr. Masterson. Davon pulled himself up on his soon-to-be ex-horse. He had work to do, and some delicate inquiries to make.

Chapter 7

Horace Clout cradled the sharp smelling ale in his thick hands while waiting for his noble contact to arrive at the prestigious gentleman’s club in Southgate, The Twoberry. His attaché, Melchor Raines, wandered nondescriptly about to see if he could pick up any interesting gossip of note. The clubs were pure excess, and Horace despised the languorous revelry and the stink of tobacco, but he could, at least, avail himself of the finest food he had ever eaten. Not even the Queen’s table matched the delicacies of The Twoberry. Whenever he visited Bittermarch he made it a point to take at least one meal in the club despite the noxious film of idleness that splashed on him as alcohol and gambling turned grown men into adolescents.

The remains of the sage rubbed beef rib and spiced potato—his second helping—awaited a servant to come collect them and lay out a wide sampling of cakes, pies, and pastries in their place. For all his efforts, he could never get blackberries to grow in the harsher climate of Creetis, and the blackberry tart of Twoberry simply could not be passed over. Best of all, as a visiting dignitary from a foreign nation, he ate on the Queen’s farthing. Hence, he ate often and he ate well. He was glad he would winter in the rival nation, even if it was filled with idiots.

His Bittermarchian co-conspirator arrived soon after dessert but turned down Horace’s attempts to share the sweet wealth spread out before him. Something about the Duke before him seemed different from the others he had met. Nobility believed in its own superiority, but this Duke exuded it. The iron cold eyes, the bottom of the chin at perfect parallel with the ground, the air of dignity, soberness, and propriety—he possessed them all. The Ambassador wondered whether the outward nuances, no doubt ingrained through strict tutelage, engendered the self-importance or whether the self-importance engendered the nuances?

The cinnamon bun distracted him from these thoughts for a moment as he closed his eyes and savored a mouthful under the blank expression of his noble contact.

“I see you are enjoying the food, as always, Ambassador,” the Duke noted evenly. “We should keep this short so we don’t draw any attention.”

Horace nodded and licked the frosting from his fingers. If I could have a house in the hills and a plate of these every day, I would give up this complicated, dangerous business. “Of course.” Horace glanced around to ensure they were alone in the small gallery in which he ate. “The atrocity we concocted seems not to have sparked any reaction in the Queen whatsoever. She barely seemed concerned! The House of Light and the House of Lords showed a tad more interest. What is your sense of how the matter stands?”

The Duke lowered his voice. “You must understand that most nobles are completely unsympathetic to your nation. Anger over the purge of Joris and his followers, of whom we are all descendants, runs deep in our blood. An accusation and a few witnesses will not be enough, I fear. You will need to escalate matters further.”

Horace knew this. “As is the plan. With any luck, the eyewitnesses and the corpses will arrive before long. We will use them to keep the atrocity in plain view while we wait for winter to end. Summer will bring more surprises. Don’t fear. Once we play all of our cards, the people of Creetis will demand war, and yours will demand the same. We’ll get a little stretch of land in the south, you’ll be the hero who steps in to fill the void we will create in your government. My people get fed. Your people get a proper ruler.”

The Duke appeared thoughtful. “Have you heard from your contacts here? Are the shipments and bribes in place?”

“Oh yes,” Horace informed him. “Rest assured that you will have the military might to quell anyone who might oppose you. Everything is where we discussed. You will simply need to provide hands for the weapons. They will be more than enough to make any of your domestic enemies think twice, and will convince our people and soldiers to be content with the small allotment we will hold in the south. Just be sure not to step in too early, will you?”

The Duke stood. “I will come as soon as men loyal to me occupy Bellshire. I will not speak with you again until summer. Good day.” His eyes shot disdainfully down to Horace’s shirt before he left, and the Ambassador looked down to find a variety of stains coloring his outfit; he had forgotten the napkin in his haste to eat. Horace would enjoy stabbing the greedy Duke in the back. He would practice the Duke’s disdainful look so he could stare down on the bloodstain as if disgusted that the Duke would let such a thing bloom on his finely tailored shirt.

An ale later, Melchor returned from his reconnaissance and sat down. His deadly eyes regarded the platter of desserts that the ambassador had decimated singlehandedly. As always, the assassin’s demeanor was cold and serious when speaking with his superior. Horace fought down a powerful belch that threatened to escape.

“Any news, Melchor?” he asked.

Melchor relaxed, grabbing the decanter of wine and pouring himself a drink. “Not much to report, I’m afraid. The massacre is hardly a topic of conversation. The dead women and children will be needed to shock them out of their complacency. When do they arrive?”

“Any day now, I expect,” Horace explained. “Weather permitting. It’s certainly milder here than it is in Creetis this time of year.”

Melchor sipped his wine in a controlled fashion, and Horace wondered if the spy’s moderation was a backhanded critique of his enthusiastic gluttony.

“Is our noble friend still happy and clueless?” Melchor asked.

Horace again checked his environs for any unwanted listeners. “Quite. A fine man, I’m sure, but so infected with dreams of grandeur that I doubt he’ll have one clue as to our true intentions until he starts bleeding. It will be a glorious day for Creetis.”

Melchor did not respond, drinking absentmindedly. Horace imagined death and mayhem always ran through Melchor’s mind whether he were acting serious or playing the part of the silly courtier. Where did Parliament find such men? What kind of person wanted to live a life filled with acts of murder, torture, and intrigue, and not just live it, but thrive upon it? Some people, Horace reckoned, were born lacking a certain capability of human feeling or even the ability to imagine it.

“Have you made any headway finding the Queen’s will?” Horace asked. “This whole plan hinges on the monarch and her intended successor meeting their fates simultaneously.”

Melchor regarded him coldly, perhaps sensing a criticism of his lack of progress. “I am relatively certain of where it is, but it will be difficult to reach. I am making progress.”

“Good,” Horace said, scooping up the purple innards of a tart that had dribbled on the table. “Keep me informed. Let’s leave before they get drunk and loud.”

Melchor leaned back in his chair. “I’ll stay for a time. It’s when they get drunk and loud that all the good bits come out.”

Chapter 8

Davon eyed Caravan Master Dales warily. The man was impossibly large with tanned, hairy forearms roped with muscle. Davon’s head inched above most men he knew, but Dales stood nearly a head taller. The Caravan Master never wore a coat no matter what the weather, and he never took his round, worn leather hat off of his head. Even worse, he drank hard and swore hard, and everyone, including the cold Couric Masterson, feared him. Luckily, Dales paid little attention to anyone but Couric, and Davon did his best to avoid the brute who stared at everyone as if he wanted kick them to death and roast them on a spit.

“I think it’s early to send a caravan that far north, Dales,” Couric argued in the front room. “One more shipment to Longford and then we’ll send the next to the ice mines.”

A splat indicated that Dales had spit his wad of tobacco on the floorboards. One of Davon’s clerking duties was to clean up pecan shells and Dales’s spit. The more irritated Dales became, the more he spat, so Davon hoped the argument would be short.

“I’m goin’ to the ice mines. That’s final, Couric. You get the goods ready and get them permits!”

“But—”

Spit. “Shut your head, Couric. Just do what I tell ye.”

The outside door opened and then shut with enough force to rattle the windows. The room where Davon worked had a new window installed that looked out on a dreary street. When Couric found that his new clerk could do the carpentry work himself, he gladly paid the least amount possible for the materials. While the window’s size wasn’t generous and the view uninspiring, Davon was thankful it existed; it reminded him that there was a world outside the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company.

“Harper!” Couric yelled. Davon sighed. The second part of any argument with Dales was Couric taking his frustration with Dales out on someone that couldn’t crush his skull with a single blow. “Get in here and clean this mess up. And I need those travel permit requests changed to the ice mines and I need them yesterday! You understand? I’ve got to go to the permit office today!”

“Yes, Mr. Masterson.”

Davon scooted his chair back and went to fetch some rags and water, noticing Couric sipping from his flask, no doubt to calm his nerves. The first Aid Society shipment of the year was leaving in two days, and Davon’s unpleasant employer seemed unusually nervous about it. The society had been formed by a collection of well-meaning nobles who contributed money monthly so that the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company could gather food and supplies to take to the poor and unfortunate of Bittermarch. This arrangement had persisted exclusively with the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company for years, and that is why Davon first suspected something was amiss.

Why would a group of nobles entrust the lowliest and seediest of the available caravan companies with its wealth? Couric was flat out the worst salesperson Davon had ever run across, his brash manner so offensive and intimidating that he couldn’t sell fire to a naked man in the winter.

People used the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company for two reasons: they needed something hauled cheaply, or they needed something hauled clandestinely. Davon realized that it wasn’t an act of kindness that prompted Couric to graciously offer to secure trip permits instead of sending his clerk; Couric did the job himself when he needed to head to the Crooks to get trip permits from a forger.

A perusal of the company’s records during his first week of work showed that the Aid Society had sent the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company to deliver at least one shipment a year to his beloved Frostbourne. Even more amusing, there were signatures of receipt from Saunders with handwriting nothing like his steward’s. And after some inquiries in town and a bit of time in the ledgers, it didn’t take much puzzling to understand why the two previous clerks had mysteriously gone missing, either.

While the numbers in the ledgers all added up neatly, there were marks and corrections that Davon suspected had more to do with cooking the books rather than correcting them. Even more suspicious, Couric—claiming that the Aid Society shipment was an important job—had volunteered to take over Davon’s work with procurement directly and take stock of the goods himself. Couric never did a lick of work he didn’t have to.

While Davon feared he would be dragged into some illegal scheme and arrested, he decided to stay on to try to ferret out what Couric was up to. Something nefarious was indeed afoot, and the longer he stayed, the worse it seemed. He could certainly go to the Lord High Sherriff and have Couric arrested on any number of minor fraud charges, but there was something bigger going on here. With the Aid Society shipments starting up, the time to press his investigation had come.

But for now, there spit and pecan shells needed attention. Obediently he fetched the broom and filled a bucket full of water from a well outside and headed into the main office. A scowling Couric sat at the desk rifling through some papers, mumbling curses under his breath about long winters in Bellshire.

I’ve got to get a look at that Aid Society shipment! Davon thought as he worked the broom. He was sure the nobles were being bilked, but he needed some sort of proof. If there was a problem with the numbers, then someone had gone through and scratched out and fixed them all. The falsified permits Davon had copies of and could prove. The mishandling of the funds, he could not.

“Watch what you’re doing, man!” Couric yelled when Davon tried to reach a wayward pecan shell near his employer’s boot and inadvertently swiped his leg with the broom bristles. “You’re a useless sack of dead rats! I need to hire me a woman around here.”

“Sorry, sir.” The thought of having a woman in company with Dales and Couric sent a shiver of revulsion up Davon’s spine. He swept and washed, and after standing to return the broom, Davon glanced at the desk and saw the procurement list for the Aid Society shipment written in Couric’s tortured handwriting right on the edge. Couric quickly shoved the document inside a book and placed the book on the shelf. Davon memorized its location and returned to work. There was really only one reason Couric didn’t assign the drudgery of writing out a procurement sheet to his clerk: something dishonest was going on with the shipment. Davon needed that piece of paper.

The next morning, he ventured to get it the mundane way.

“Mr. Masterson,” he said, “the Aid Society shipment leaves tomorrow. Would you like me to check the procurement sheet and make sure it matches with what we have in the warehouse?”

His employer turned a sour eye upon him. “I told you I would take care of the Aid Society shipment. I can’t have some idiot of an inexperienced clerk bungling it! You get back in your office. Spring’s here and you need to review the accounts of our regular customers so we can get this place in order for the busy season!”

At lunch Davon tried a new tack; he went to the warehouse directly. His duties often required him to confirm that what was to be hauled and that what was in the warehouse were in the quantities agreed upon. The men who worked there were little better than animals and heaped abuse on him with every visit. His large stature kept the abuse verbal, but Davon always kept his sabertooth daggers with him at all times tucked beneath his coat.

An added benefit of a trip to the warehouse was a stint outdoors in the sunshine and gradually warming breezes. Davon walked slowly, stretching his legs and taking stock of himself. He had expected the sedentary nature of his employment to weaken him as he had little chance to get outdoors as he customarily did in any season. But oddly, he found the opposite to be true. The longer the winter went on, the more fit he felt. Eyesight he thought would fatigue and blur had sharpened, and he swore he could see better at night than he ever had, though the city lamps might account for that. He slept soundly and rarely felt any exhaustion whatsoever.

Thoughts of Frostbourne would sometimes set a melancholy cloud upon him, but he felt increasingly at peace with his decision. A spirit unburdened by despair had certainly improved his health; the months and years of emotional torture had worn him down, drowning his ability to concentrate and turning every day into a trudge. For the first time in a long time he felt sharp, mentally and physically, and if he could procure a job he actually enjoyed with people less repugnant and frightening, he thought his life might actually approach pleasant. Once I figure out Couric’s little scheme, I’ll seek employment as a caravan guard, he thought. He wanted to get out and travel, though his lack of references might trip him up again.

He opened the door to the warehouse and stepped inside.

Quinn, the stupidest of the dumb ones snapped his head around. “Looks like the box counter’s here again, boys!”

Davon pulled the door shut behind him, careful not to drop the papers and quill he brought to keep up pretenses. The mongrel group of four men huddled around a crate littered with dice and crumpled, dirty bills. The ambient smell of strong drink signaled lunch time at the warehouse, though Davon doubted breakfast was ever a cause for abstinence.

“Hey! Harper!” Quinn yelled. “Why don’t you bring your sissy little clerk arms over here come over and roll the bones with us for a while? I need a new coat!”

He shuffled by the base men without comment. Retaliating against their insults only brought more abuse, and corrective instruction was useless.

The laughter faded behind him. They had few outgoing shipments as yet, mainly seed grain and corn for farmers. The Aid Society’s shipment, the next to leave, would be closest to the loading doors. He wound his way around the sacks of grain and found nothing; the space in front of the doors was completely clear.

Where are the goods? They should be here by now. From what little Couric had explained, the nobles’ money was spent buying foodstuffs, blankets, clothing, and the like, and the shipments went to where reports indicated they were needed. Couric had received no reports that Davon was aware of, but the ice miners in the north were always talked about as the most unfortunate people in Bittermarch.

Two hands thrust themselves between the large double loading doors, and moments later the heavy doors were parted as easily as curtains by the massive Dales. Light flooded over Davon, squinting his eyes, Dales a dark abyss in the midst of the wall of sunshine.

“Flame and flood! What’re you doin’ here, Harper?” the Caravan Master demanded.

Davon lifted his hands to his eyes and waited for his vision to adjust. Dales advanced toward him, stride slow but purposeful. Behind him, Davon could make out wagons in the street. The goods, perhaps? The wagons carried oblong boxes and reinforced barrels, not what Davon would expect for clothes and foodstuffs. Dales’s shadow engulfing him set his thoughts to racing; the Caravan Master was deliberately blocking his view of the newly arrived shipment.

“Making a count of the seed, Dales,” Davon answered as calmly and innocently as he could. “Is that the shipment for the Aid Society? I could inventory it now.”

Dale stared a fury at him and Davon swallowed. Where do men like him come from? His mother must be a mammoth.

“You git!” Dales roared, pointing his thick finger toward the door Davon had originally come in.

Davon knew protesting was useless and turned to go, threading his way back through the stacks of seed. If Dales told Couric he had been down in the warehouse counting the seed again, there would be trouble. Davon had completed that job and turned in his report two days ago.

“Quinn!” Dales bellowed, his crushing voice easily filling the massive space. “When you hear them doors opening you get your arses over here! You get slow and I’ll rip out your spine and use it to whip the rest a ya lazy louts! Get the stuff off them wagons!”

The strong-backed idiots fled their gambling table and raced to the doors, Quinn bumping Davon on the way by, sending the ink sliding off its perch on the book. Without thinking, Davon caught it right-side up in midair with his other hand and grinned; his reflexes were still as good as ever.

Once out the warehouse door, he went directly to the office, finding Mr. Masterson absent. The book in which his employer had hidden the manifest waited temptingly on the edge of the table. Peeking outside the door and finding Couric nowhere on the street, Davon sprinted to the table and flipped through the book’s pages, finding the sheet of paper folded up near the middle.

He opened it eagerly and scanned it, finding it surprisingly mundane. There were eight wagon loads, four with sacks of pinto beans, two with blankets, and two with clothing. All the amounts were very standard and expected.

Why had Mr. Couric tried so hard to conceal the list from him? If the wagons outside were the supposed Aid Society goods arriving, then Davon knew why: the wagons being unloaded by Quinn and his gang were not full of pinto beans. The list in the book was the front for what was really being loaded. It was the list they would hand to the permit office. The permit office had the right to inspect every load, but in his months of working for the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, not one inspector had ever come.

There has to be another list somewhere, Davon thought. Or perhaps there wouldn’t be. If they were smuggling something illegally, why would they keep a record? Surely a requisition order for the impostor goods had to have been written somewhere, but where to look? He flipped through the book already I his hand, finding nothing. The best evidence, of course, was being unloaded at that very moment by Quinn and his brutes. Time was critical. If he could have an officer inspect the load before it left, then Couric and Dales would be exposed. Davon had to wait until Mr. Masterson filed the permit so that the fake list of goods would be in play, and then someone needed to see what was in the wagons.

Couric’s step on the stair shocked Davon into action. In horror, he realized he’d lost the page where the document had been stored. Shoving it roughly in the middle, he put the book on the table and turned to go back to his office just as Couric came inside.

“What’re you doing out here, Harper?” Couric asked grumpily.

Davon sat down. He hated lying. He was horrible at it, even though his entire life had become one. But he knew how to avoid answering Mr. Masterson’s questions. “What was that, Mr. Masterson?” he asked as off-handedly as possible.

“I said…oh, never mind.”

Worked every time.

An hour later, Couric left briefly and came back, asking Davon to hand over the newly written Trip Permit Request form. As hard as Davon tried, he couldn’t read the man. His moods were consistently unpleasant to a fault.

“I’m going for the permit,” Couric said. “You keep at the ledgers. I think you’ll be working late tonight.”

Working late? Something was off, but he couldn’t worry about it now. Davon waited for the door to slam shut before executing another fruitless search through his boss’s office for a list of the real goods. Conceding defeat, he returned to his worn, wooden desk, trying to do actual work while his mind spun. Mr. Masterson returned a while later, permit in hand. The old man slumped into his chair and pulled a flask out of his coat, drinking and humming to himself.

Davon exhaled, time crawling by. His mind raced over the possibility that he was getting himself into serious danger. He tapped his pen, his foot, and spent half the day staring out the window until evening fogged it almost too thickly to see through. Outside on the street the warehouse workers shuffled by in the gathering dark, some jovial, others exhausted and worn out. Drudgery affected people in different ways, it seemed. Those who survived with a shred of happiness somehow found joy in long, dull days, a talent Davon had yet to grasp.

Mr. Masterson poked his head in. “David,” he said, tone approaching polite, “I realize I’ve been a bit heavy handed about this Aid Society business. How about I buy you a drink and explain the whole thing to you?”

Suspicion bloomed in Davon’s mind. This was the first time Couric had ever used his first name or had invited him to anything. He could hardly refuse, so he nodded, stood, and followed Couric out into the chilly evening, finding his employer heading toward the Crooks.

“Are we headed to the Iron Hand?” Davon asked. The job posting in the window there was what had led him to the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, and the establishment was close to the dismal apartment he had rented. It was a great place for gossip and scuttlebutt.

“Nah. I know a nice place across the river in Southgate that has some tasty serving wenches.”

Davon swallowed, hair prickling on his neck. Couric would not bother walking that far or spend any money on an employee. The missing Samwell Biggs likely walked this same road last fall. Davon steeled himself. This would be his last day at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, one way or another. His senses sharpened and focused, the night springing to life. He remembered the thin knife that Couric always carried with him for peeling oranges—and apparently a clerk or two.

Davon turned to Couric. “Do you mind if we stop by my apartment? It’s on the way and I’d like to change my coat for something a little more festive—for the ladies.”

Now Couric grimaced. “Just be quick about it.”

A few minutes later, they found Sparks Lane and Davon turned down the alley that led to his poor apartment, Couric walking casually behind and whistling to himself. Every nerve on edge, Davon approached his door and inserted the key in the lock. Couric’s boot scraped on the cobbles, the heat of his employer’s sour breath on the back of his neck.

Chapter 9

Davon clenched his jaw and stepped inside his humble one room apartment. The rasp of Couric’s thin bladed knife sliding out of its stiff leather sheath set Davon into motion. He stepped forward and spun, catching his boss flat-footed behind him holding the knife awkwardly, eyes darting around as if looking for some explanation he could offer as to why he had a weapon at the ready.

Before the wretched man could act, Davon sprang forward, grabbing Couric by the neck with his right hand and catching his knife hand by the wrist with his left. Couric struggled, but Davon held him firm, pinning him against the wall with a thud.

“I guess we know where all those missing clerks are, don’t we, Mr. Masterson? Did they figure out your little scheme, too? Did you send them into the river for a nice swim?”

Couric’s eyes bulged in the soft light coming in through the open door to the alley. His constricted breath came fast. “Now wait a minute, Harper! I’ll pay. I can make it worth your while. Just let me go and walk away.”

Davon banged Couric’s wrist against the wall and he dropped the knife. “What are in those boxes and barrels you’re shipping out tomorrow? Not blankets and beans, surely.”

“The less you know, the better, Mr. Harper. Trust me. Let me fetch the money and you can be on your way.” The old rascal trembled under Davon’s hands.

Davon pulled him away from the wall and dumped him roughly into a worn wooden chair, the only furniture in the room besides a bed and a small table. I’ve got some rope in here somewhere. “I don’t want your filthy money, Mr. Masterson. I’ll fetch the sheriff and see if we can’t get to the bottom of this.” He may not know much, Davon mused as he cast his eyes about the room, finding the rope snaking out from under the bed. I can’t imagine anyone with a real scheme entrusting secrets to this man.

To get the rope, Davon had to relax his grip on the fearful man. As soon as Davon lifted his hand, Couric bolted out of the chair and toward the door. Davon was on him in a second, using his momentum to shove his boss into the doorframe. A sickening crack and dull thud later, Davon dragged the unconscious man back to the chair and secured him to it with the rope he had kept after he had sold his horse. He lit a candle, a pool of light falling over his prisoner. A dark protrusion decorated his forehead. Davon hoped he hadn’t shoved him too hard; the man had a lot to account for.

He searched Couric’s coat, finding a flask, what seemed a bushel’s-worth of pecan shells, and what he had hoped for: the signed travel permit with a list of the goods approved for shipping. It matched the innocuous list he had found in the book. Couric hadn’t given the permit to Dales yet. That meant that the caravan was going nowhere, at least not legally. Legality, Davon reminded himself, was no obstacle for the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company. He had to act quickly.

After shoving the permit in an inner pocket of his coat and checking the knots that held Mr. Masterson to the chair, Davon snuffed the candle with his fingertips. This was his chance. He could go to the warehouse and see for himself what the crates and barrels contained and then alert the authorities to the fraud. He locked the door behind him and headed out into the night, a cool drizzle layering the cobblestone street with a sheen in the lamplight. Despite the damp weather, a fair smattering of low folk walked the twisted ways of the Crooks, faces slackened by a day of menial labor or a few pints of ale.

Davon quickened his pace, wondering what would become of him. Shoving one’s boss into a doorframe was as good as a letter of resignation he joked to himself, trying in vain to dispel the fire in his veins. Since the traveling season was coming on, he hoped he could fulfill his wish and start as a caravan guard. No more cramped offices and small windows. He had to admit, however, that it felt good to be about something important, thanking the Flame for leading him to a place that gave him purpose in his self-imposed exile.

As he neared the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, he pulled himself up short. Someone had lighted a lantern in the main office and he could hear the din of men and horses on the far side of the warehouse near the loading doors. Are they loading tonight? Leaving? The permit was for tomorrow, but if one were hauling illegal goods, just after midnight would be tomorrow enough. Walking softly, he cracked the side door to the warehouse and slipped inside, hoping Quinn and the half-ox Dales would be occupied on the opposite end.

After closing the door behind him, he crouched down behind a stack of corn seed. The loading doors were open, three lanterns illuminating the loading platform and casting deep shadows behind the rest of the stacked goods. Quinn and three of his cohorts were hauling the barrels and boxes that had arrived earlier, setting them on four of Dales’s wagons, though the brute himself was nowhere to be found. Whatever the boxes and barrels contained, it was beastly heavy, the slightly inebriated warehouse hands grunting and groaning with herniating exertion as they hauled and hefted the cargo.

Four wagons instead of eight. The Boot and Wheel Caravan Company was so cheap that they didn’t even bother to send wagons with fake goods to fill out the compliment listed on the fraudulent permit. Such trickery was only a moderate risk. Few loads were ever inspected, and even those that were could sneak by the underpaid inspectors with a little coin from the caravan master.

Having half the wagons missing from a caravan would be hard for even the most corrupt of inspectors to pass over, however. One of the reasons all the permit bureaucracy existed was to make sure goods and wagons just didn’t wander off mid-trip. Before this caravan left, Mr. Masterson would have to sign a paper that eight wagon loads of clothes, blankets, and beans left his warehouse at such and such a time. He wouldn’t be available for that chore tonight.

In a few minutes the loading was done and Quinn and his crew leaned against the walls and drank. How could he get a look at that cargo now? Davon thought hard, gathered his courage, and stepped out toward the loading doors, walking nonchalantly in the direction of Quinn and his three helpers. They regarded him with surprise and even a little fear, looking at each other with wide eyes as if waiting for someone to take the initiative and decide what to do.

Davon pulled the permit from his coat. “Have you seen Dales?” he asked calmly. “Mr. Masterson told me that I needed to give this to him right now or he’d have me locked in my office for a week.”

Quinn relaxed a little, though suspicion never left his brow. “He’s in the office waiting for Mr. Masterson. Didn’t you see him?”

“No. Mr. Masterson said he would be here so I didn’t step into the office. Is the shipment leaving early?”

Quinn glared at him and stepped forward. “That ain’t your business.”

The door to the warehouse banged open behind him and Davon swallowed hard. Dales didn’t open doors, he bullied them, and the heavy boot-steps and steady undercurrent of swearing could only mean one thing: the beastly man was in a foul mood. Davon spun, Dales’s round, tan face emerging into the lamplight.

“What’re you doin’ here, Harper?” he yelled, his tone indicating that Davon was mere moments away from being pounded into jelly.

Davon thrust the permit out like a shield, trying not to flinch. “Mr. Masterson told me to bring this to you immediately. He had to run home for something and said to give you this. He told me to tell you he was going to take me out for a drink later.”

Quinn and his boys snickered. Perhaps they knew what Mr. Masterson’s drinking invitations meant. Dales snatched the permit roughly out of Davon’s hand and looked it over. He can read? Never in Davon’s most generous imaginings did Dales possess any civilized refinements. Would he do mathematics and write poetry next?

“He didn’t sign it!” Dales roared. He shoved the permit inside of his shirt and nodded to Quinn, who returned a wicked grin.

“Close ‘er up, boys!” Quinn ordered, removing a large, nicked knife he always had tucked in his boot and pointing it in Davon’s direction. Quinn’s three companions worked at the unwieldy doors, and they squealed as they ran along their track. Reading the murderous intent in Quinn’s eyes, Davon yelled for help, hoping to attract the notice of anyone nearby. He continued his hue and cry until the doors boomed shut, sealing him away from the outside world. Despite the cool air of the warehouse, Davon had to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“Be quick about it,” Dales said to Quinn, turning back toward the inner door while the four men closed on Davon. Words were useless. Davon stowed his unnecessary glasses in his coat pocket and pulled out the two sabertooth daggers he had tucked away in his belt, twirling them with an instinctive flourish he hadn’t practiced. The ruffians’ advance stalled.

“Uh, Dales!” Quinn exclaimed, halting the behemoth’s progress toward the door. Davon took advantage of the distraction and leapt forward, slicing Quinn’s knife arm. He dropped his weapon with a yelp and instinctively backed away, staunching the blood with his other hand. Davon sensed rather than heard a man behind him and mule kicked hard. A boot heel to the groin collapsed his foe.

Davon turned to face the other two, testing their resolve by feinting forward. Both flinched back. Davon picked the one holding a knife and charged. The liquor in his target’s veins certainly slowed his reactions, and the defense came too slowly. The sabertooth dagger cut through the sweat-soaked shirt leaving a gash across his victim’s chest. The man roared in pain and stumbled back into the loading doors. Behind Davon, the one he had kicked struggled to regain his feet while the only uninjured one held back, waiting for support.

I can’t let them work together. As long as they did not gang up on him, Davon knew he stood a chance. With a quick turn and step he raised and crossed his knives, bringing them down in a vicious stroke and cutting an x into the chest of the man who had just risen. He dropped again as the fourth man finally took a chance, barreling full force at Davon with a shout of determination. Davon spun gracefully out of the way and stabbed him in the lower back on the way by. The man screamed and arched backwards, dropping to the floor hard, red blooming on his shirt while he writhed.

Quinn, having recovered from the shock of his wound, retrieved his knife and flung it at Davon with every ounce of force his arm could muster. The weapon hissed through the air. Without thinking, Davon batted the knife out of its trajectory with the dagger in his left hand, sending the weapon harmlessly into the stacks of seed. Clerking should have dulled his natural athleticism, but he was more alive and aware than he could ever remember.

The warehouse hands now injured and cowed, Davon faced Dales the mammoth-man, who regarded him with curiosity and even a hint of respect. Dales’s abyssal eyes seemed like water on a dark lake, deep, cold, and dangerous. Davon backed away slowly as Dales strode forward out of the shadows. But rather than attack, he took a detour.

With an expressionless face, Dales brought up a heavy boot and crushed the head of the man Davon had kicked and slashed. The awful crunch sent a shock up Davon’s spine. What is he doing? With similar unfeeling brutality Dales crushed the spine of the other fallen man on the floor. Quinn and the other worker huddled next to the loading doors, faces white with terror.

Dales’s eyes fell on Davon. “So what are you then?” he asked, voice having lost its usual harsh edge and low class diction. He sounded almost…civilized. “A Queen’s man?”

“Aren’t we all?” Davon replied, not quite grasping his meaning.

Dales grinned and thundered forward, teeth clenched. With speed not natural for one of such bulk, Dales aimed a fist for Davon’s head. Davon needed all of his newfound prowess just to slip out of the way in time. The punch hit the warehouse doors. The impact broke the board completely in half and sent a shudder reverberating through the building.

Davon swung his knife toward Dales’s exposed ribs, but the brute used his offhand to knock the thrust away. Even such a simple movement possessed the power to send Davon skidding to his left, fighting to remain standing. He regained a stable stance, finding Quinn and his companion slinking away into the back of the warehouse. Dales followed Davon’s gaze and turned, pulling his two pistols from his belt. With brutal precision, he gunned them both down with precisely aimed shots to the head.

Davon pitched one of his daggers at his enemy’s exposed back, landing it in the man’s meaty shoulder. Dales flinched but did not cry out. After discarding his spent one-shot pistols, he reached over with his opposite hand and pulled the knife out.

“A fine little blade, Mr. Harper,” he said, flinging it aside and away from Davon.

A watery stain began to run down Dales’s back as he turned to face his prey. Face void of emotion, Dales tore at him, massive footfalls shaking the ground. Davon, wide-eyed and knife at the ready, awaited the charge, crouched and ready to spring. If the Caravan Master took him to the ground, the advantage would irrevocably be the larger man’s. He couldn’t let him get his arms around him, either. Dales leapt for his midsection, hand reaching out to snare him. With nowhere else to go, Davon jumped straight up, bringing his knees up to his chest.

Dales reacted by raising his hands at the last moment, catching the tip of Davon’s boots and sending him tumbling forward through the air. Dales landed hard on the ground, dust billowing into the lantern light. Davon surprised himself by completing the flip and landing on his feet perfectly balanced. The shock of his own good fortune nearly cost him his life as Dales immediately pushed back with his arms and clamped his legs shut. Davon tried to jump out of the way, but one foot got caught in the vice. Pain erupted up his leg and he fell hard onto his backside, stabbing out at a meaty leg with the fury of a wounded animal.

The knife sunk deep into Dales’s calf and the vice released. Both men rolled away from each other and struggled to their feet. Chests heaving with exertion, they regarded one another. To Davon’s surprise, his knife in his hand was wet but not bloody. Dales appeared to have sustained no injury, standing on the wounded leg as if nothing had happened. Davon winced as his bruised ankle forced him to hobble as they circled one another.

“Hello there!” someone yelled from outside the loading door. A man’s face peeked through the hole Dales’s fist had created. “The Watch is coming!”

“Tell them to hurry!” Davon returned. “These men are trying to kill me!”

Dales grunted and made his way to the loading doors, keeping his eyes on Davon. Davon had no thought for attack. He would let the City Watch deal with Dales, who, with a single arm, yanked open a loading door and slipped outside. Davon retrieved his other dagger and limped after him cautiously. The man who had called for the Watch had sense enough to stay out of the way as Dales mounted the lead wagon and with a swat of the reins pulled away into the night.

“I thank you,” Davon said to the white-faced man now gawking at the carnage inside the warehouse. Noticing the man’s fearful gaze at the daggers, Davon sheathed them both.

Now for a look inside the crates. He limped back to the driverless wagons, horses nervously stamping at the cobblestones as he circled around the back. Running men approached from the street and Davon turned to face them. The City Watch gathered in the light of the warehouse lanterns.

“Hold it there, Mister,” the first said, leveling his pistol at Davon’s chest. His ash gray uniform had one stripe. A young deputy. Davon held up his hands in a gesture of innocence.

“The man you want has just fled, officer,” Davon explained. “His companions are dead inside. Send men to search for a wagon driven by a large man named Dales. It carries the same kind of cargo as these here.”

Four more of the Watch approached warily. “We’ll get your story, Mister. Keep those arms up.”

“But he’s getting away!”

“I’ll send more men when I’m sure of what’s going on,” the officer said, surveying the bodies in the warehouse. “Your handiwork, eh? You’ve got a long evening ahead of you, Mister…?”

“Harper. David Harper, at your service.”

Chapter 10

The Lord High Sheriff. Davon could hardly believe it. He had hoped the matter would, at most, result in a couple of interviews with captains of the City Watch, but as soon as he heard one of the officers say, “quadruple homicide,” he knew his plans to hand over the evidence and waltz off into the city were naïve. After two hours of interrogation by a diffident and soft-spoken Captain Gunwale, he heard the dreaded pronouncement: “Get the Lord High Sheriff out of bed and get this man and Mr. Masterson to the palace for interrogation.”

As they led him at gunpoint through the quiet, dark streets of Bellshire, his imagination conjured up images of spike-covered torture devices in a dimly lit and reeking portion of the Queen’s dungeon. The reality, fortunately, proved much more accommodating. Captain Gunwale shoved him into a windowless room on the bottom floor of the palace, a room that was several times the superior of the apartment he had rented for the past several months. A simple but commodious bed beckoned to him, while a table, washbasin, and armoire completed the furnishings. Not quite fit for a noble, but more than adequate for a commoner. The fire had even been lit.

A puffy eyed Lord High Sheriff, accompanied by a couple of officers, entered an hour later. While not in the same realm of size as the hulking Dales, the Lord High Sheriff stood tall and wide. He had gray hair and a mustache used to curling, but the late hour rendered it a little limp. Davon greeted him with a bow and asked him to sit, which he declined. The sheriff measured Davon with a stern gaze and then started the interview the same way as Captain Gunwale, asking about his background, scrutinizing the evidence he had provided, and picking over the details of the deadly encounter in the warehouse.

“Surely you have inspected the load by now,” Davon said after explaining the particulars again. “What was in the crates?”

The Lord High Sheriff, who had paced for the entire interrogation, rounded on him from across the room. “That’s none of your business at present. I will tell you, Mr. Harper, that Mr. Masterson, whom I interviewed first, paints quite a different picture of the whole affair. By his account, you are a fiend and an embezzler. Fortunately for you, I am quite convinced that Mr. Masterson is a filthy scoundrel. Be aware, however, that my poor opinion of him in no way improves my opinion of you. You look the clerk and clearly are or were a man of quality, but not everything about you fits. After decades of working the streets, I can smell a man hiding something just as sure as I can smell rum sweat on an alley drunk.”

“I give you my word—” Davon began.

The Lord High Sheriff interrupted him with a sardonic belly laugh. “Give me your word! Might as well close the investigation now, right, because of your word? Flame and flood. I’ve had enough words given to me that I could fill the pages of a book—a thick one, mind you. I’d much rather criminals give me a fine country ham than their word. At least I can do something useful with a ham.” The sheriff walked toward the door. “You get some rest, Mr. Harper. We should be at the bottom of this mess tomorrow. Nice sabertooth daggers, by the way,” he said of Davon’s confiscated weaponry. “We don’t see that kind of craft here in the city. I almost hope you’re guilty so I can keep them.”

Davon thought his worries and curiosity would keep sleep at bay that evening, but the opposite proved true. His alleyway apartment was a breeding ground for noise. If the neighbor’s children above him weren’t jumping up and down until the ceiling seemed ready to crack asunder, the cats outside would launch into an early morning scuffle over the innards of a rat. The streets of the Crooks never slept, or if they did, they slept poorly. The palace apartment was as quiet as a coffin in a crypt, and when the officer pounded on the door in the morning, Davon sat bolt upright with the delightful realization that he had actually enjoyed hours of uninterrupted sleep.

After a stretch, he stepped out of bed and tested his ankle, finding it balky and stiff. Thankfully, it wasn’t sprained or broken, and after a bit of use loosened up. He washed his face and replaced his shirt and jacket. A plate of breakfast came next, a delicious offering of toasted bread, eggs, and the Sheriff’s apparent favorite, ham. He savored it all, grateful for the departure from the apples and crusty bread that his paltry pay made standard fare for morning meals. After polishing off the toast, he licked the butter from his fingers. Perhaps being the Queen’s prisoner would be a suitable profession if I can’t manage caravan guard. He hadn’t felt so rested and well fed in months.

The door banged open just as he drank the last of the mulled cider, and the Lord High Sheriff entered looking prim and proper in a pressed uniform of black and gold. His puffy eyes betrayed that he had not passed his night as comfortably as his prisoner. Davon stood and bowed.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, voice a little hoarse. “The Queen wants to interview the both of you personally.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Out with you.”

Numb, Davon grabbed his shabby coat and followed the Lord High Sheriff out the door. Would the Queen recognize him? While he had corresponded with the Queen a great deal, he had presented himself personally to Filippa only twice while he was still a Baron—once upon coming into his majority and claiming his estate, and the second time to seek her favor to marry Emile Ironhorn nearly four years ago. Surely the Queen saw so many faces that his bespectacled, bearded disguise and apparent poverty would suffice. Then again, she was Flametouched, and her gift one of discernment.

He swallowed hard, feeling a little sweaty, and not from the temperature. The light slanting in through the pointed arch windows put the time at mid-morning. How he wished he could get outdoors and enjoy views of pale green leaves struggling to emerge from the branches as spring took hold. As if to spite the horrors of the night before, the day shone cheerily, birds flitting from sky to branch and back to the sky again. If this interview didn’t go well, he might never see them again.

As they neared the antechamber to the Queen’s Hall, a grumpy, bound Mr. Masterson sneered at him from around two guards that held him fast. Davon wondered why he himself wasn’t similarly restrained.

“There you are ya ruddy bastard!” Mr. Masterson spat, straining at his irons. “Told the sheriff a long story, I’m sure. You always had it out for me. The truth will out, Mr. Harper. I’ll show ‘em what you really are!”

“Shut your mouth or I’ll knock the teeth out of your head,” the sheriff warned.

Couric grumbled something incomprehensibly to himself and fixed his eyes on Davon with a stare that would have cured meat. Davon ignored him, wondering why this wasn’t heading to the courts. Having a matter brought to the direct attention of the Queen after only one night’s investigation seemed odd. While he knew four murdered men were not to be taken lightly, that the Queen would take a personal interest so quickly seemed extraordinary. Perhaps she felt her honor bruised by the fraud perpetrated upon the Aid Society, a cause she had personally endorsed. If Mr. Masterson failed to convince her of his innocence, the rest of his life would either be very short or very miserable. Maybe both.

At length, the doors ponderously opened, revealing the ox statue at the entrance to the hall. The Lord High Sheriff and his men prodded him forward. Davon pushed his fake glasses up closer to his eyes, stooped as if he had been clerking for fifty years, and exaggerated the limp from his aching ankle. His hat he had to doff in the Queen’s presence, but he hoped his thick beard and common clothing would render him unrecognizable even to Filippa’s sharp gaze.

With a stately stride the Lord High Sheriff led them forward. Davon and Couric came up behind on either side, each flanked by a soldier. Few nobles populated the gallery for the morning inquiry, for which Davon was grateful. The Queen of Bittermarch leaned on the armrest of her throne, chin in her hand. Her elderly countenance was troubled, but as they entered her piercing gaze took them all in. Abruptly she smiled, failing to stifle a surging laugh. Davon swallowed hard. When she composed herself, her mouth was turned up in amusement, though her eyes exuded severity.

“What rabble have you brought me this morning?” the Queen asked the Lord High Sheriff. “I somehow expected the perpetrators of this atrocity to be a bit more grandiose. These two appear to be a couple of scrawny rats from the Crooks.”

The sheriff bowed. “And so they are, Your Grace. Nonetheless, the matter is grave, as I am sure you are well aware. How should you like to proceed?”

“Let them speak, by all means. Mr. Masterson, are you aware of the charges leveled against you by your clerk?” she asked.

“That I am, Your Ladyship. All a pack of rotten tripe invented by this wooly-faced fart!”

The Lord High Sheriff smacked Couric upside the head. “Watch your language or I’ll lop your tongue off.”

Filippa let Couric shovel up his side of the tale, light though it was on details but heavy on insults for the ‘rascal David Harper.’ The Queen listened carefully and silently, letting Couric vent and plead and accuse. Davon hardly felt threatened by any of Couric’s nervous and barely coherent testimony; he was more terrified that someone would recognize him.

“Thank you, Mr. Masterson,” the Queen said once Couric had finished. “Now, Mr. Harper, correct?”

“Yes, My Lady.”

“You seem unperturbed by your employer impugning your honor in nearly every conceivable way. Do you have a better tale to tell or simply no honor to impugn?”

“I am simply comfortable in the truth, Your Highness,” he stated confidently. “Unlike the accusations of Mr. Masterson, mine are accompanied by evidence and proof. You have the documents I collected as well as the seized wagons. I don’t doubt that given a little time, the Lord High Sheriff will find more witnesses and evidence beyond what I have already provided. I shall be exonerated from the charges Mr. Masterson has levied against me and the full treachery of the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company will be exposed. I stand ready to provide testimony at your convenience.”

“He’s a bloody liar!” Couric yelled. “Don’t listen—”

The Queen stood with some effort. “You will keep your tongue, Mr. Masterson,” she scolded sharply. “I’ve yet to take the full measure of Mr. Harper, but you? You are a scoundrel, a thief, and a murderer. Sheriff, remove him, please. Find one of our more unpleasant cells and dump him in it.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

She returned to her seat and waited while the guards guided a red-faced, shaking Couric, from the room. The Queen folded her hands in her lap, Davon suffering under her searching stare for several moments.

“Now, Mr. Harper,” she said, “if you would be so kind as to relate to me how you came to work for the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, how you became aware of the mishandling of the Aid Society funds, and what your motivations were for coming forward. Spare no detail, and please, be thorough when you describe the events that precipitated the murders yesterday evening. Your freedom and your life depend upon it.”

Davon nodded and began, retelling the lie about his fabricated past and then relating the entire affair. The Queen and the Lord High Sheriff listened intently, and halfway through his tale, the audience in the gallery started to swell, owing, he supposed, to news of the incident spreading about town. Davon spoke with confidence but also with growing discomfiture as the weight of more and more eyes bore down upon him. Hardly anyone in the gallery breathed as he told of the final scuffle between Dales and his thugs, and once finished, he thought his ordeal and his actions had earned him a bit of respect all around.

“As for my motives, Your Grace,” he finished, “I had no other object than the welfare of the Kingdom and righting a clear wrong perpetrated by base and vile men. As I stated previously, I stand ready to give my testimony to any court where this case will be heard.”

The Queen smiled now, head resting on her hand. “This is the only court necessary for this particular matter. Since the Aid Society was a cause I supported, I wished to hear this case personally. My gift of discernment tells me you are in earnest, Mr. Harper. Indeed, such a man of principle and courage is a rare find these days. Forgive me if we keep you cooped up for a while longer while the matter is more thoroughly investigated, though I promise you better accommodations than those Couric will enjoy.”

“I am at your service, and thank Your Ladyship for your consideration,” he said, genuflecting.

“Very well,” she replied, “but one last question. Now that your employment is at an end, what will you do for your own support?”

“I have yet to resolve that matter as my previous employment ended rather abruptly.”

She smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”

“Your Grace?”

“Why, you shall work for me. Once we have fully settled on your innocence—and I am sure it will take but a few days—you will report to my Head Clerk, Mr. Lambert, and serve there as an underclerk. It may not surprise you that the underclerk who handled the Aid Society funds has up and vanished, and thus a position has opened up. We could use a suspicious set of eyes during these treacherous times. Does this please you?”

He thought to ask if he might serve under the Huntsman or even the Carriage Guard instead, but he didn’t wish to jeopardize his unexpected good fortune. “You are very generous, Your Grace. I will accept, if you wish it.”

“Very good. Sheriff, find a nice room for Mr. Harper to stay in for a few days. One with a window, I think. Afford him every comfort.”

The Lord High Sheriff bowed. By his countenance, Davon could tell he wasn’t as convinced as the Queen of ‘Mr. Harper’s’ credit and character.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” he replied before signaling Davon and the remaining soldier to leave the Hall.

Davon followed obediently behind, grateful to escape the curious gaze and excited comments erupting from the gallery. Once out of the hall, he reaffixed his hat.

An underclerk. Davon shook his head. Not ideal, though it did afford him one opportunity. When he had left Frostbourne behind, he thought he would have little opportunity to aid the Queen in rooting out what she clearly believed was a burgeoning conspiracy in the North. Now, here in Bellshire, it appeared that he might be of some use to her still. And he had a good place to start nosing about.

At the very least, he wouldn’t be sweeping up pecan shells and swabbing up Dales’s spit.

Chapter 11

Davon spent a scant two days in his pleasantly appointed prison, and as nice as his accommodations were, the absolute lack of anything useful to do nearly drove him mad. Not to mention being forced to watch for hours as the glorious spring days marched by outside his window while he paced back and forth, chewing on the mystery of the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company.

The only bit of news he could pry out of the guards who brought him his very filling meals was that Couric Masterson had hung himself in his cell mere hours after being confined there. Davon didn’t believe it, not for a second. How convenient that someone with intimate knowledge of the Aid Society fraud would kill himself before the sheriff could wrangle the information out of him.

So when the Lord High Sheriff let him go, and after he had paid a visit to Mr. Lambert in the accounting office, Davon paid a personal visit to the Queen’s anatomist, a Mr. Breakman. While the man seemed a little unhinged, he certainly knew his way around cadavers. Mr. Breakman had found nothing unusual about Couric Masterson’s corpse. The wretch had died by hanging, and that was that.

The next day he had formally taken his position as underclerk in Mr. Lambert’s office, and by the time introductions and training were over, he barely had a chance to peruse the Aid Society ledger before some of the sheriff’s men requisitioned it. It didn’t seem helpful, anyway, unless the fact that northern nobles contributed twenty-percent more to the fund than southern ones was relevant. He was sure the northern nobles took every opportunity to pat themselves on the back for their charitable superiority.

And then information seemed nearly impossible to get. For two months he learned the trade of clerking from Mr. Lambert. The Queen’s Head Clerk was kind but fidgety. He was older, in his sixties or so, round face decorated by shallow wrinkles and age spots. The thick, circular lenses of his spectacles magnified his smallish brown eyes just past a normal size.

And he was a task master. Mr. Lambert kept Davon so busy that he had little time to continue his investigations. Any chance encounter with the sheriff and his men yielded nothing save increasingly rude admonitions to mind his own business, and he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to engage any nobles for news for fear they would see through his disguise.

And so life in the settled and predictable clerking office started to feel a bit confining and more than a little boring until a message arrived from the Queen. When Davon had accepted the parchment colored envelope from Queen Filippa’s secretary one week ago, he had thought little of the invitation inside, extended to himself and Mr. Lambert, to attend the Queen’s first of summer party in nearby Harrickshire. Of course he would accept; any chance to get out of doors and to explore unfamiliar country was welcome.

But to his surprise, Mr. Lambert was horrified. The man was smart, but did not like any deviation from routine, and the invitation had nearly thrown him into a panic. What Davon had not understood, and what Mr. Lambert’s reaction informed him of, was that clerks were never invited to the annual event in Harrickshire. The glorified picnic in one of the more scenic valleys in Bellshire was always strictly the domain of nobles and aristocracy.

Of course, servants to serve and to pack and to drive the carriages went along to offer their necessary services, but Mr. Lambert wondered how his skills and the skills of one particular underclerk among many would be of use in fields, forests, and the thick of those well above their station. For the next week, Mr. Lambert dissected every word of the invitation. It distinctly referred to him and David Harper as guests, indicating they were “required” to enjoy themselves rather than engage in any useful task.

“Perhaps she means to have some business done,” Mr. Lambert speculated and dismissed and re-speculated. “Or to have us take an accounting of exactly how much is spent or used.”

Davon thought that the same detail oriented, hound dog of a mind that served Mr. Lambert so well in the concrete world of numbers and sums completely failed him when the unexpected arose. The closer the date for the party, the more nervous and fidgety Mr. Lambert became about the whole affair until Davon feared the man would sicken himself to the point of being unable to attend.

Fortunately, when the morning of the party arrived, sunny, pleasant, and full of promise, Mr. Lambert had resigned himself to his fate. While clearly not looking forward to the event, he had donned his white pants and blue jacket and chosen a book to read for pleasure. “I’d suggest you bring along some reading, too, Mr. Harper,” he advised. “The Flame knows the nobility won’t have a word to say to either of us.”

“I’m rather counting on that,” Davon replied. Donning his familiar and comfortable hunting garb that morning affixed a long overdue smile on his face. He considered bringing his rifle but thought better of it; it would attract too much attention in the hands of a clerk.

“Counting on it?” Mr. Lambert asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I don’t intend on mingling with anyone. I’ve never been to Harrickshire and want to wander around a bit. You could come along. I doubt we’ll be missed.”

“Faugh!” Mr. Lambert exclaimed. “I’m hardly spry enough to go clomping about in the rocks and branches, Mr. Harper. I warn you, the Queen might take it amiss if you traipse off. She would have only invited us if she had a particular reason.”

Davon shrugged and hoisted his leather bag over his shoulder. He had purchased a book to amuse himself, but he certainly wouldn’t be reading it surrounded by noise and games and noble foppery. He pictured himself by a cold mountain stream, leaning against and old pine while the sun warmed his legs. A nap in the outdoors, a hike up an unfamiliar hill, the clean air in his lungs—everything he had ever wanted.

As the hour of eight approached, they left the palace through the back entrance and circled around to the courtyard. A sea of brightly colored women in light shawls milled about chattering with each other, while the men compared guns and dogs and got a head start on the drinking. The number of carriages and wagons commissioned for the event was truly staggering, stretching for nearly a quarter mile from the palace round to the Flame Cathedral. Among the throng of Lords and Ladies were some acquaintances he had formed during his brief visits to court before his faked death. Davon worried they might recognize him on sight, but as had proven true during his previous weeks of service in Queen Filippa’s court, the lack of a title and a change of clothes quickly rendered one invisible to the noble eye.

“Are my clerks ready to enjoy a little holiday?”

Davon startled, as did Mr. Lambert, who had already delved into his reading while they waited off to one side of the palace steps. Queen Filippa, having approached from behind them, smiled at them both as they rendered their proper genuflections. She was hunched and frail, her gray hair in a bun on top of her head.

As Davon straightened and reaffixed his broad-brimmed hat, he glanced up and stiffened; next to the Queen, staring off into the crowd, was the raven-haired Lady Arianne Hightower. He had killed her husband, the Viscount of Hightower, in a challenge after the viscount had insulted Emile’s honor. If anyone would recognize him, no doubt the Lady Hightower would. Davon, unable to control the sudden shock, felt the blood drain from his face. Fortunately, Lady Hightower seemed to be searching the crowd for someone.

Mr. Lambert cleared his throat. “Your Grace, is there some task you wish us to perform for you during this outing? The invitation was most unexpected.”

The Queen didn’t blink. “Why, enjoy yourself, Mr. Lambert, if you can remember how. Mr. Harper, may I present to you the Lady Arianne Hightower. Lady Hightower, this is Mr. David Harper, the one I spoke to you about that uncovered the corruption in the Aid Society.”

Davon’s throat went dry as the Lady Hightower regarded him briefly, but to his great relief, no spark of recognition bloomed in her eyes.

“We thank you for your service,” Lady Hightower said perfunctorily. She was a beautiful woman, the darkly complexioned opposite of Emile with a kinder, more sober face. After her brief offer of gratitude, her gaze again traveled to the bustling crowd. Davon’s color returned, and he thanked the Flame for whatever preoccupation pulled her attention away from him. Another reason to excuse himself from the day’s proceedings.

“Um, Your Grace,” Mr. Lambert asked as the Queen started to move off. “What travel arrangements have been made for us?”

“Ah, yes,” the Queen answered, remembering something. “Mr. Lambert, you will ride with my steward. Mr. Harper, if you will go to the stables I have arranged a horse for your use. Have you ever been to Harrickshire?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Well then, use the horse to good advantage. There is hardly a prettier place in this country of ours than Harrickshire. Try not to run afoul of the gentlemen and their guns.”

Davon smiled. Perfect. “Your will, Your Grace.”

Uticus Longford. What a dreadful name, Lady Arianne Hightower thought as she finally located him amongst the throng. The Earl and heir of Longford had written her and expressly invited her to ride in his luxurious coach and four. As she feared, it appeared that his parents were absent and that she and he would ride alone for the hour-long trip to prettier country. Uticus, a blond, handsome man, had increased his attentions of late, and even though he could certainly find a young woman of large fortune who had never married, he had—for some reason Arianne could not fathom—settled his attentions on her, a widow two years his senior.

While the differences in their respective situations and expectations called into question the amorous Earl’s motives, the prospective marriage would unite two powerful families and fortunes. Arianne was well aware of all the twittering, behind-the-fan whispers of the noble ladies who speculated when the Earl might, at last, ask for Arianne’s hand despite her “advanced” age and widowhood. The Gentlemen of Bittermarch, if they gossiped at all, agreed that their union would at the very least strengthen the country.

Of course, the Earl had not asked for her hand as yet, but Arianne couldn’t help but think that the tall forests and gurgling streams of Harrickshire would provide the somewhat ostentatious Earl with the setting he needed to make public his offer. Arianne liked him well enough, though she had enjoyed her independence much more than she had anticipated; being mistress of her household and accountable to none provided a straightforward life where she could prosper or fail according to her own genius. As soon as Uticus—what a name!—took her to wife, he would drag her off to Longford and her beloved estate of Hightower would fall to one of her dead husband’s obscure cousins.

“And theeeeere you are, dear Arianne!” Uticus gushed as she approached. “I had almost despaired of you or thought you had recanted your acceptance of my offer. But what a fetching blue dress! The color of the sky. Well come, let me kiss your hand.”

Arianne noted his familiar tone; he didn’t have the right to call her by her first name until they were properly engaged. She extended her hand and he planted an overlong kiss upon the back of it.

“And how are you, Earl of Longford?” she returned formally.

As she anticipated, the Earl—always ready for a challenge— was hardly deterred by her impersonal greeting. “I am well, most well, Lady Hightower, and quite grateful for a beautiful day and a beautiful woman to spend it with. Come! Let us ascend immediately and get out of this cruel sun!”

The Earl helped her in the coach. She could hardly complain about her conveyance; the Queen herself would likely not travel in anything better than the comfort she would enjoy. Oddly, however, the Earl’s enormous rifle lay propped against the other side, his gun pouch on the floor. He clambered in, all smiles. Uticus was, she had to admit, a charmer. Her late husband had a similar quality but was not as handsome as the fair Earl of Longford.

“I see we have company in the carriage after all,” she said, patting the gun.

“I must apologize. I do not trust that rifle to the servants. It was most expensively made and I hope to pass it on to my sons…when I have some.”

Arianne extended her fan and cooled her face. The Earl was indeed pushing matters forward today. He stared out the window as the caravan got underway, and Arianne noted his self-satisfied smirk and hated it. He thought he was in control, but he hadn’t won her yet. For one, she had no real idea of what he valued besides the life of luxury he enjoyed to its fullest. Secondly, she had yet to see him properly drunk, and since most Lords spent half their lives in one state of drunken indisposition or another, she thought it important to know her suitor drunk and sober. Today might be the day.

The ride to Harrickshire took over an hour. While Arianne had seen Harrickshire on numerous occasions, she never regretted the often bumpy trip. The road led away from Bellshire, the woods gathering ever thicker as they headed closer to the Ice Fire Mountains. Brilliant blue-green spruces filled the air with a sharp scent that signaled clean breathing and pleasant shadows. As they wound up the side of a steep hill, tiny yellow and blue flowers carpeted the ground where the trees pulled away to leave them room.

Arianne smiled. Something of the wild always infected her in these places, casting all the nobility’s prim and proper stuffiness into insignificance. Spring invited a little carefree naughtiness, and the vague impulse took some time to quell. Catching the Earl grinning at her, she settled her face back into a formal frown and worked her fan until they crested the hill and began their descent into Harrickshire proper.

The valley was indeed breathtaking. A long, narrow lake hugged a forest of dizzyingly high giant Elder Oak and Elder Pine above which rose steep red granite mountains to the east. From the top of the hill they had just crested, Arianne spied three mighty waterfalls roaring down the steep slopes to be gobbled up by the woods, swollen creeks emerging from the woody dark to join with the lake. On the west of the lake, grassy hills with scattered copses bid farewell to herds of deer scared away by the thunder of carriage wheels.

The caravan snaked its way down the gentle slope to an open field fragrant with delicate, waving flowers and flooded with gentle spring sunshine. As they pulled to a stop, a lone horseman galloped free through the fields to disappear beneath the boles of the mysterious Elder Forest. She envied him. The ladies were rarely permitted to go into the wild places at all, but by flattering Uticus and his ample gun she thought she might be able to persuade him to accompany her inside.

As she feared, once the servants had staked out the pavilions and all the chairs and food were distributed, the whole affair turned into just another mix and mingle with familiar faces. The gentlemen, of course, had good sport with their rifles and their drinking, marching all over the valley in search of something to shoot. The women were relegated to cards and conversation. Still, Arianne couldn’t think of anywhere she would rather be, except within the beckoning shade of the massive trees.

“My dearest Arianne,” the Earl said, having approached after some outing with the men. Arianne could detect his inebriation by the glassy eyes and slightly slower speech. By the sloppy smile, she judged that Uticus, Earl of Longford, was a silly drunk rather than an angry or sullen one. Just like her late husband. “Dearest Arianne,” he repeated, regarding her affectionately, “I wonder if I might have a word with you in private.”

Arianne swallowed hard. So he would come to it now that the drink had propped up his courage. If she had to endure the proposal, she would at the very least get her walk in the woods.

“Of course, Earl. Let’s walk to the woods. I’ve always longed to see the Elder trees.” She said this as sweetly as possible, thinking he would object.

His face screwed up in perplexity for a moment, but he quickly returned to his charming self. “I thought we might see a nice thicket of flowers by the creek just there, but if you wish to see the woods, then just as well.”

He extended his arm and they plowed through the tall grass and wildflowers toward the towering trees. The Queen regarded them with a smirk as they strode away, and Arianne tried to ignore her stare and the sudden burst in conversation among those who had long since run out of words.

In the end, she wished for a horse. The impeding foliage quite worked her legs and stained her dress, but as they approached the deep shadows, the plants thinned and the whole feel of the place changed. The woods, mysterious, foreboding, and wondrous, beckoned to her. A fear and a thrill rose within her as she quickened her step to put her hand on a tree trunk as wide around as two carriages set side by side. Looking up took her breath away, the tree so high it defied her senses. The trunk disappeared into a verdant green canopy made up of leaves the size of serving platters.

She walked forward, almost forgetting Uticus, who had unlimbered his gun.

“My Lady, I think it best we not trespass too deeply here,” he said, concern displacing his mirth. “Dangerous creatures live in woods such as these.”

“Just a little farther, Earl. It would be a shame to expend all that effort and stop here. I should like to see one of the streams as it passes through the wood.”

She continued onward and he jogged to catch up, trying to recover some of his levity.

“My Lady is adventuresome today. Don’t you have an Elder Forest near your home in Hightower?”

She stopped and looked around. It was like twilight at mid-day. “Yes, but it is at some distance over rugged territory. I think I will commission a road be built. This is simply marvelous!”

“Yes, well, Arianne, if you could spare a moment for me…”

She turned, feeling flushed and alive, to find the Earl bending a knee. The blood drained from her face and her excitement died. She had known that this was coming, but she couldn’t feel comfortable about it and she hadn’t decided what to say. He placed his gun on the ground and groped for her hand.

“Lady Arianne,” he began, face earnest but sloppy with glee, “you can hardly be at a loss as to my intent in wishing to speak with you thus…”

The sound of horses tromping through the forest just to the west brought him up short. Arianne thought it might be some of the Lords or the horseman she had seen before, but three men astride poorly maintained stock horses appeared and disappeared between the great trunks of the trees. Gruff beards covered thin faces, and travel stained clothes clung to sun browned skin. These were commoners, and ill-favored ones, to boot.

The Earl grabbed his gun and stood. “You there!” he called. The three men regarded him for an instant and then spurred their horses forward, riding toward the meadow and the party.

“Remain here, Lady Hightower!” the Earl ordered, retrieving his rifle and running forward after the suspicious horsemen. Arianne ignored his commands and followed him until they both emerged from the trees. The horsemen arrived at the group of pavilions amid the yells and screams of the nobles. Eyes fixed, they lowered their weapons and fired.

The thunder of the discharge tore through the valley, birds fleeing their branches and launching into the sky. Angry yells and oaths scarred the once peaceful air as the horsemen turned away from the gathering to attempt their escape along the edge of the lake. The Earl went to a knee and began fishing for a bullet from his hunting bag.

“Get behind the trees, Arianne.”

This time she complied, taking a few paces back and hiding in a wrinkle of a trunk of the nearest Elder Oak. The earl’s inebriated hands fumbled the ammunition, bullets spilling on the ground. He cursed. The horsemen were building up speed about one hundred yards away.

The sound of running to her right sent her heart into her mouth, and she shrank more deeply into the recess. The slumping, limping, bespectacled underclerk she had met earlier that morning sprinted toward the Earl. He slumped no longer. With the speed and athleticism of a sabercat, he sprinted through the deadfall and detritus of the forest with a supernatural grace. She didn’t know if he had spotted her, but in an instant he blew by, his broad brimmed hat pushed from his head by the force and speed of his passing. In a split second he had torn off his glasses, relieved the Earl of his gun, and grabbed a bullet.

With sure fingers he shoved the bullet in the breech loader and readied the gun against his shoulder, taking aim and squeezing the trigger. The bullet slammed into the lead horseman’s head and dropped him from the saddle in a spray of red. The clerk dumped the casing, reloaded, and took aim. While the first shot had been difficult, the second would be near impossible. He didn’t hesitate. Load, aim, fire, all in a smooth, expert motion. The second horseman fell as if yanked off his mount by the hair. The third horseman gained the cover of some trees along the lake shore, slashing in and out of view. Clear the shell, load, aim. The clerk took his time now, leading his target, and fired. Arianne couldn’t see what happened, but the riderless horse galloped out of the trees a few moments later. She knew little about shooting, but it didn’t take an expert to know that the shot was more than impossible; it was inhuman.

The Earl spoke first. “That was my shot to take! You had no right!”

The clerk handed the Earl his gun. “It was your shot, My Lord. You are an excellent marksman.”

“What?”

The clerk retrieved his glasses and his hat, resuming his stoop and his limp. “I said that was fine shooting, My Lord. Well done! I shall tell the Queen of your bravery and skill. You will be rewarded.”

The Earl was dumbfounded. “I? But? Well, it was my rifle.”

Arianne shrunk into her hiding place as the clerk passed some thirty paces away. After having seen him blast through the forest like a gale, watching him limp around made him appear ridiculous.

“A fine rifle, My Lord,” the clerk continued as he slunk away. “No doubt you would have missed your marks without it. Again, well done.”

He disappeared from view and Arianne wrinkled her brow. Why was he giving the Earl the credit?

“Lady Hightower?” the Earl called. “Where are you?”

Arianne exhaled and stepped out, finding the Earl scooping up the rest of his fallen ammunition. “I am here! What happened, Earl Longford?”

“I shot them down, Arianne! I shot them down!”

Arianne tried hard not to frown. “Marvelous, my Lord. We’d best get back to the main party to see if anyone’s been hurt.”

Chapter 12

Arianne walked into the finely appointed drawing room in Bellshire palace fit to burst. What game was the clerk playing at? She suspected he might be one of Filippa’s agents or spies, but from what she understood of his odd history with the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, should couldn’t trust that assumption. And what man, spy or no, would simply hand over—no, not hand over, demand—that someone else take credit for an act so skillful and heroic that it would, at the very least, garner him a Knighthood?

No man she ever knew.

At the worst, Queen Filippa was ignorant of who this clerk was and what he was capable of. She had to enlighten her, at once. The Creetisian Ambassador’s accusations and blustery rhetoric signaled dangerous times, and she wouldn’t let some disingenuous commoner threaten her friend any further. The truth must out!

Once the doors closed and Filippa’s serene smile dawned upon her, Arianne tried to settle herself. Her emotions had the better of her, and the older woman’s placidity reminded her to keep control. For someone recently the target of an assassination attempt, Filippa appeared remarkably calm.

“Good morning, dear Arianne. Do sit down,” Filippa said, setting aside her embroidery. “Did you sleep well after yesterday’s excitement?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Arianne lied as Filippa massaged her knuckles.

“My hands hurt when I embroider for too long,” the Queen complained. “I suppose when I can no longer embroider, it will really be time for me to move on. Well, I don’t need my gift to tell me that you’ve got something troubling on your mind.”

Arianne sat and took the tea cup proffered by a white-wigged servant. “I do. Can we speak in private? It is a delicate matter, I fear.”

“Of course, my dear,” Filippa said, ordering the servants and the guard out of the room with a look. “I assume this has to do with yesterday’s events?”

“Yes,” Arianne confirmed, sipping the bitter tea while she collected her thoughts and waited for the doors to completely shut. “The first part is about the heroic shooting attributed to the Earl of Longford.”

“Ah, the Earl. Yes, a fine piece of marksmanship. Has he asked you to marry him yet?” The question was asked politely, without mirth, though the Queen wore an expression that Arianne couldn’t read. “It seems the Earl is fond of you.”

Arianne looked away from her gaze. “No, he has not.” The assassination attempt, while unfortunate, had blessed her with the gift of delay on that issue. “But that is not the point. The point is that the Earl did not kill the would-be assassins.”

“Oh really?” the Queen replied, leaning forward, eyes alight. “I thought he seemed a bit dismissive of the whole affair rather than reveling in his notoriety as is more in his character. So who did?”

Arianne told her the story, the Queen’s lips sliding into a grin. “And so,” Arianne continued, a little confused by the Queen’s odd—even pleased—reaction, “this clerk forced Earl Longford to accept the credit of it. He literally forced it upon him! It was quite strange and I thought you should know. I am a bit disappointed that the Earl seems to have so easily accepted the honor and continues with this charade. I think he almost believes he did it.”

The Queen’s eyes lit up with a mischievous humor. “Thank you for telling me, dear. Very interesting indeed.”

Arianne took a drink before proceeding, wondering what Filippa would do about the Earl’s wrongfully assumed fame. “And that brings me to the second point. I am well aware that this may sound a bit ridiculous. This too concerns the underclerk, Mr. Harper. I fear that he may not be who he says he is and is serving you under a false pretense.”

Filippa surprised her with a wide-eyed look and a hearty laugh. “Well, I thought you would have figured that out by now. You really don’t recognize him?”

“Do I know this Mr. Harper?” Arianne asked, mind rifling through every face should could remember and trying to match them to the man she saw sprinting through the woods the day before. She was sure she hadn’t known him until yesterday.

The Queen took a sip of tea before continuing. “Know him? Well, let me say that you know of him, certainly. Of all people I thought you would see through his little disguise. I suppose he is cleverer than I thought, or perhaps my discernment aids me in this case.”

Arianne’s curiosity would not be denied. “Who is he then?”

“I will tell you if you give me your word, and I mean your word as a friend, that what I say to you now stays between the two of us. Do I have it?”

“Always.”

Filippa smiled again and took another drag on her tea cup. Arianne wondered if she savored making her wait. Filippa played games with people to amuse herself, and Arianne didn’t take well to being toyed with.

“Very well. Let me give you a clue so I can watch your mouth drop to the floor. I will tell you that to this man you owe your status as an independent woman of large fortune. Does that help any, dear?”

Arianne’s brow creased as she puzzled, and as the truth slowly dawned in her mind, her heart banged in her chest. Hastily, she set her tea cup down, the cup clinking a nervous pattern on the saucer. Could it be? She had only seen him once at the Queen’s ball, eyes full of fire and passion, as he rebuked her husband and challenged him to a duel of honor for insulting his betrothed. How had she missed it? The brown, weathered complexion, the deep eyes, the athletic form; the clerk displayed them all and cleverly disguised them with a hat, beard, spectacles, and a practiced stoop that he had conveniently thrown off in the heat of the moment.

“Yes. You see it now,” the Queen said. “This is the man who blew a hole in your husband’s heart from thirty paces because he called his fiancée ‘Miss Ironwhore’ in a room full of young, drunken lords. I suppose if you couldn’t pick him out, no one will. I thought his face would have been branded on your memory forever.”

Arianne realized that her mouth had, indeed, wandered southward and snapped it up. “But Baron Davon Carver? Did I not read that he was dead? Killed in the wild somewhere?”

“Yes, you did.”

Arianne’s mind reeled. How should she feel? Her husband had been an insufferable boor who could, at times, behave in an affable and even lovable manner. They had married as an alliance, not for love, and at his passing she had felt little sorrow. At the time she had viewed Lord Carver’s violent challenge as highhanded and thought of him with contempt; with a few hours and a strong tea she could have persuaded her reckless husband to apologize and no blood would have been spilt on the green grass in the courtyard on that beautiful summer’s morning four years ago.

She, of course, had not attended the duel, but waited anxiously for word from their house in town. The messenger’s grave countenance told her all she needed to know before he had handed over the legal document stating the results of the contest. She had shed tears, but they did not fall for long or deeply.

Looking back, she really had thought little about Lord Davon Carver after the event. He was so unconnected with her and with Bellshire nobility in general that he seemed like an odd force of nature, a rumbling, swift storm that had blown into her life and then just as quickly blown out again to some distant country.

“But why is he masquerading about?” she managed, not bothering to hide her discomfiture. “Did I not also hear that widow Lady Carver is to be presented at court as the fiancée of the Earl of Tahbor?”

Filippa hauled her old bones out of the couch and walked to the window, staring at the manicured gardens where men clipped and snipped at snaking branches and vines to keep them in line. “Well, I have not let him know that I know who he is, so he has not confided anything about his reasons to me. What I offer you now is a bit of conjecture, so take it as such. It’s been some four years now since he came to court to present his future bride to me. This is what I saw then. I saw a man passionately in love with a woman. I saw a woman opportunistically using a man to escape her reputation.”

Arianne calmed herself enough to retrieve her tea. “So her…indiscretions…were not merely the stuff of idle tales?”

“I’m afraid not,” Filippa returned flatly. “I won’t embarrass you with the details, but yes, ‘Miss Ironwhore,’ while cruel, was not far from the mark.”

Arianne was confused. “So why did he consent to marry her then?”

“He didn’t know. Part of the reason his disguise works so well now is that he steered clear of court, mostly due to his family’s history, of which you are likely aware, in part. Even when here, he wasn’t ‘here’ in the strictest sense. He isn’t one for gossip, politics, and courtly intrigue.”

“A sensible man then.”

“Yes, though sense failed him when he saw those green eyes, that copper hair, and that thin waist. Your Lord Hightower’s slight on his fiancée’s character was likely the first bit of really substantial gossip he had ever heard about Emile, to unfortunate effect. At any rate, my dear, to the point. He brought her to Bellshire last year—at her behest, I’m sure—and I have never seen an unhappier man in all my life. I watched him wander around like a phantom at one of the assemblies. He tried to cling to his pride, but he was clearly subdued and humiliated. She was radiant; he was drowning. My opinion is that he faked his own death to escape his marriage.”

“The coward!” Arianne said. “He could have divorced her. I suppose he couldn’t take the shame of it.”

Filippa turned back toward her, gaze sharp, almost angry. Arianne bit her tongue as the Queen closed on her, standing a few paces away, arms folded and eyes intense. “Cowardice? Shame? Oh, dear Arianne! Sometimes I think I give you too much credit. I suppose it would be hard for you to have a clear mind in this case. Listen for a bit, will you.”

Arianne breathed again as Filippa turned her fervent gaze away and paced the room.

“When Davon Carver was fourteen years old, his mother learned that her husband had squandered away their entire fortune on a ridiculous gold speculation. She took ill and died six months later, soon to be followed by Lord Carver blowing his own brains out in a melancholic fugue while Davon watched.”

Arianne gasped at this blunt revelation. The deaths she had heard of, but not the particulars.

“So at fourteen, three years from his majority, young Davon inherits an indebted, bankrupt estate. Most boys that age would simply fall apart. Not Davon. He fired all his servants and cooked, cleaned, gardened, and managed his family’s estate for four years, utterly alone, until he had paid back all of his father’s debts. He has since turned Frostbourne into one of the most prosperous estates of its size in the Kingdom. Believe me, dear, when I tell you that I had my people keep an eye on Frostbourne for a long while, and what Davon accomplished there was nothing short of astounding. He is a brilliant man.”

The Queen paused, and Arianne tried to take it in, but the Queen plowed on before she could sort out her feelings.

“So enter young Emile Ironhorn of questionable reputation to everyone except the isolated Baron Davon Carver, now with a prosperous estate. She is beautiful, she is accomplished, and, it appears, she was a charming actress. As I said, he loved her, and she didn’t care for him a whit. This he came to know soon after they were married. So, Arianne, to understand the rest, let me ask you a question. Did you love your husband?”

Arianne knew lying would be of no use. “I did not.”

“And did he know it?”

“Yes.”

“And was he miserable?”

“No.”

“So let’s reason it out. Davon Carver was miserable when he came to court last year. What does that tell you about him?”

“He loved her. But how could he? He knew by then what she was!”

“Tsk, tsk, dear. Why is not the issue! That you should even ask such a thing shows me your heart has never been touched. Listen. This same miserable man who had every right and every reason to divorce his wife instead chooses to fake his death and forsake his title, his lands, and the prosperous estate he’d resurrected from nothing. He left it all to her, mind you, to work as a common clerk in a rat infested warehouse. So, dearest Arianne, I believe that leaves us with two choices as to the nature of Mr. David Harper’s character, neither of which is a shameful coward. He is either…”

“A madman.”

“Or…”

“The most generous man in the world.”

“Exactly,” the Queen replied. “Though at the moment I think it might be a little of both. A bad marriage can do wretched things to a mind.”

Silence fell between them as the Queen returned to her window. Arianne abandoned the now cold tea for good. It made no sense. How could he love a woman who had spitefully used him to rescue her from her indiscretions? He’d won her honor back for her, legitimized it by marrying her, gifted her a life of prosperity—his hard fought prosperity—and then disappeared so she could enjoy it. Unfathomable. Absolutely ridiculous. He had to be out of his wits.

“So what are you going to do?” Arianne asked while wondering the same thing for herself. “If someone else recognizes him, it could turn ill for you and the widow Carver.” Whom Arianne was now disposed to hate.

“Perhaps. The truth is I have plans for him. He has already been of much more use to the Kingdom as a clerk than he ever was as a Lord with all his in absentia voting. I doubt he stepped foot in the parliament house once. Ironically, he’s spent more time at court in the last few weeks than he did his entire life before. As for his identity, widow Carver is really the only one I worry about, though I’d wager she is so happy to be rid of him that she wouldn’t say a word even if she did suspect he were still alive.”

“I hope to never see her,” Arianne stated firmly.

Filippa laughed. “And what about him? Do you think you can abide his presence?”

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think. The whole business is so singular! It will take time for me to sort it out.” Whatever her own feelings, it was clear that the Queen of Bellshire had no objections at all with Lord Carver’s actions and even admired them.

Filippa nodded in a motherly, understanding fashion at Arianne’s perplexity and sat next to her on the couch, patting her hand.

“Well, sort them out you must. I hope you don’t take offense at what I ask of you. I need Lord Carver—well, the clerk David Harper—to go to your estate in Hightower and have a look at your husband’s ledgers. The late Lord Hightower was one of the principals behind this little Aid Society we’ve all so generously contributed to for the last few years, and I would like to settle my mind about your husband’s involvement. I’ll need you to be there to handle your steward and clerk—perhaps send them away for a holiday.”

Arianne was a little surprised, but the more she thought about it, the more the Queen’s inquiry made sense. “Why Lord…why Mr. Harper?” It would be hard to address him properly now.

Filippa smiled. “I need him gone before his soon to be engaged wife comes to court next week, and as an underclerk and someone not well known, his absence from Bellshire won’t attract too much undue attention.”

“As you wish. When should I leave?”

They both stood, their meeting coming to a close. “In a couple of days. I’ll send Mr. Harper to your door a few days after that when Widow Carver is set to arrive. And please remember the discretion you swore to.”

Arianne curtsied. “I will.”

“I’ll see you at the ball tonight, Arianne. Good day.”

Arianne left, mind spinning. While she didn’t feel justified in judging Lord Carver, she resolved it would be best to simply avoid him as much as possible to spare them both the awkwardness that would result if they were to meet more than absolutely necessary.

Chapter 13

There were two positions to which commoners might be chosen and earn the title of Lord. Lord Ember, guardian and caretaker of the Eternal Flame, was one. Lord High Sheriff was the other. The Eternal Flame itself chose Lord Ember, so there were never disputes when a commoner was elevated, but selecting a Lord High Sheriff, nominated by the monarch and ratified by the House of Lords, often turned into a political struggle. The House of Lords generally looked down on elevating commoners to anything, and the Lord High Sheriff held enough power and prestige that many of the nobility coveted the assignment.

When Queen Filippa had nominated Oliver Campbell, an experienced sheriff of Bellshire, she had expected the usual rounds of debates, threats, counter nominations, and excessive blather that could turn a simple task into a nightmare that stretched out for weeks. Fortunately, Oliver’s golden reputation from two decades-worth of peaceful Bellshire streets, in addition to the marks of the Flame upon his palms, rendered opposition to his appointment nearly impossible. The House of Lords had ratified Oliver Campbell in what Queen Filippa reckoned was record time.

The Lord High Sheriff was an imposing man with a silvery, curling mustache and iron gray hair. He wore his black and gold uniform with dignity and pride, though a tailor had adjusted the size of his pants and coat several times; he had no occasion to personally chase down criminals through the streets of Bellshire, and the plentiful larder of a Lord was simply too hard to resist. Rich food excepted, Oliver Campbell was a man of strict control and strict schedule. He had performed admirably in the four years since his appointment, and Filippa appreciated that this one decision of hers went uncriticized by the cantankerous House of Lords.

They walked together out of the palace toward the offices of the anatomist where they would inspect the bodies of the failed assassins. The weather was just as pleasant as the day before, and Filippa squinted in to the sunshine as light flooded around her, eyes tired from a night spent thinking rather than sleeping.

Not one person had been killed in the Harrickshire attack. Each would-be assassin shot only once, and all but one had missed. The third had only managed to graze a serving man. While the nobles were quick to thank the Flame for their good fortune, Queen Filippa harbored gnawing doubts.

“Were you able to make anything of their personal effects, Oliver?” she asked.

He twisted one tendril of his mustache between two fingers. “They were nondescript to a fault, Your Grace. The horses were of common stock, and their clothes and personal effects were of country make that would be found on either Creetisian or Bittermarchian commoners. There were no journals, books, or letters of any kind on their persons that would provide any clues as to their origins or motivations. Our best guess is that the rifles were of Bittermarchian make, but I could not prove it. I wish the Earl had not been quite so good of a shot. We could have used one of them alive. Damn fine shooting, though.”

The Queen nodded. Ambassador Horace Clout was a player of political games, and Filippa was beginning to realize that the fiery, annoying Creetisian representative might have actually started something serious this time. Her discernment, a gift from the Flame that the sheriff shared, told her plainly that the Ambassador’s accusations of slaughter were a fabrication, but too often people acted like sheep, willing to obey any shepherd with a title and a loud mouth. In this case, Filippa needed absolute proof of Horace Clout’s duplicity. His speech with the House of Lords fell on more sympathetic ears than she had hoped, especially when he had tried to paint her as a raving, religious lunatic out of control.

Due to the unsavory nature of what an anatomist must do, the anatomist’s building was separated from the Lord High Sheriff’s offices in the Royal Park and was almost universally avoided. Despite diligent care by the anatomist’s assistants, a peculiar odor always emanated from the edifice and leaked into the street. Oliver’s long association with such smells and sights had rendered him oblivious to the discomfort they caused everyone else. Filippa wasn’t so accustomed to the reek, and her stomach soured as Oliver opened the door for her.

The bottom floor was a functional, though finely appointed, office. A set of stairs led up to the anatomist’s laboratory. He had refused to work in the basement. He wanted windows and light, though cutting up human corpses simply couldn’t be done on the ground floor where passers-by might a view a vomit-inducing eyeful through a window. This arrangement forced the anatomist’s assistants to haul the corpses upstairs for examination and then back down to the basement for incineration.

An assistant guided them up the stairs, and as they ascended, they could hear singing; Anatomist Norris Breakman wasn’t, in the Queen’s estimation, altogether in his right mind. She wondered how anyone who spent their life hacking up dead bodies for clues could be in their right mind. The smell and the singing got stronger as they approached a single, uncomfortably stained door.

Twenty-three corpses under the tree.

Drag one off and bring it to me.

Cut it open so I can see

What’s in the corpse that was under the tree.

Twenty-two corpses under the tree.

Drag one off and bring it to me.

Cut it open so I can see

What’s in the corpse that was under the tree.

Twenty-one…

The assistant opened the door and the anatomist cut off his macabre melody in mid-stream. Norris Breakman, while nearly as old as the High Sheriff, had the enviable gift of seeming much younger than his age. His messy black hair had yet to show a streak of gray, and large blue eyes remained untouched by dark circles or crow’s feet. The Queen saw him little, but he always seemed happy and well rested, his good mood as implacable as his good health. The three assassins lay on tables before him.

“Your Grace,” he said excitedly. He stuffed a wad of intestines back into a body on the table and wiped his hands on a thoroughly befouled leather apron. “Top of the morning to you! And Lord High Sheriff! Welcome, welcome. Can I get you something to drink?”

How could anyone eat or drink anything in this place? the Queen wondered. “No, Mr. Breakman. What can you tell me about these three men?”

“Well! I’ve worked through the night examining these fellows. Skinny little chaps they are. Ugly, too. Unshaved. Not very well endowed, if you take my meaning. Quite plain and unremarkable. But you know, it took me a solid hour just to get past their wounds! One shot each to the right side of the head, all of them within four inches of the ear! Four inches! Most of us would be lucky to do that to a sleeping cow from ten feet. But three times from 100 yards to men at a full gallop! Remind me not to step on the Earl’s toes!”

The High Sheriff was growing impatient. “We’re well aware of the extraordinary circumstances of their demise. We are interested in their origins, if you could get to the point.”

Mr. Breakman laughed, apropos of nothing. “Well, some interesting things, of course, came up in my examination.” He lifted up the hand of the corpse in front of him. “Note, if you will, the fingernails. Ridged, coarse, brittle. Poor nutrition indicative of a poor diet, more common in outlying areas where there isn’t a good variety in the fare. Definitely indigent, simply deduced by the unfortunate state of their hygiene.” He pried open one of the mouths. “Yellowing, crooked teeth, little decay. Not a lot of sweets in the diet. Hair roughly cut, probably by a sharp knife. But most interesting for your purposes was what I found in the digestive tract!”

He reached a hand into one of the man’s guts, but the High Sheriff brought him up short. “Just tell us, Mr. Breakman. We’ll take your word for it.”

“Ah! Sorry! My enthusiasm gets the better of me. Due to our agricultural preferences here in Bittermarch, and due to the longer growing season, our wheat is more refined. Creetisian wheat is heartier, coarser, and has more hulls. These men ate bread of the Creetisian variety, I am sure of it. And their general undernourished state seems to correspond with what we know about the agricultural difficulties in Creetis.”

“Very interesting, Mr. Breakman, thank you,” the Queen said, ready to be gone.

“It’s my pleasure! I’ll inform you of any further developments.”

They left quickly, Mr. Breakman resuming his song where he left off.

“So what do you make of Mr. Breakman’s information?” the Queen asked the sheriff.

“Almost certainly Creetisian, perhaps trying to masquerade as Bittermarchians. We still have more questions than answers. Perhaps they were from Creetis seeking revenge for the alleged massacre. Certainly not professionals or even competent. Without more information, it will be hard to connect them to a larger plot, if there is one.”

The Queen was grateful for the fresh air as they emerged from the building. She wanted rest. She had hoped the last years of her rule would be as untroubled and peaceful as her previous twelve years of service, but it was not to be. So many troubles and so much strife. At least she had the drama of Baron Carver to offer some amusement.

Chapter 14

The sun had set on Mr. Lambert’s office in the palace, the warm evening light fading and candles ignited to life by the clerks finishing their last tasks of the day. Davon sat among them, finishing an audit of a three year old ledger of the palace’s laundry expenses. Not exactly the kind of job that got the blood pumping. While the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company was a depressing place, its irascible employees and nefarious deeds had kept it interesting.

Music from the evening ball filled the palace, barely discernible from where he and the clerks and underclerks busily scribbled their sums and filed their papers. While the Queen’s general clerkship was, to a man, an affable lot, Davon struggled to find common ground with his office mates. They had their clerking stories and tales about family and friends; Davon had one clerking story, a handful of lies, and very little else he could divulge without risking discovery of his identity.

Working ten to twelve hour days six days a week left little time for excursions to his beloved outdoors, and while the schedule and the office could hardly be called grueling or unpleasant, he often found his concentration floating out the window. The sunshine, mountain valleys, and unexplored canyons constantly tried to seduce him away from his desk, and if he couldn’t be of any real use to the Queen, he thought seriously of asking for a transfer.

Despite his mounting dissatisfaction, Davon did his work the best he could, and as the low man in the office hierarchy, he endured plenty of scrutiny until Mr. Lambert deemed the newest underclerk competent enough to do “the basic but utterly necessary duties.” These included audits of minor palace departments and running up and down the palace collecting purchase receipts from every office and officer that had claims upon the Queen’s treasury. The constant errands, while hardly stimulating, at least provided some excuse to uncramp his long legs.

“I say, Mr. Harper?”

Davon glanced up from his ledger and food purchase receipts, finding Mr. Lambert with an excited expression on his face.

“Yes, Mr. Lambert?”

“It is rather astonishing,” he said, fumbling with a note in his hand, “but you’ve been summoned to the Flame Cathedral by Lord Ember himself. This instant! You realize what this means, don’t you?”

Davon had an idea, but wondered what Mr. Lambert was thinking. “That Lord Ember wishes to know—”

“That you are to undergo the test!” Mr. Lambert butted in. “That’s the only explanation. Think of it! You might rise from a clerk at some disreputable establishment to a member of the House of Light!”

The Test. The opportunity to approach the Eternal Flame to see if it would choose you to be Flametouched, marked on the palms and endowed with a gift. The though thrilled him. Few had the privilege of approaching the Flame so intimately, and even if it did not select him, the opportunity would be an honor he would remember forever.

There was only one downside in his mind. Those chosen by the Eternal Flame automatically garnered a seat in the House of Light, which the Queen had, during her reign, elevated above the House of Lords in matters of voting. Davon had no desire to enter politics again, if it could be claimed he had entered it at all.

As a Baron, he had attended the House of Lords but once and tired quickly of the posturing and small-minded infighting. The most innocuous of cases caused lengthy debates about minute particulars, and it drove Davon mad. He had commented to Emile that the real reason nobles had cooks was not because they could not do the work, but that if left to themselves they would starve to death arguing over what to prepare.

After that first session at the House of Lords Davon had launched into a new career as the most notorious in absentia voter the government body had ever seen. He found that reading the arguments and proposals—which tended to be more concise in written form—much more palatable than listening to all the droning that inevitably heaved over into childish attacks and then lulled back to droning. He wondered how the House of Light compared but wasn’t keen on finding out.

Still, one did not decline an invitation from Lord Ember or a meeting with the Eternal Flame, and Davon rose, collecting his coat from the rack and the invitation from his employer.

“I shall return as quickly as I can,” he assured Mr. Lambert, who was busy informing the other clerks about Davon’s appointment. Not wanting to encounter any of the noble guests currently occupying the Main Hall, Davon took a back stairway that eventually led out to the gardens. He would walk the long way around the back.

As he navigated around the side of the palace, passing statuesque guards at attention, the music faded, easing his mind. He had no pleasant memories of a ball. Balls and melancholy thoughts of his estrangement from his wife walked hand in hand in his mind, and of the many perks that came from being a commoner, exclusion from balls was a most welcome one.

The Flame Cathedral sat opposite the palace on the other side of a circular plaza. A circular pool of water graced the center of the granite-tiled plaza, a statue of Joris Pulsipher, founder of Bittermarch, rising from its depths. Every evening, members of the House of Light launched little candle boats upon the still waters, little bits of flame defying the dead dark of the pool—a symbol of hope and victory. Their lights reflected off the surface, serene and beautiful. Davon contemplated their movements for a moment before continuing to the lofty cathedral looming ahead of him.

Unfriendly to the lame and infirm, the round Flame Cathedral sat atop a mighty square slab of granite accessible by four sets of steep stairways of the same stone, each rising nearly twenty feet to the entrance. Smooth, slender columns encircled the building proper, and high arched entrances greeted visitors regardless of which of the four sides they chose to ascend. The walls of the building shot some one-hundred feet into the air, the highest edifice in Bittermarch and viewable from nearly everywhere in the city and its environs.

Davon bounded up the steps two at a time, coming face to face with two cathedral guards by the doors, their long pikes pointed skyward with pistols tucked in black sashes at their waists. Deep orange stoles with embroidered flames accented their white uniforms, and they regarded him with watchful eyes.

“I’m here by request of Lord Ember,” Davon announced, extending the parchment containing his invitation. One of the guards took it and perused it. With a nod he signaled for his companion to open the door, but did not return the letter.

“Wait in the antechamber,” the guard instructed curtly.

As a stranger to the Flame Cathedral, Davon was unsure of what to expect. Given the importance of the Eternal Flame, and in consequence of troubles with Creetis, he was unsurprised to find the antechamber—a room which stretched all the way around the circular Cathedral—awash with guards stationed by red stained doors imprinted with the yellow symbol of the Flame. Each door was numbered for identification. The outer doors closed, and the silent hall with its stone floor had a dungeon like feel in the night, the sparsely placed lanterns hardly adequate to illuminate the vast spaces. Windows built high in the outer wall would fill the room with light by day, but in the evening gloom, everything felt heavy and cavernous.

He waited, hands behind his back, unsure of what to do. How would Lord Ember find him in the immense building? The flapping of wings turned his head upwards. Up in the dark rafters a bird fluttered about, having chanced an entrance into the building somewhere. It croaked a harsh greeting in the shadows: a crow. If it couldn’t escape, it would surely die. Perhaps there was an imperfection in a window, ceiling, or wall that permitted it ingress and egress. If that were the case, more birds might follow.

Door sixteen to his left opened silently on well-greased hinges. Lord Ember, dressed in a gold-embroidered, white ceremonial robe stepped through, a smile on his face. Like the guards, he wore the orange stole, though his appeared to be of finer cloth and had a fringe of small tassels along the length of its border. Lord Ember was of average build and in his late fifties. A full head of snowy hair sat atop a round head, aged face and bright blue eyes projecting a friendly, gregarious levity.

“Mr. Harper, I presume?” he asked, extending his hand. Davon noted the flame scar on his palm.

He shook it. “I am, my Lord.”

“It is very good to meet you, though we’ve no time for pleasantries at the moment. The Queen wishes the Eternal Flame transported to the palace for the final ceremonies at the ball this evening, so we must be quick. Would you follow me please?”

Lord Ember led Davon through door sixteen and shut it. They stood in a small landing for two staircases heading up to their left and right. Ahead of them was another red door with similar markings to the one they had just passed through. A single lantern hung by it, warm light filling the small space.

“Now, Mr. Harper,” Lord Ember began, “in consequence of your actions in connection with the Aid Society plot, the Queen has recommended you for presentation before the Eternal Flame. Even if you are not chosen, seeing the Flame up close and in person is an honor in and of itself that should not be scoffed at. The presentation itself is fairly simple, but I wish to prepare you against some things you may find startling, though from the details of the story I’ve heard, I’ve no doubt of your courage.

“First, on the other side of this door is the audience chamber for the House of Light. There are five levels of seating accessible by these stairs. In the center of the floor is a wide, slightly raised platform. The Eternal Flame hangs high in the ceiling at night. When you enter, there is a lever you must disengage and the vessel that contains the Flame will come down slowly of its own accord.

“My next instruction, and one of some discomfort to most being tested, is that you must disrobe before presenting yourself to the Flame. I assure you that neither I nor anyone else will be present in the chamber. You should sit before the vessel, legs crossed, with the back of your hands on your knees, palms open. If the Flame chooses you, it will brand your palms with the mark you see on mine. It will happen fairly quickly. If you are there longer than a few minutes and the Flame does nothing, you have not been selected and may leave. I will wait outside this door for you to return. Any questions about the particulars?”

Davon had questions, but not about what he was to do. They could wait. “No. I will proceed as you have outlined.”

“Very well, Mr. Harper,” he said, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Good luck to you.”

Lord Ember left. Davon entered the audience chamber and closed the door, sound echoing through the empty space. A solitary lamp burned on the circular dais Lord Ember had spoken of, beckoning him out of the gloom. High above, a fainter glow from the Eternal Flame bathed the center of the ceiling with a warm light. The room smelled earthy, like rocks just after rain, and the lower floor on which he stood was of cobblestone rather than the polished marble of the antechamber, a remnant of the old building the cathedral had replaced. Seating areas, but dimly seen in the poor light, rose five high, level upon level, toward the ceiling, each with red stained chairs behind a stone banister.

Davon strode to the light on the platform, senses alive. Such large rooms, while friendly and impressive during the day, inspired a sense of foreboding in the dark. He removed his clothes quickly before he could feel too awkward about it, and finding the lever embedded into stone post near the edge of the stone platform, tripped it.

A gentle clacking sound accompanied the descent of the Eternal Flame within its vessel. The stories said that Joris Pulsipher had found the Eternal Flame burning inside a kitchen pot after the Creetisian Parliament had burned his house down with his family inside it. As the Flame lowered, Davon could see that it still rested in the same wide soup pot, handles and all. The pot had its fair share of scuffs and scratches, but as it settled onto the ground with a clank, the Flame stole his attention.

In appearance, it was ordinary, nothing more than a cook fire in a pot, dancing eternally without diminishing or extinguishing. Absent, however, were any sounds of popping or hissing that accompanied a normal fire, and to Davon’s amazement, it put forth no smoke or heat as he extended his hand over it. How did it burn the prayers passed into it by Lord Ember or other members of the House of Light? Mystified, he sat cross-legged as he was instructed, placing his palms outward and waiting, entranced by the flame.

And it came.

Like a strange creature of fire, the flickering tongues of flame bent toward the rim of the pot and grasped it, pulling itself onto and then over the edge. It fell soundlessly to the floor where the tongues moved like blind fingers, grasping the grooves in the cobblestones and pulling the entire flaming mass forward in a patient tongue over tongue march toward its destination.

Once it reached his legs it stopped for a moment and adjusted itself upright. Davon’s heart pounded. He had expected something dumb and elemental, but the Eternal Flame moved like an animal and exuded an impression of sentient simplicity. Three of the tongues of flame rose and stretched, elongating and thinning. Two bent toward his open hands, the third traveling toward his chest. Over his hands the threads of light hovered, still flickering and waving as if tickled by a breeze, while the third traced the scar lines of the sabercat, almost as if reading them in an attempt to comprehend.

Abruptly, the three tendrils withdrew a space and then two shot forward. Pain coursed through Davon’s hands as the Eternal Flame etched its marks into his palms. Light exploded into his mind, immersing it, casting out darkness and relieving him of any weight of consciousness.

Moments later he came to his senses, finding himself sideways on the cold stones. The Eternal Flame had retreated. A single blade of flame hooked around the rim of the pot and pulled the rest inside. He expected the marks on his palms—a single flame—to sting as a fresh burn would, but his hands felt whole. In appearance the Eternal Flame’s brands were light, like old scars, and about the size of the pad of his thumb.

He was Flametouched. He would receive a gift. His heart beat hard for a moment, anxious and excited at the same time. In all his years, he had never thought to be presented to the Flame, much less chosen. But what would it gift him?

Remembering his nakedness and feeling a chill bump his skin for the first time since entering, he donned his clothes hastily. The Eternal Flame flickered in its pot, now ordinary save for the differences he had noted earlier. Historians taught that the Flame had visited Joris before the Creetisian Parliament had burned his home. Had it crawled to him has Davon had seen? Or had Joris seen it in a vision?

Davon returned to the antechamber, finding Lord Ember there waiting with a young man attending him. “Well?” he asked, eyes smiling.

Davon presented his palms.

“Welcome, brother!” Lord Ember extended his hand and Davon shook it. “Now, young Martis,” he said to his attendant, “go prepare the Eternal Flame for transport to the palace. I will come for it after I explain a few things to the newest member of the House of Light. Walk with me, Mr. Harper.”

“May I ask a question before you begin, Lord Ember?”

“Of course,” he answered, smiling.

“What am I to expect with respect to the gift? I’ve heard of the Queen’s discernment and tales of long life and even a heightened intelligence. Are there common gifts? And when are they bestowed?”

“There are a multiplicity of gifts, to be sure, that heighten physical, spiritual, and mental faculties. Those most common are the ones we associate symbolically with light, such as an increased ability to understand, the discernment you mentioned, and even increased intuition. But there are those members of our order blessed with long life or perfect health or even increased quickness and a fine dexterity. My gift is one of a perfect memory. In short, gifts of the Eternal Flame tend to take some aspect of who we are and elevate it to perfection. As for the timing of the gift’s manifestation, it usually comes gradually within the space of a few days.

“Now, you likely know that the House of Light is also a governing body of Bittermarch. Our bylaws and responsibilities can be found in the library accessible through door twenty-seven. There you may also find histories and studies that will satisfy questions from the most pedestrian to the most arcane. We do vote on matters of state, but there is no in absentia voting; if you are not here, you do not have the privilege of voting. Participation is not forced. Not all of our members have the mind, will, or desire to entangle themselves in political maneuvering.”

Davon couldn’t conceal a smile. This was good news indeed.

“I see this pleases you,” Lord Ember grinned. “You are certainly not the first. There are those in the House of Light I have not seen since the ceremony, and others I wish I would see less. From reports of your deeds at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, you have a keen mind and deep reservoir of persistence and courage, so I hope you do come when important matters are at stake. Can I count on you?”

“I’ll be just across the way if you should need me for anything urgent,” Davon replied noncommittally. It would need to be dreadfully important to drag him into some frothing debate. He’d rather grab a sabercat by its fangs.

“Two more points and I shall release you for the evening. First, there are in the House of Light women and even a few children who have been marked. As such, we do not carry on in some of the more disgraceful habits of the House of Lords, such as smoking, cursing, or other bawdy talk.

“Second, if you are an ambitious man, there are positions you may aspire to within our order, such as Treasurer, House Guard, House Steward, and so forth. We even have our own clerks if the Queen ever granted you a transfer. Of course, you’ll need at least a year or two as a member and to know the House of Light inside and out before you could reasonably expect to tender your candidacy for any of these positions. The House votes on officers the evening before the Day of Burning celebration.”

Davon was extraordinarily pleased with his luck. The House of Light was so voluntary that he could enjoy his gifts without any of the bureaucratic nonsense he had feared his selection would subject him to.

“I thank you for your good information and I will consider everything you have said.”

“Very good,” Lord Ember said. In his bemused countenance Davon though he could detect an understanding that the newest member of the House of Light might be one of the more invisible members of the order. “Ah, but I forget. Once you have your gift, please come in and have it recorded for our history. The clerks’ offices are behind door number twenty-two. And to be forthright, the Queen has asked me to report on what happened here tonight. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Of course,” Davon said. They stopped by one of the arched doorways leading to the outside. Davon couldn’t be sure which. He bowed. “Good evening, Lord Ember.”

Lord Ember nodded in return. “Burn brightly, my brother.”

Chapter 15

Arianne wasn’t sure if she was more nervous about having her ledgers inspected or about the person who was coming to inspect them. How would Baron Carver behave in the house of the man he had killed? Surely his disguise as David Harper hadn’t tamed the wild heart of the man who had so passionately challenged her late husband to a duel and then shot him dead. As the Queen had said, the man’s disappointments in love and marriage might have driven him a little mad, and madness and passion never mixed well.

She had received word that he had arrived in town late the night before and would come early the next morning. She had arisen early and breakfasted before everyone else and then ordered Mr. Garvis to fetch the ledgers and a table and bring them to the drawing room. He had just finished the task when Arianne heard horse hooves clattering up the lane. She went to the drawing room window and pulled aside the curtain. And there he was, riding up to the house with the easy grace of an experienced rider.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not fit the sober, bearded face with the clean-shaven and fiery lord that had taken her husband from her. A little of the anger she had felt about the disastrous events of nearly four years ago surfaced briefly, though she realized that she had turned that anger toward the general idiocy of men-folk in general rather than Baron Carver specifically. But her curiosity easily drowned out any lingering anger. Just how unhinged was the Baron? Would he behave in some unseemly way? Surely, if he had been able to keep employment in the Queen’s household, he was at least stable.

Whatever her confused feelings or his emotional state, she was determined to act the perfect hostess and gentlewoman, showing this wild man from the north country wilderness what proper behavior and manners were about. She heard Mr. Garvis let Baron Carver in and poised herself by the table where the ledgers sat, composing her face, standing tall, and clasping her hands together. A few moments later, Mr. Garvis introduced her guest as Mr. David Harper, Underclerk to the Queen, and he entered. Baron Carver bowed and then turned his gaze toward the table.

“Are those the ledgers?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. Arianne measured him up, finding it hard to read him. Garvis was still carrying the round hat and long, leather coat that Baron Carver had been wearing at Harrickshire. “Mr. Harper” dressed plainly in brown pants and a brown jacket, though his beard made him look a little wild for his civilized clothing.

He walked to the table, lifting one of the ledgers and examining the cover. “If you prefer, I am perfectly comfortable working in the office of your steward or clerk. I fear I’ll be nuisance here in the main part of the house.”

“It’s just the servants and I here today, Mr. Harper,” she said. He refused to meet her eye, always finding somewhere else to look. “Please don’t hesitate to ask Mr. Garvis or any of the servants should you need anything.”

“Thank you, Lady Hightower,” he said before taking a seat at the table. “I shall begin immediately.”

She nodded and left, pleased that this first encounter had passed without trial. He was uncomfortable, to be sure, but she felt more at ease. This little ordeal would pass smoothly, he would leave, and she would never again have to bother with troublesome ledgers or Davon Carver.

And so she thought until her mother, Dalia, Countess of Brighton, and her sister, Elaine, arrived unannounced an hour later. No sooner had Dalia discovered that Mr. David Harper, Underclerk to the Queen, was there than she wished to go sit in the drawing room at once, despite Arianne’s attempts to steer her elsewhere.

For the next hour, Arianne fought to keep her composure. Her mother had little care for the feelings of those of a lower station than herself, and she persisted in throwing their visitor dissatisfied looks and cutting comments at every opportunity.

The Countess of Brighton was a severe, proud woman, and Arianne remembered fearing her disdainful looks and haughty criticism when she still lived at home. Dalia had aged greatly in the last few years, her blonde hair turning silver and the cracks around the frown lines of her mouth deepening. The cutting comments were still the same, however, though perhaps rendered more sour by a long fermentation in a lifetime of ill will.

As for Baron Carver, he sat at the table piled high with the stacks of ledgers, seemingly unperturbed by Dalia’s comments. Arianne kept waiting for him to snap in a fit of rage, but as yet he seemed the most controlled person in the room.

“He’s so brown!” Dalia lamented. “He doesn’t fit the room at all! It’s as if some woodsman leaned a big woolly log in the chair and simply left.”

Elaine, Arianne’s youngest sister of sixteen years, giggled at the comment. Arianne shot her a disapproving look, wondering what their guest must think of them all. All of Arianne’s plans to show Davon Carver the genteel and civilized nature of Bellshire nobility were crumbling with every rude remark from the Countess’s mouth.

The Queen had said that Davon had shunned the society of the Bellshire court, and surely the Countess of Brighton was helping him feel that he had been justified in that decision. Arianne’s quick look to the desk revealed Baron Carver’s amused half grin as he flipped a page and continued his calculations.

Her mother was correct on one point. The drawing room was done in white and gold and glass, and Baron Carver’s dark complexion and dull, earth-colored clothing were a bit out of place. But to Arianne’s mind he appeared more as woolly bear in field of snow rather than a forgotten tree trunk in a manor house.

“Really, Mother,” Arianne admonished loudly so Baron Carver could hear. “Try to be courteous to my house guests, will you?” She fanned herself briskly, feeling a bit warm with the exertion of keeping herself controlled.

Dalia simply harrumphed and turned her attention back to her tea. Elaine rose and wandered by the windows, gazing dreamily outside before stealing behind Baron Carver. She kept a safe distance but squinted in an attempt to get a look at what he was doing. Arianne bit her lip. Would this intrusion be the final provocation that sent Baron Carver into an apoplectic fit?

The fair haired Elaine had grown up with a vain, self-centered mother and a distant, acerbic father. Unlike her older siblings, Elaine’s nature was much more impressionable and compliant, and Arianne feared her younger sister would develop the unfortunate aloof disdain her parents had tried to cultivate in all their children.

Baron Carver, apparently realizing he was under watch, smiled and turned toward Elaine. “Do you have a question, Miss?”

Elaine, surprised by the sudden attention, blushed, but Baron Carver’s warm face worked its soothing effect upon her. Arianne watched with interest, noticing Dalia frowning at the pair. How could Davon be so accommodating and serene after so much nettling from her mother?

“I don’t mean to intrude…” Elaine said, stepping a little closer.

“I believe I’m the intruder here, Miss. What is it that you would like to know?”

Elaine, put at ease by his inviting manner, walked up to the desk and scanned the open ledger for a moment. “This looks like a shopping list,” she commented at last.

“It is, after a fashion,” Baron Carver explained. “But this is a list made after the shopping is done that shows what was bought here, and what it cost there. You total it all up, and then here you can see how much a nice dinner of fish, ham, briar squash, bread, and wine cost the family. Quite simple, really.”

“Looks boring to me,” Elaine said.

“It is dreadfully tedious, dear,” Dalia commented haughtily. “Why don’t you come away and leave Mr. Harper to his dull work.”

“It is important, Elaine,” Arianne pitched in.

“Why?” Elaine asked, remaining by Baron Carver’s side. “Why should Mr. Harper care how much you spent on fish?”

While Arianne searched for a reply, Baron Carver jumped in. “Well, Miss, I was about your age when I had to start doing figures like this, and I learned a very important lesson: money not watched is money wasted. You see, it’s like a boy given a little purse of money to go to town to buy a pair of shoes. Along the way he sees a candy shop. He really likes candy, so he spends two shillings on a fistful of peppermint sticks. Then he sees some boys playing dice and he loses three shillings gambling. Then, being hungry, he stops and spends a shilling for a meal.”

“So he has spent six shillings,” Elaine reported confidently.

“Very good, Miss,” Baron Carver praised her. “Now, do you remember why he was in town?”

“Of course! To buy shoes.”

“Good,” Baron Carver continued. “Does he have enough money left to buy the shoes?”

Elaine’s eyes rolled up in thought. “I don’t know. You never said how much he had in his purse.”

“Correct. And I didn’t say how much the shoes cost, either. And that’s the point. If you don’t know how much you have, and you don’t know what you need, you’ll never know how much you can spend, and one winter you’ll wind up without a good pair of shoes.”

“But you’ll have peppermint sticks!”

Baron Carver chuckled, a good-natured sound. “Yes, indeed. That you would have.”

Elaine turned and leaned against the edge of the desk. “But Mother says we’re rich. Surely all that scratching about is more important for you poorer folk.”

“Elaine!” Arianne exclaimed, afraid Baron Carver would take offense. But he simply smiled again.

“Not so, young Miss,” he said. “When you have very little money, you get to know every farthing on a first name basis. It’s the well-to-do folk that can get a little careless at times. They have so much money they think it will never run out, but believe me, it does. The world has invented a lot of ways to try to pry money out of rich people such as you.”

Dalia leaned forward, eyes stony. “Such as pay for petty underclerks to pointlessly audit ledgers kept by honorable and competent men. Come away, Elaine, this instant. Let’s leave Mr. Harper to his work. The sooner he’s done, the sooner we’ll be rid of him.”

Arianne winced. She would have to vacate the room and take her mother with her; Baron Carver’s seemingly limitless tolerance for rude behavior had to have an end somewhere, and if any woman could find it, the Countess of Brighton could. He’d probably rather do his work with one leg in a bear trap than with the Countess in the room.

Elaine pushed herself away from the desk with a sigh, smoothing her light yellow dress. “I wish I had a peppermint stick.”

“Then you are in luck, Miss,” Baron Carver said brightly, reaching into his coat pocket and producing the desired candy. Elaine squealed indecorously with delight and took the proffered sweet. She pecked Baron Carver on the cheek, eliciting a shocked gasp from her mother. More interesting to Arianne, however, was the change on Baron Carver’s face. The young girl’s kiss softened his expression and elicited a wistful smile. He quickly cleared his throat and jumped back into his examination of the ledger.

Arianne had a hard time not staring at him, realizing something for the first time: Baron Carver was, even if by choice, utterly alone. When she and the Queen had reviewed his history together, they had only considered that he had left behind an estate and a hateful wife when he had changed into David Harper. Until now, Arianne hadn’t thought that he had also left behind any relations and any friends he might have had. The Queen had alluded to how society in general had shunned him after his parents’ shocking deaths, and how without guidance or guardian he had lived many years by himself as he fought to recover his good name and his fortune.

Add to this marrying a woman who wouldn’t spare a glance for him and Arianne began to understand why Elaine’s simple act of gratitude could engender such a profound reaction in the man. Odder still, Arianne considered, was that despite his poor circumstances, he did not seem to pity himself or even act in any way to invite it. While himself a stranger to companionship and affection, he had taken time to answer a young girl’s questions without irritation or impatience despite being the target of abuse the entire morning.

Could this be the same fiery man who had killed her husband? Was all this humble pleasantness just a part of his disguise? There seemed nothing wild or mad about him at all. No one in the room besides her knew the torturous journey the man sitting in her drawing room had taken. For him to have passed through so much bitterness and to still be so kind made no sense. Surely his warmth had to be some kind of an act, a facade like his beard and glasses to throw people off the scent of who he really was.

“Are you quite all right, Arianne?” her mother asked.

Arianne snapped out of her reverie. “Quite all right, I assure you. It must be near lunch. Missa?”

“Yes, My Lady?”

“Could you tell Garvis that we’ll take lunch in the dining room presently?”

“Yes.”

“Should you like to join us, Mr. Harper?” she asked, hoping he would despite the company. She wanted to get the measure of him.

“You are very gracious, Lady Hightower,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “but I think I will take my food outside and explore your fine gardens and grounds for a while—if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, please!” Dalia grumbled. “Let us alone for a while.”

Arianne turned to her mother. “Do not insult Mr. Harper again, Lady Brighton! I will not have the hospitality of my house put into question by my own mother. Missa, please inform the kitchen staff to bring Mr. Harper’s lunch to the gardens.”

Missa curtsied and left quickly, fleeing the tension thick in the room.

It took Dalia until they arrived at the dining room before her tongue returned. Arianne steeled herself; if Baron Carver could bear her mother with equanimity, then she would try to imitate him. Fortunately, Dalia’s conversation turned toward lace and furniture, both tried and true topics meant to steer the conversation away from anything that might cause an argument.

Elaine sat by Arianne’s side, the two of them facing the windows. While they ate a meal of cold ham, bread, and vegetables, Arianne caught sight of Baron Carver and concealed a smile; thinking himself alone and unobserved, his stoop and slight limp had disappeared as he soaked in the early afternoon sun among the blooming violet lilacs. His spectacles had conveniently disappeared, as well.

“May I be excused, Arianne? Please?” Elaine asked after she had finished.

“Of course, my dear.”

To Arianne’s surprise, Elaine appeared outside the windows a short time later, and she approached Baron Carver timidly. He sat on a low wall with his back to them working at something Arianne couldn’t see. He glanced up at her sister’s approach, and in moments the two were talking back and forth. Arianne was thankful Dalia’s back was to them or she would likely have forced Elaine to return inside rather than sully herself in conversation with a commoner.

“And so,” Dalia said, wiping her mouth with a napkin, “as I was saying, the styles of lace coming out of the south are too plain. It’s as if all their best artisans have died and a troop of amateur hacks have taken over the whole business. Some of the lace I’ve seen is little better than what you might find on a milkmaid’s dress!”

“Mhmm,” Arianne mumbled to feign attention. Baron Carver was entertaining Elaine with some sort of a wild story by the way he was gesticulating. He pantomimed holding a gun at one point, and Elaine, who stood with her profile to the window, alternated between wide grins and expressions of surprise. Baron Carver had something in his hand that Arianne couldn’t quite make out, and at one point in the story he used it as a prop, inching it slowly toward Elaine’s face.

“And I was just telling Lady Mullford,” Dalia spouted on, “that I would refuse to buy anything from the southern warehouses until they had quite rectified the situation. Such a lack of taste might do for those wild southern nobles, but we in the north demand more in the way of elegance and craft.”

“Mhmm.” Whatever Baron Carver had been holding, he had given to Elaine, who had lavished a quick hug upon him before sitting with him on the wall in a most unladylike display. Baron Carver’s large frame dwarfed her thin, short one. His lunch arrived shortly after, and he appeared to launch into more stories while he ate. The sun shone down pleasantly on the green grass and the creeping vines and flowers, and Arianne envied them both a great deal as Dalia continued to punish her with more conversation about clothing.

“Though I must say,” Dalia continued, “that I did receive the most delightful fabric from Wickershams just the week before I traveled here. Very tight weave, very soft, and the way it falls is just delicious. I had thought to bring you some so you might have a dress sewn for yourself. It’s a nice red and would, I think, go a long way toward attracting a certain Earl’s attention.”

“Mhmm.”

“Arianne, dear?”

“Yes, mother?”

Dalia shot her a questioning look. “Did you hear what I just said?”

Arianne focused her attention back on her mother. “About the lace?”

“No!” Dalia exclaimed. “About the red cloth and the dress to attract a certain Earl’s attention.”

“Oh, I am sorry. I am a bit distracted this afternoon. I think the certain Earl is already attracted to my money and my estate, so I doubt I need any further device there.”

“Has he proposed yet?” her mother asked with arched eyebrows. “Are you keeping it a secret?”

Arianne wiped her mouth and stood. She wasn’t hungry anymore. “He has not, really. Now if you’ll—”

“I do believe he’s been to see your father this month.”

Arianne sighed. The marriage made perfect sense in terms of alliances and family connections, but so had her last one. She wasn’t the ignorant girl she was before, and she wasn’t willing to simply go along with her family’s wishes just to satisfy them. Three years as an independent woman taught her to use her judgment to better her own situation as she saw fit, and she wasn’t yet sure how or if the Earl fit into her plans. “Well, that is interesting news, Mum. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on a few things before Mr. Harper returns to work.”

Arianne had intended on finding Elaine outside, but before Missa could bring her shawl, Elaine met her in the entryway.

“Look at this, Arianne!” she said excitedly, holding up a figurine the length of an ear of corn. Arianne took it. It was an exquisitely carved likeness of a sabercat, crouched as if to pounce. “He carved it himself! Isn’t it wonderful? He’s seen dire wolves and sabercats and longhorned bison and all kinds of things!”

Arianne grinned at her sister; Baron Carver couldn’t have given his gift to a more grateful recipient.

“Is that my Elaine?” Dalia’s voice said from somewhere near the dining room.

Elaine’s face fell. “Can you hide this, Arianne?” she whispered. “Mother would never approve.”

Arianne grabbed Elaine’s shawl and wrapped the sabercat in it. “I’ll bring it to your room later,” she said with a wink. “And wipe off the back of your dress. It looks like you’ve been sitting in the dirt.”

The door opened again, and Baron Carver stepped in, removing his hat but reaffixing his useless glasses. He bowed.

“I’d best keep at the ledgers,” he said, Elaine beaming at him as he walked by. He nearly collided with Dalia as she turned a corner into the entryway, but after a quick bow he escaped her sour look and disappeared in to the house.

“Shall we return to the drawing room and keep an eye on the underclerk?” Dalia said. “It’s best not to leave low folk alone in a room. You never know what might be missing when you return.”

Arianne regarded her mother for a moment. She really could be an intolerable beast. “No, mother, I’ve got something else in mind.”

Chapter 16

For the rest of the day Arianne thought it best to take her mother and sister into town and leave Baron Carver to concentrate on his work without distraction. They passed the afternoon visiting friends, and at her mother’s insistence, stopped by the dressmaker so she could order a gown for her daughter that would push the Earl’s affections off the fence and into her fertile field.

Arianne hadn’t worn anything remotely coquettish since her younger days, but Dalia’s instructions were dreadfully utilitarian: “We must cinch the waist and plump the bosom, my dear woman! The dark blue will contrast nicely with her milky skin, and the collar must be wide and onto the shoulder to emphasize her slender neck. Be sure the hem is long enough to cover what it should, but let the ankle be spied when she mounts a carriage or ascends a stair. She’s not getting any younger, and there is a very eligible young man…well you know. The sooner the better. The sooner the better.”

The dressmaker promised to finish it in two weeks if she could find all the materials she needed nearby. Afterward, they loitered around town with little purpose, returning home for dinner near dark.

Arianne sent Garvis to invite Baron Carver to supper, but he again declined, taking his food in the drawing room. While Arianne felt the disappointment Elaine’s face demonstrated, she couldn’t blame him. If her mother wasn’t bad enough, Arianne knew that he felt uncomfortable in the presence of the woman whose husband he had killed. He wouldn’t even meet her eye. She wondered if she would feel the same way if he were dressed in his Lordly garb and were clean-shaven as he was that fateful night. As it was, he hardly seemed like the same person.

They spent the balance of the evening reading in a separate living room by a warm fire. Dalia retired near ten, Elaine, stifling yawns, waited eagerly for her departure from the room.

“Can we go see the carving now, Arianne?” her sister asked.

Arianne snapped her book shut. “You go get ready for bed and I’ll bring it to you. Come on. I’ll help you up the stairs. You’re so tired I think you might just take a fall.”

“Should we say goodnight to Mr. Harper?”

“I’m sure he’s long gone, dear,” Arianne replied. “We’ll see him in the morning.”

Arianne directed Missa into Elaine’s room to prepare her for bed while she fetched the figurine. Upon entering her room, she found it lying on the bed rather than the armoire where she had left it and wondered if one of the servants had handled it. She retrieved it and regarded it with fascination. A really excellent piece of work, though she didn’t count herself an expert in such matters.

Elaine took it greedily when Arianne entered her room, and Missa stopped brushing the young girl’s hair to admire it.

“I shall keep it by my bed to watch over me while I sleep,” Elaine stated, though she didn’t appear ready to let go of her treasure quite yet. “You know,” she finally said, “I think Mr. Harper is more than what he says he is.”

Arianne’s heart skipped a beat. “He seems a perfectly normal clerk to me,” she lied.

Missa, done with Elaine’s hair, unpinned Arianne’s and set to work.

“Really?” Elaine said. “I think he’s an army captain in disguise. He is too brawny and tall to be a clerk. Besides, clerks are grumpy, pasty old men. Maybe he got caught secretly wooing a general’s daughter and had to run for his life.”

Arianne shook her head. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, dear. I assure you that clerks come in all shapes and sizes. And please do not bother Mr. Harper with your idle speculations when he returns tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t believe he’s left, Milady,” Missa added. “Garvis took him some brandy just before you retired.”

Arianne was surprised. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Milady.”

“Can I go say goodnight to him?” Elaine begged.

“In your bedclothes? You stay put. I’ll have Garvis check in on him and see what he intends.” She kissed her sister. “Goodnight. Sleep well—if you can with such a ferocious beast staring at you in the dark.”

The house was nearly pitch black when she left Elaine’s room, so she fetched the candle from her own quarters and padded down the stairs, noticing a glow coming from the direction of the drawing room. She thought of finding Garvis but changed her mind. Quietly, she walked in the direction of the drawing room, hearing no movement. Perhaps he had gone, after all.

The chill in the house goosebumped her skin. The door to the drawing room was open, and she turned the corner to find Baron Carver still at the desk, though his mind and his gaze were far away. The room was cold, the fire long extinguished. A trio of candles on the desk cast a warm glow on his face. His glasses were off, and he balanced his chin on crossed hands.

Arianne watched him from the doorway for a long while, wondering what prompted his worried expression. He had a handsome face beneath his ridiculous beard, though he held little in common with the urbane Lords she associated with at court. He might play at being a clerk, but anyone who got to know “David Harper” would no doubt come to the same conclusion as Elaine: this was not common man. They might not mistake him for a Lord, but few would put a clerk’s hat on his head.

He rubbed his eyes and started to collect his papers, at last noticing her. “Lady Hightower! I am sorry I am here so late. I will leave presently.”

Thinking of the sabercat, she couldn’t help but unleash a little joke she had rolled around in her head all afternoon. “So you’re a carver, then?”

It produced the desired effect. He froze, his eyes widening. After letting the stunned silence drag for a few moments, she strode inside and let him off the hook. “There’s no need for embarrassment, Mr. Harper. You are quite an artisan. The sabercat you gave Elaine this afternoon was as good a figurine as I have ever seen. A profession to fall back on in case you tire of clerking?”

Profound relief returned his expression to normal. “Well, no. To own the truth, that’s the first thing I’ve ever attempted to carve.”

He stood and began cramming papers into his satchel. The first thing he’s carved? She took a seat near the desk and set her candle down on a nearby table.

“That is extraordinary, Mr. Harper,” she said. “You have a gift.”

“Perhaps.”

He was trying to escape. “So why isn’t there a fire going in here for you? I will have to have a word with Mr. Garvis. I’m afraid you haven’t received the hospitality you deserve today.”

“Do not trouble Mr. Garvis, my Lady. I told him not to bother. I am perfectly comfortable. I lost track of the time and have overstayed my welcome.”

Arianne creased her brow. “What is wrong, Mr. Harper? Have you discovered something?”

He stopped and exhaled. “Maybe. I don’t wish to trouble you about it this evening. I can stop by in the morning before I return to Bellshire.”

“Return to Bellshire?” He couldn’t possibly have finished. “I understood this would take several days.”

“I’ll explain in the morning, my Lady.”

“Look at me, Mr. Harper,” Arianne commanded. He turned his gaze upon her and Arianne held it. It was the first time he had looked at her fully. His eyes widened momentarily; he had finally noticed her as a man notices a woman. “Come sit down over here and explain it to me now. I am not tired, and I can hardly sleep without knowing what you’ve discovered.”

Baron Carver put his satchel on the ground and occupied a chair opposite her. “I need to ask you a couple of questions you may consider sensitive, so forgive me.”

“Do not fear me, Mr. Harper. Ask your questions.”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “Do you have a separate set of funds you set apart from the normal income of your estate that you use for personal interests of your own?”

“I do not.”

“Did your husband have such an account before his…death?” he pressed.

“Not that I am aware of, but my husband was not forthcoming about many of his personal affairs.” Arianne creased her brow. “To what do these questions tend, may I ask?”

Baron Carver rubbed his beard pensively for a moment. “I do not wish to alarm you, Lady Hightower, but the reason I was able to finish this in a day is that the discrepancy I found was quite glaring. That is a good sign, actually.”

“Good sign?” she said. “What discrepancy?”

“For the last few years your income from this estate has totaled a little over thirty-thousand pounds a year. Are you aware that nearly two thousand pounds a year is going unaccounted for from your estate’s earnings?”

“What?” Arianne exclaimed, shocked. “Since when? How?”

“It’s been going on since about a year after your marriage to Lord Hightower and continues on to this day. Your accounts are short around one hundred fifty pounds a month. The amount surprised me. You didn’t know?”

Arianne was flabbergasted. “No! I assure you. I’ve never wanted for anything here and never took a hand in the finances. I guess I am like the little boy in your story this morning. Am I being robbed by my steward or my clerk?”

He leaned forward and raised his hands soothingly. “Be at ease, Lady Hightower. The reason I said the ease of detection was a good sign was that if you were being robbed, whoever is disposing of the money certainly could have tried harder to conceal the theft. Even an underclerk such as myself was able to pick this out with very little work. Many lords keep a separate ledger where they may record other financial transactions they want hidden from the general clerkship of their houses, such as investments or gambling debts or…other items.”

Arianne crossed her arms. “Come now, Mr. Harper. I’m not a prude. You mean a record of what they pay to keep up their mistresses.”

Baron Carver looked away, embarrassed. “Yes, but I don’t think that is the case here.”

“And why is that?” she asked. “My husband and I married as part of a family arrangement. It is common for Lords to…supplement…the affection they receive from their wives.” Her remark troubled him, and she wondered why.

“I do not mean to suggest that it was impossible that your husband had mistresses, rather, that the amount would be extravagant in the extreme for the upkeep of a mistress—at least I imagine so. But even more to the point, it would be very unusual for someone to continue to pay the upkeep of these mistresses for years after your husband’s death.”

“Unless there were some embarrassing circumstances behind it, such as a child,” she added. It would have been just like her husband to do something so stupid. “Perhaps he left instructions for my steward in a secret will I am unaware of.”

Baron Carver leaned back and frowned. “Still unlikely, I think. The amount is more indicative of a serious investment, but there is no return on that investment in the income statements, and so it seems that the money is unaccountably disappearing.”

A creak in the hallway caught her attention. It was extremely improper for her to sit alone with a commoner at night, but she was more concerned that the servants might get wind of Baron Carver’s information. She retrieved the candle.

“One moment, Mr. Harper,” she whispered. A brief inspection of the hallway revealed nothing, and she returned. “I apologize. I thought I heard someone. Is the money for the Aid Society part of this missing income?”

“No. That is recorded dutifully.”

“And there’s been no word as to what that little scam was about?”

He shook his head. “Not when I left three days ago.”

Arianne paced around the room to think, feeling used. Her money was washing away down a ditch and she had no idea. “I feel like a fool, Mr. Harper. An absolute fool. I’ve taken a lot of pride in being an independent woman of means, thinking I was administering my estate quite well. And then this. I am humiliated and becoming more than a little angry. Two thousand pounds a year, right from under my very nose!”

He turned toward her, tone consoling. “Please, do not take it ill, Lady Hightower. There may yet be some perfectly innocent explanation for this whole affair, though I’m afraid the next move falls to you.”

“I suppose I am to talk with my steward and my clerk?”

“Yes,” he said. “Ask them to account for the losses. See if they are aware of any hidden ledger your late husband kept secret or that they kept secret for him. I do not know the character of either man, so have care.”

Arianne had half a mind to pull Mr. Barles, her steward, and Mr. Cranton, her clerk, from their beds in town that very instant and drag them in to confront her in the middle of the night. She was angry enough for anything. “I will speak with them first thing in the morning.”

He stood. “Very good. Please send what you find to the clerk’s office in Bellshire. I—”

“One moment, Mr. Harper. Please sit down,” Arianne requested forcefully. He complied. “I believe you were to be engaged here for at least five days. I see no reason for you to hurry back to Bellshire before I can get to the bottom of this.”

“I…well,” he stammered, “it seemed I was the source of some discomfort to you and your family, and I didn’t wish to burden you with my presence unnecessarily.”

Arianne returned to her seat across from him and grinned. “Mr. Harper, don’t let my mother run you off! She is a bit hard to abide at times, but rest assured that the rest of us are quite comfortable with you here. Besides, if you were to leave four days early, I think you might lose the good opinion of one Elaine Hale. I thank you for your gift. She rarely sees genuine kindness when she is at home in Brighton.”

He nodded. “After seeing her eyes light up when I showed it to her, I knew it was hers.”

Arianne laughed, feeling the worry lessen. “Bear with us a little while longer, if you will, Mr. Harper. This money problem is certainly due to some idiotic scheme of my late husband. He was always carried away in the moment and thought little of what lay ahead. He is dead now, and I must sort this out.”

“I am truly sorry for your loss, my Lady,” Baron Carver said, face dour.

She thought twice about asking her next question, but she had to see how he would react. “Are you aware of how he died?”

He squirmed uncomfortably and looked away. “I heard some maniacal lord killed him in a duel.”

Maniacal. So that is how he judges his actions, then. “Well, maniacally in love, perhaps. The late Lord Hightower imprudently insulted his fiancée. My husband was an affable man in general, but when he drank…well, he never learned to cross himself, drunk or sober. He wouldn’t apologize and wanted to show Baron Carver he was his superior. I’m afraid your sex, Mr. Harper, is prone to these bouts of stupidity.”

He nodded, face sober. “But stupidity shouldn’t cost a good Lady her husband. If Baron Carver had been more sensible to what killing Lord Cornton would do to you, I’m sure he would have acted differently.”

“Perhaps,” she said, finding Baron Carver nothing like she had expected. “But Baron Carver had every right to defend his betrothed’s honor, though I did think it heavy handed at the time. Both men are dead now. We received word some months ago that Baron Carver had met his end.”

He nodded and ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sure that was a comfort to you and best for all involved,” he said, though it seemed to Arianne that he wasn’t addressing her anymore.

“Well, enough idle chatter,” she said. “Come by tomorrow for dinner. I will let you know what intelligence I have gathered, and Elaine can bid you a proper farewell.”

“As you wish,” he said a bit unsteadily, retreating to the desk and donning his glasses and his wide brimmed hat. “I’ll let myself out. Don’t trouble Garvis.”

“I will trouble Garvis,” she stated as she headed for the door. “Your horse will be saddled and waiting for you. I will not have you leave Hightower until your opinion of its hospitality improves.”

Arianne strode out before Baron Carver could trouble her with any polite reassurances.

Chapter 17

The meeting with her steward and clerk went more horribly than Arianne could possibly have imagined. The two recalcitrant men denied any knowledge of secret ledgers and accounts until she threatened to fetch the sheriff and search their persons and their homes.

Shamed and angry, they turned over five ledgers hidden away in a chest of the turret office and said that they had persisted in the keeping of the accounts in the manner Lord Hightower had instructed them. Arianne reminded them quite vociferously that Lord Hightower was dead and that she was the master of the estate.

While their lies and excuses she had expected, their immediate resignation and departure she had not. She sat scouring the books for the balance of the morning but realized she needed Baron Carver’s help to make sense of it all. She sent word to the Blue Ferry Inn in town to see if he could come sooner than dinner to start sorting the whole mystery out. She itched to know what the two rascals had kept from her for the last three years and still had half a mind to bring the sheriff into the picture immediately. But she decided against it in case something damaging to her family’s reputation was at stake.

Two messages arrived over an hour later. One from the inn stated that Mr. Harper had left early in the morning for parts unknown. The other letter was addressed to her mother, who, after reading it, continued the day’s agitation by suddenly packing up and leaving at a breathtaking pace. The Lady Brighton offered no explanation and barely any goodbye, but she did leave a delighted Elaine behind.

The result of all the commotion was a dull ache in the back of Arianne’s head and an unsettled stomach. She felt ill at ease, her distress compounded by uncertainty. She imagined all manner of horrible scenarios involving the late Lord Cornton, from multiple mistresses to a horde of bastard children to some draining speculation that had yet to pay any dividends.

She took a walk through the grounds and gardens to allow nature its chance to distract and calm her mind. The afternoon heat was just giving way to a cool evening breeze, a smear of purple and orange tingeing the edges of the clouds. The fragrant lilacs and lemon bushes settled her. She loved Hightower. Green, rolling hills, gurgling streams, pleasant mornings and brilliant evenings, and all at a fair distance from the bustling of the city proper. Did she really want to give this up to spend the rest of her life with Uticus?

The sound of hooves on the lane spurred her heart to racing again and returned the weight of the day’s worry to her brow. Straightening her dress and taming a wild strand of hair, she quickly walked to the front of the manor to await the disguised Lord Carver. While the horse he rode and the clothing he wore were modest, his comfort and command on his mount betrayed a little of the nobleman astride it. As he neared, he quickly dug his useless spectacles out of his traveling bag and awkwardly affixed them to his face. Arianne shook her head; he really was terrible at disguises.

After a tip of his hat he dismounted, a servant taking the reins. She noted the Baron’s relaxed face and felt a little annoyed; he had clearly spent the day enjoying himself while her stomach had been doing irritated backflips for hours. He doffed his hat and inclined his head as required by protocol.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Lady Hightower,” he said. “I wasn’t sure at what hour you customarily took dinner.”

She started toward the house. “You haven’t missed it yet, Mr. Harper, though I have been eager to see you. I had a rather interesting morning, but I refuse to bother you with the details until you’ve had your fill of dinner. Have you ridden far today?”

“Quite far, yes,” he said. “I rode to the Elder Wood near here. I had to work the horse quite hard to get back in time, so I would be in your debt if you could inform your stablemen to rub him down and give him water. I could do it myself, if you feel it more appropriate. I don’t wish to burden you or your household.”

Arianne stopped him. “After the way my mother treated you yesterday, your horse certainly deserves the best care we can give. I regret to inform you that my mother left earlier today.”

“Did she?” he said, a little relief sneaking into his tone. “I hope it wasn’t on my account. I don’t wish to be any trouble.”

“Enough of that nonsense, Mr. Harper,” Arianne answered. “The Countess received some urgent correspondence that pushed her out the door.”

“Did your sister go with her?” he asked.

“No, and I’m sure she is anxious to hear of your adventures in the Elder Wood today.”

The servants opened the door for them and Baron Carver, fake limp and all, played his part as the commoner to the letter, which Arianne found amusing. None of the Lords she knew could have acted like a commoner convincingly for one minute, even if they had good reason to do so.

Elaine waited for them in the dining room and Arianne nearly choked upon seeing her—she wore a beautiful red gown and had done her hair in curls and ribbons. She had apparently dressed to flirt with Baron Carver! Arianne felt plainly dressed and horribly drab by comparison.

“Hello, Mr. Harper,” Elaine said brightly. “Welcome back to Hightower.”

“Thank you, Miss,” he returned after a little bow, which forced him to push his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.

“Do you know, Mr. Harper,” Elaine began as they were seated, “that I think the figurine you carved for me is alive? This morning there was a dead mouse on floor with two puncture wounds to its belly. I think your sabercat killed it!”

Arianne frowned. “Elaine! Really, dear.” She looked toward Baron Carver, who seemed troubled. “Let’s not make up stories. And a bloody mouse is hardly a topic for the dinner table.”

“But it’s true, Arianne! Just ask Missa!”

Arianne thought it best to let the subject drop. Food stifled their conversation, though Arianne ate little. While she normally would have been fascinated by Baron Carver’s recounting of his day’s journey, she wanted nothing more than to shove the ledgers in front of his face and force him to get to it. She noticed his eye evaluating her, and after eating quickly and refusing seconds, he asked to hear the news. She dismissed an unhappy Elaine and eagerly told him of her run in with her clerk and steward, his face clouding over at her story.

She reached out and touched his forearm without realizing what she was doing. “I know it’s a bit late, Mr. Harper, but would you mind having a look?”

He stood, breaking from her touch. Only then did Arianne realize his discomfort. “I’ll take a look, Lady Hightower, but I warn you this is likely something that will take a number of hours. I assure you, I’ll do my best. I know you have a lot at stake financially.”

“It’s hardly the money I’ve missed, Mr. Harper,” she said, standing and leading him toward the drawing room. She noted that he forgot to limp until about halfway there, and even then used a different leg. “It is the uncertainty of the whole aggravating affair, and I fear there will be some damage to the reputation of Hightower as a result.”

He nodded in understanding. “Just remember, Lady Hightower, that none of this was your doing. I know it would pain you to see your estate under a cloud of bad opinion, but your honor and good name you will keep, regardless of what the books may uncover. I will stand witness for you in this regard, if it comes to it.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Harper. I have appreciated your calm demeanor during this mess. The ledgers are there on the desk. Are the arrangements to your liking?”

He sat down. “I will be perfectly comfortable, thank you.”

Arianne paced around the drawing room, biting her lip and fidgeting. Baron Carver cracked the books and with quill and paper began making notations, pausing from time to time to think. Despite her best efforts not to annoy Baron Carver with her fretting, she found herself staring at him or wandering near him to try to sneak a peek at what he was writing. She knew she was being insufferable, but Baron Carver bore it well.

A soft step in the hall pulled Arianne’s attention away from her worried musings. Elaine turned the corner with a glass and a decanter of wine. She beamed, looking quite fetching in her dress. Immediately Arianne felt guilty. She had been so overwhelmed with thoughts of the ledgers that she had neglected to take thought for Baron Carver’s comfort.

Elaine stepped forward tentatively. “Mr. Harper?”

He glanced up and stood. “Hello, Miss.”

“I brought you something to drink.”

“Why, thank you, Miss! I was just getting a bit parched. You should really let the servants do that. No need to trouble yourself over an underclerk.”

“Mr. Harper, please do not imply that you are troubling us again,” Arianne said, her tone a bit more grating than she had intended.

“My apologies, Lady Hightower.”

Elaine frowned as she poured the drink. “Why are you scolding Mr. Harper, Arianne?”

Arianne sighed. All she wanted to do was show Baron Carver the quality of her house, and his comments made it clear that she had failed. “Well, I’m afraid that we haven’t treated Mr. Harper as well as we should and so he is convinced he is a bother. He is doing us a good service and I am trying to break Mr. Harper of implying that he is some sort of nuisance.”

Elaine grinned. “Oh. You don’t want to cross Arianne, Mr. Harper. She can be severe. You should have heard the way she was yelling at the steward and the clerk this morning. Woke the neighbors, I’m sure.”

Baron Carver took a drink. “I will do my best not to cross Lady Hightower. I’m just not used to being in company with nobility and I’m always afraid I will cause offense.”

Arianne smirked at what seemed a disingenuous statement, but revised her opinion after a moment. Hadn’t the Queen told her that he avoided court? And if his wife had been half the unaffectionate shrew that Arianne suspected she was, the poor man had probably spent the last few years walking softly and trying to stay out of the way. How did he remain so good natured after so many years of neglect? Her own distant, formal relationship with her late husband had nearly driven her mad, and their marriage was at least amicable.

“Are you headed to a ball or an assembly this evening, Miss?” Baron Carver asked Elaine as he finished his drink.

“What makes you think I am headed out, Mr. Harper?” Elaine asked with a sly grin.

Baron Carver cleared his throat and plowed into a ledger. “I…I was just wondering. Well, I should get back to it. Thank you for the refreshment.”

Elaine winked and smiled at Arianne. “I will leave the wine here for you, in case you need it.”

Arianne shook her head. Her sister could be incorrigible, but flirting with a clerk was just unpardonable behavior. Her mother would have carted her back to Brighton for sure if she had known what the girl had planned; Arianne thought she might send Elaine packing herself if she kept it up. She could sympathize, however. He was handsome—or would be if he would shave the beard—and had been surprisingly kind. But he was at least ten years Elaine’s senior. And too tall for her.

Elaine was just about to the drawing room door when Baron Carver looked up suddenly, face troubled, and stood.

Arianne’s brow furrowed. “Is everything well, Mr.—” A thunderous crack from an impact on the front door shook the house. Baron Carver sprung to a petrified Elaine and dragged her back into the drawing room by the arm. Another crushing blow to the door and wood squealed and cracked. Servants yelled, and a gunshot turned yells to screams.

A harsh voice filled the hall. “Get back! Where’s Lady Hightower?”

Arianne’s face drained of blood as Baron Carver guided her and Elaine behind a couch at the far end of the drawing room.

“Stay down,” he said. “Under no circumstances are you to stand up. Do you understand?”

Arianne nodded. That fire she had found missing in Baron Carver earlier had returned, flashing in his eyes as he turned and walked back toward the door.

In the hallway, the boot-steps on the wooden floor pounded ever closer until they came inside the drawing room, the stench of sweat and beer wafting inside with the intruder.

“Who are you?” the harsh voice demanded disdainfully.

“David Harper, underclerk to the Queen of Bellshire. I believe what you want is here on the desk.”

Arianne peeked around the corner of the couch. She could just make out the intruder holding a rifle and concealing his nose and mouth with a dirty brown scarf. He wore the clothes of a poor outdoorsman—thick leather boots up to his knees, worn pants, and dark bison hide coat. His eyes had wandered to the desk from where he stood at the entrance to the drawing room, rifle pointing at Baron Carver’s chest.

How could her steward stoop so low as to hire such a brute thug to retrieve the ledgers? He probably found the thief in the Horned Head, a disreputable drinking establishment in Hightower.

“Where is the Lady Hightower?” the intruder barked.

“Why does it matter?” Baron Carver answered smoothly. “Take the ledgers.”

The man pulled the rifle’s hammer back threateningly. “I hear she’s a fine woman. I’d like a look at her.”

He was clearly drunk. Arianne watched surreptitiously as Baron Carver collected the ledgers and walked cautiously forward. “Look, friend,” he said, “don’t trouble the Lady. Here they are. Just take them and go.”

The man raised the rifle to Baron Carver’s head. “Now you stop right there. I was supposed to burn these ledgers, but if they’re valuable, how about you just pay me more than the one that sent me?”

Arianne smirked. And thus the problem of hiring common rabble to do sensitive work.

“How much do you want?”

“Two hundred pounds,” he answered evenly.

“Done,” Baron Carver said. “Let me call for the manservant to fetch it.”

“No. I want Lady Hightower to bring it to me herself.”

Baron Carver opened his mouth to protest, but the robber brandished the rifle and struck him across the face. The ledgers fell to the floor as Baron Carver caught the edge of the couch to balance himself. Arianne gasped involuntarily.

“Who’s over there?” the intruder asked. “Stand up!” The gun swung in their direction. Arianne retreated next to Elaine who was crying silently, her hand over her mouth to muffle her sobs.

“I said stand up or I’ll put a bullet over there and see if any of those couches bleed!”

Arianne, fearing for the safety of Elaine, went against Baron Carver’s instructions and rose. He and the gunman turned toward her. A shallow gash on Baron Carver’s forehead trickled blood down his face. Baron Carver immediately put himself between her and the gun, while the ill-favored man cocked his head and leered at her.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he said lustily. “Now you go on and get the money, Lady Hightower, or I’ll blow this one’s brains all over your little white room.”

Arianne looked to Baron Carver who nodded, keeping himself between her and the gun as she slowly walked to the door.

“Get out of the way! I want to see her walk!” The man raised the gun and swung it at Baron Carver’s head again, but Baron Carver leaned backwards slightly and the barrel passed to his left. Then, just as she had seen in the forest the day of the assassination, the underclerk changed from a man of books to a lord of war. His left hand shot out and grabbed the barrel of the rifle, pushing it up toward the ceiling and away from anyone in the room. Simultaneously, he flipped up the back of his coat and with his right hand pulled a white dagger the likes of which Arianne had never seen.

The gun discharged, raking her nerves, as Baron Carver slashed the arm of his assailant, who cried out in pain and then dropped the weapon. Realizing his danger, the ruffian turned for the door as Baron Carver pulled an identical dagger with his left hand.

“Stay here,” he ordered as he sprang forward to pursue. Arianne walked back toward Elaine, but when she heard the robber scream in agony and surprise, she ran forward into the hallway instead.

The intruder lay upon the ground in front of the staircase writhing, grabbing at his neck. Baron Carver sheathed his knives and bent down to minister to the wounded man, ordering him to stay still. Blood spurted from the robber’s throat, spraying on the wall, and Baron Carver clamped down on the wound, trying to stifle the gushing.

His patient’s eyes shot wide with terror, face paling with every gout of blood. In the dim light of the hallway, Arianne spotted the small wooden figurine of a sabercat lying in a crimson pool next to the writhing man, hunk of flesh still trapped in its lifeless jaws. The Lady Hightower brought her hand to her mouth as servants emerged from their hiding places.

Despite Baron Carver’s fervent ministrations, the man died moments later.

Chapter 18

Davon whittled his newest carving, the motions almost unconscious. What is happening to me? He paused for a moment to regard the burned imprints of the Eternal Flame on his palms. It had all started after the ceremony in the Flame Cathedral. But he wasn’t sure. The strange ability to carve came after that, but the preternatural ability to sense, to think, to act with unusual quickness had come before then. When he had survived the onslaught of Dales Marter, he had considered himself lucky. When he had dropped the three fleeing assassins from their horses, he credited his own skill and extraordinary, unbelievable luck.

But what had happened last night was completely different. Somehow he had sensed that danger was close, just as a deer might raise its head because it smells something off or hears an unexpected sound. He had seen it a hundred times on his hunting trips in the wild when stalking prey. But none of his usual senses had registered anything out of the ordinary; he just knew that something bad had arrived at Lady Hightower’s door.

And then his carving had leaped from the staircase onto the robber’s neck and tore out his artery. Davon had removed the sabercat from the scene before the City Watch came, and he and Lady Hightower agreed to leave that little detail out of the report when the sheriff came to interview them all a while later. Just an unfortunate stab of his knife, they told him.

The Lady Hightower had retired immediately to comfort a visibly shaken Elaine, and Davon provided the shockingly young sheriff with the rest of the details. Thankfully, the chirurgeon tasked with sewing a few stitches into his head had some gray hair. The sheriff promised to send a couple of men in the morning to guard the place against further attack, but Davon wasn’t content to return to the Inn and leave the house unguarded. He had fetched his gun and sat on the front steps to watch the night through. He had barely sat five minutes when a little piece of wood—part of a broken branch beneath a nearby elm—called to him.

When the shapes had first started appearing in the wood, he thought his mind had started to fail him. Everywhere he went a fallen branch or a plank of wood would transform before his eyes into something else. From time to time, he could even sense to whom the objects would belong. As soon as he had met Elaine Brighton, he knew the sabercat was hers. The life-like figurine of Lord Ember in his bag was to go to Lord Ember, which seemed silly; why would he want a carving of himself? And he knew that the nearly finished rosebud pendant in his hand would go to the Viscountess Arianne Hightower. He hadn’t even needed light to carve it. The skill had come without any work or study; it was as if someone else’s hands were attached to his body.

He stared at the rosebud, smoothing the edges with his carving knife. How he would give the gift to a Lady without seeming incredibly forward was something he had yet to figure out. She probably already thought him an oddity that attracted trouble to her household. Still, she had been kind. If more of the nobles would have been like her, he might not have avoided court so assiduously during his days as Baron Carver. She was as pretty as a spring blossom, to boot.

He chastised himself for the stray thought and blew the dust and wood curls off the rosebud. He had killed her husband, and now that he knew what kind of a woman she was, he felt more guilty for it than ever. Why hadn’t he thought of her before issuing his challenge? Emile was all that had occupied his mind then, and he cursed himself for his shortsightedness. At least now he had some chance to offer restitution by keeping her safe and seeing her through the odd ordeal of her ledgers.

The light had just started to conquer the dark for good as he twirled the rose pendant between his thumb and forefinger. He inspected its curves and the delicate stem. It was a perfection. He still couldn’t believe how easy it was.

The roughly patched-up door to the manor house creaked and squealed angrily and Davon turned, surprised to find a puffy-eyed Lady Hightower wrapped in a shawl striding toward his place on the stair. Davon stood and bowed. She appeared out of sorts, eyes hard, and he hoped nothing bad had happened inside the house.

“Mr. Harper!” she exclaimed. “Am I to understand that you have been out here all night long? I thought you had returned to the Inn!”

He wiped bits of wood off of his coat and pants, returning the knife to his carving pouch. “I’m sorry to distress you, Lady Hightower. The sheriff said he would send men this morning to watch over the house, and I didn’t want to leave you unprotected overnight in case of some further villainy.”

She came uncomfortably close and pushed his hat back to get a look at the wound on his forehead, inspecting it for a few moments before stepping away. “Well, you look a mess and I could have…should have…sent some of the other men in my house to watch so you could rest!”

Davon exhaled. “Don’t worry, Viscountess. I should still be fit enough to spend a few hours at the ledgers today.”

She returned an angry look. “I wasn’t concerned that you wouldn’t be able to get to the ledgers, for the Flame’s sake! You were injured!” She put her hands on her hips and looked out toward the grounds. “I…I love Hightower. I want it to be a place where everyone can feel safe and welcome and warm, and it has been nothing but a house of horrors for you. If it’s not my Mother insulting you for hours, then it’s me whipping you to look at the ledgers. And then someone attacks you! It’s all been so irregular and unexpected.”

Davon didn’t consider himself the least bit knowledgeable in terms of women and their emotions, especially after his failure to read Emile, but the Lady Hightower was on the verge of tears. He knew Elaine was terrified; he now understood that the more composed Lady Hightower felt the same and was dealing with it by berating herself over petty points of hospitality. Her eyes started to water as she finished her diatribe against herself.

While nothing could atone for his killing of her husband, he could at least offer her help now. “Lady Hightower,” he said, “you have treated me far better than I deserve. It’s been a beastly time for you, but I assure you that I’ll do everything in my power to guarantee that you and Elaine come to no further harm.”

Her eyes started to water again and she turned away briefly, rubbing them. “I hardly slept at all last night so my eyes feel like they have sand in them. I thank you for your commitment, Mr. Harper, but as I recall, I wasn’t asking for your protection; I was pointing out that I set a high standard of hospitality for Hightower, and I regret that you have yet to enjoy it.” She mastered her emotions, exhaling and rubbing her arms against the cold. “So you’ve been carving something. Some other beast to guard my house?”

Well, here it goes. He opened his palm. As with Elaine, he could see the possessive spark in Arianne’s eyes. It was more than amazement or appreciation; it was as if something in them recognized that the carving belonged to them. Without asking, she removed it from his extended hand.

“This is exquisite! And look, it even has a little loop for a chain!”

At that moment, the first rays of dawn broke above the horizon, falling upon them both. The rosebud unfolded and welcomed the light, expanding in Lady Hightower’s hand. She gasped in wonderment and Davon’s eyes went wide. It was a perfect simulacrum of a rose without the colors. Wafer thin petals caught the rays, blushing their tips a soft pink. While in appearance delicate, the petals did not bend as the Viscountess probed them reverently. She held it for many moments, speechless.

“Mr. Harper, this…this is a treasure! A marvelous treasure!” She looked at him for a moment, eyes widening. “Let me see your palms.” Davon extended them obediently, knowing what she would find. She nodded. “You are one of the Flametouched! Is this your gift?” she asked, studying the rose.

“I think so, though I hardly know what to make of it. I have many questions for Lord Ember when I return to Bellshire.”

He didn’t remember living carvings on the list of gifts Lord Ember had spoken of before the ceremony. Lady Hightower continued to admire the carving for several moments before returning her attention to him.

“Come in and we’ll get you a warm bath and some fresh clothes. After a good breakfast you will sleep, and later we will talk about what to do about our precarious situation.” These were commands, her tone indicating she would brook no debate.

“Thank you for your kindness, Lady Hightower.”

“You are welcome.” She started toward the house, rose in hand, before abruptly turning back to Davon. “I’m sorry, Mr. Harper! I’ve absconded with your carving!”

“It is finished. Why don’t you…hold on to it for me?” It wasn’t quite the same as gifting it to her, and he hoped she would feel more comfortable. By her smile, she was pleased, and Davon was glad such a simple thing could distract her from her troubles.

“I will find a chain for it immediately,” she said. “I know the very one. I will be the envy of everyone. “

As they passed into the dark of the entryway, the flower closed again, to the delight of the Viscountess. Elaine came down the stairs moments later. She had refused to sleep without the sabercat in her room. Garvis had diligently cleaned it for her, though the blood had stained it an uneven maroon color on one side. She clutched it next to her chest and embraced her sister.

“Look what else Mr. Harper has carved.” The next few moments Davon enjoyed the bright eyes and smiles of the women as they walked in and out of the light to watch the rosebud open and close. Whatever purpose his gift might have, at the very least it seemed to astonish and gladden the recipients, and as far as gifts went, he supposed it a good one. He just wished every piece of serviceable wood he came across would quit transforming itself before his eyes.

“Mr. Harper here is a bit more extraordinary than he lets on,” Arianne continued. “He is Flametouched.”

Elaine’s eyes widened. “May I see?” Davon extended his hands again and she tentatively prodded the mark before turning back to Arianne. “He could be Lord Ember someday! The Queen will certainly knight him after this, too! You will be a noble, Mr. Harper. Sir Harper! What do you think of that?”

Davon felt a bit uncomfortable. Under no circumstances did he want to return to court. “It sounds a bit grand for someone like me, young Miss. I think I could use that bath more than a title at the moment.”

The warm bath nearly paralyzed Davon with comfort, and after a quick scrub, Garvis trimmed his beard and hair. Another manservant knocked and reported that the sheriff’s men had arrived. Davon relaxed and felt so warm and woozy afterward that he declined breakfast and retired to bed directly.

Garvis returning with lunch—a sliced apple and a bowl of steaming potato soup—woke him. Davon ate slowly, clearing the fog from his head with effort. He could hear laughter and the happy tones of Elaine and Arianne, not the somber mood he had expected from two women terrorized just the day before.

The door opened and Garvis entered with familiar saddlebags. “Lady Arianne had these fetched from the Inn for you. Do you have some clothes you can wear, or should I try to find some for you around the house?”

“I’ve some in the bags, thank you, Garvis,” he answered.

“You’re welcome. And, Mr. Harper, the Ladies would like to see you soon. They’ve discovered something rather extraordinary about those carvings of yours. They are in the drawing room.”

Curiosity piqued, Davon dressed quickly and headed downstairs. Lady Hightower, Elaine, and Missa all sat in the drawing room, faces bright. The rose, fully bloomed, hung from a copper chain encircling Lady Hightower’s milky white neck, and she fingered it absentmindedly. The sabercat sat curled like a house cat on Elaine’s lap. The ledgers awaited on the desk.

“Good afternoon, Ladies,” he said, bowing before making his way to his work. “I am sorry I slept so long.”

“You deserved it, Mr. Harper,” Lady Hightower said. “Come here for a moment. We have something to show you.” All three of the women grinned knowingly at him and he felt uneasy. Lady Hightower stood and came toward him, stopping just in front of him.

“Watch this, Mr. Harper.” She concentrated for a moment, closing her eyes, and the rosebud closed. She did it again, and it bloomed.

“You can control it?” he asked, astonished.

“Yes!” She moved to stand beside him and threaded her arm through his. He froze and had to exert all his concentration to keep from trembling. She was warm and smelled of lavender. Her touch felt like coming in out of the cold and standing by a roaring fire, both inviting and uncomfortable. He swallowed hard. How long had it been since anyone had touched him in a familiar, friendly manner?

“Your turn, Elaine,” Arianne prompted. Elaine concentrated for a moment and the rigid form of the sabercat turned lithe. It cast its gaze quickly about and then leaped from Elaine’s lap to the dark of recess under the couch. “It seems to have a life of its own,” Lady Hightower explained, “but she can also command it. Show him, Elaine.”

Elaine stared intently at the carving for a moment and the wooden sabercat sprinted from under the couch to stand in front of Davon and bow in deference. Davon used the opportunity to break Arianne’s lock on his arm and stoop down, extending his hands. At Elaine’s behest, the figurine obediently crawled up and sat on its haunches on his palms. Davon rose again, and Lady Hightower discomfited him by latching back onto his arm.

“But Mr. Harper,” Lady Hightower said, studying his face, “it appears you didn’t enjoy our little demonstration?”

The sabercat suddenly jumped down and hopped across the furniture and tables until it snuggled up on Elaine’s lap. He was flummoxed and pulled away from Lady Hightower, seeking refuge at the desk. “I don’t know what to say, Lady Hightower. I hope my strange gift doesn’t cause trouble for you.”

“Mr. Harper!” she laughed. “You are incorrigible! The only trouble you have caused is a bit jealousy. This is delightful!”

“Do smile,” Elaine joined in. “This is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.”

Lady Hightower returned to her seat. “How does it work, Mr. Harper?”

“You’ll think I’m mad,” he warned, absentmindedly arranging the papers and books on the desk. “I just see shapes in the wood. Like that pile of brush out there. I can see a stick that will make two candles, one for Missa there and one for Garvis.” Missa’s face lit up.

Lady Hightower asked, “You mean that you know whom the carvings are for beforehand?”

“Usually, yes.”

“So you knew this rosebud was for me when you saw the shape in the wood?”

Davon nodded. “With Elaine, however, I didn’t know until I met her.”

“Fascinating. Missa, fetch Garvis. We need to bring that stick here for Mr. Harper.”

Davon objected. “Shouldn’t I be about the ledgers, Lady Hightower?”

“Of course, but you said we needed to discuss how to act next, and we can do that while you carve. Would you like to sit in the garden and speak with me while you carve?”

“That would be fine, Lady Hightower.”

“Can I come?” Elaine asked hopefully.

“No, dear,” Arianne answered. “There are delicate matters Mr. Harper and I need to attend to. We’ll call for you when we are done.”

She pouted, but Arianne didn’t give way. They left the house through a rear entrance to the green garden filled with vibrant colors. The day was breezy and pleasant, round puffy clouds slipping through the sky and the air just cool enough to make the sunshine desirable. Garvis brought chairs for them both and Davon arranged them to keep Lady Hightower out of sight from anyone that might be watching from the nearby woods.

After a few miscues as to the proper stick, Davon retrieved his knife and began to whittle a little self-consciously as the Lady Hightower looked on, face expectant. He simply wasn’t used to having someone pay attention to him do anything. But his gift didn’t fail him. His hands knew where to cut and groove and shape. Thankfully, the Lady leaned back and inspected a Red Creeper Vine for a moment before turning her attention back to him.

“Before I ask for your thoughts,” she began, “I wanted to inform you that I sent two letters this morning, one to Queen Filippa and one to my mother, relating last night’s events. When the Sheriff’s two men came this morning they told me that both my steward and my clerk had fled. No one’s seen either man since late last night when their families said they packed and left suddenly. Certainly guilty behavior. Do you think I am still in danger, Mr. Carver?”

Davon stopped for a moment and regarded her. A fragrant breeze rustled her dark hair, and her blue eyes were penetrating and deep. Davon realized he was staring and opened his mouth quickly. “I’ve been giving it some thought, and I believe that, yes, you are probably in more danger now.”

She was surprised. “Why?”

“Clearly the ledgers contain something criminal. Now, the man sent last night was a common thug, cheap, coarse, and stupid. The kind of man found quickly and by someone of little means. If your clerk and your steward had been pocketing two thousand pounds a year for at least three years, they would be quite well to do. Apparently, however—”

She sat up straight. “They haven’t been keeping the money.”

“Precisely. They are working for someone else, and my guess is that that person is probably someone of substance. When people of substance want something illegal done, they can find someone much more skilled than a tavern dog to do their dirty work. I fear that when such a person gets word that the ledgers are exposed, then Hightower will not be safe.”

Her eyes turned hard. “Should I hire men? Keep a thick guard about the grounds?”

Davon returned to whittling without even thinking about it. “I apologize if my carving seems disrespectful. I don’t even realize I’m doing it. Hiring a guard might be useful, but the real solution is to get the ledgers out of Hightower as quickly as possible and to make that fact public. I should do it.”

“You’ll make yourself a target, Mr. Harper! I won’t have it,” she disagreed firmly.

“It makes sense, Lady Hightower. I may wear the clothes of a common clerk, but I am experienced in the wilderness. I’ll drop word in a couple local taverns that I have the ledgers. I’ll leave in the middle of the night and stay off the road. No one will be able to find me. I can slip into Bellshire and get the ledgers to Mr. Lambert and the Lord High Sheriff.”

She leaned forward, eyes cold and voice hard. “Now listen to me, Mr. Harper. Everyone knows I am a friend of the Queen, and they will know that I would send the ledgers to Bellshire to be examined. You may be able to play your little game of hide and seek in the woods, but the conspirators will know where you are going.”

Why is she so angry about this idea? Davon wondered. It made perfect sense to him. Then he guessed what might be troubling her. “I understand that you would like to know what’s in these ledgers first in case it is damaging to Hightower and to yourself. I can assure you, however, that Mr. Lambert and the sheriff will be as discreet as I am. You can get an armed escort to Bellshire a day or two after I leave.”

Her head began to shake about half way through his argument. He had guessed wrong.

“No, Mr. Harper. I cannot have you come here, pass through abuse and peril, and then leave with a gun pointed at your head! It isn’t right. It would be improper and beneath my sense of gentility.”

Sense of gentility? Davon really didn’t understand. “Lady Hightower, I assure you that I have a very high opinion of Hightower and of you. This is simply not a matter of propriety. It is what needs to be done to keep you and Miss Brighton safe.” Suddenly, it occurred to him what to say. “I am a commoner and a clerk. It is an honor that one as lowly as I can serve and protect a noblewoman and friend of the Queen.”

She seemed appalled and stood, regarding him with flinty eyes. It hadn’t been the right thing to say, after all.

“I absolutely refuse to put you in danger in this way, Mr. Harper. Refuse, mind you. I will hire men. You will stay here, decipher what you can of the ledgers, and when it is time, you and I will travel together under heavy guard to Bellshire. The matter is closed.”

He had no thought to reply. She stormed into the house before he could think of anything anyway. He exhaled, perplexed. She was more concerned about the ledgers becoming public than he realized and obviously wasn’t thinking clearly. Of course, her nerves were raw from the disturbing events of the last few days. Another hour in the garden would see the candles carved and likely a more settled Lady Hightower. He would try to reason with her again then. Whatever she commanded, he would do what was necessary to keep her and her sister safe.

I’ll miss this place, he thought wistfully to himself as the wood shavings fell in rapid succession. It was the first time in months he hadn’t thought of Frostbourne.

Chapter 19

Davon’s second discussion with Lady Hightower went as poorly as the first, his host turning instantly angry the moment he pushed his proposal forward. Fortunately, Garvis, whom Davon could see cared for Arianne and Elaine a great deal, held a warmer opinion of Davon’s plan and had agreed to help him implement it without Lady Hightower’s knowledge.

Matters settled, Davon enjoyed a relaxed evening with the ladies, Elaine occupying most of his time with queries about nearly everything imaginable, from sabercats to carvings and even guns. Arianne, while attentive, apparently hadn’t forgiven him for even broaching his idea in the first place and had watched him all evening as a concerned mother might a rebellious child she feared would disobey.

Her preoccupation with showing a common clerk the virtues and quality of Hightower was strange, and he couldn’t make sense of it. Why would she care what a clerk thought of the hospitality of her estate?

After dinner Davon, rose and stifled a fake yawn. “I’m afraid I am feeling a little worn this evening and will retire to the inn immediately.”

“I shall see to your horse,” Garvis said.

“Hold one moment, if you will, Mr. Garvis,” Lady Hightower ordered just as Mr. Garvis turned to go. “Before Mr. Harper leaves, would you see that the ledgers are properly locked and stored in the turret office?”

“I have already taken care of that, my Lady,” he confirmed.

Satisfied, she rose, and Mr. Garvis bowed and left. Davon tried to keep the smugness off his face. Everything had proceeded just as he had planned it. He hoped Garvis could execute his part of the scheme without the discovery of his master or he would find himself out of work the next morning.

While Davon took no pleasure in going against the Lady’s wishes, he did derive some satisfaction that his rather underhanded actions would protect Hightower and two ladies that had come to mean more to him than he had intended when he had walked up to the doorstep four days ago.

Again he sensed the will of the Eternal Flame pushing and pulling him where it needed him to go. Killing Lady Hightower’s husband for Emile’s tarnished honor had turned to one of his biggest regrets. Now came a chance, in some small way, to make restitution for his sins toward Lady Hightower, a most excellent woman.

He gathered his coat, hat, and carving bag and faced Arianne, who folded her arms across her chest and regarded him severely.

“I will expect you early tomorrow, Mr. Harper,” she stated flatly. “And I don’t want to hear another word about your plan. It is out of the question.”

“What plan, Arianne?” Elaine interjected.

“Never mind, Elaine. It is a private matter between Mr. Harper and me.”

Davon bowed to them both. “I assure you, Lady Hightower, I won’t utter another word on the subject.” She eyed him suspiciously and he lowered his eyes to appear more defeated.

“Very well,” she said after a searching pause. “Good evening to you, Mr. Harper.”

The door closed and Davon hopped down the steps and waited for Mr. Garvis to arrive with the horse. His mind raced, nerves buzzing in anticipation of his journey. He would stop at Hightower’s taverns first, spreading the rumor that he was carrying a special package to Bellshire for Lady Hightower. With any luck, the news would travel quickly. He would leave that night and strike out on the road, cutting into the wilderness when day came. The only worry was the horse. His current mount didn’t possess the endurance of Ceril and might fail him in a pinch.

“Here you are, Mr. Harper,” Mr. Garvis said, handing the reins to Davon.

Davon mounted. “Is everything in place?”

“Just as you asked for,” he answered. “I’ve packed some extra food in the bags and an extra waterskin for good measure. I am grateful you are willing to take this chance for the Lady.”

“Ah! One moment!” Davon exclaimed, remembering something. Reaching into his carving bag he pulled out the two carved candles. “This one is for you and the other for Missa.”

Garvis grabbed them eagerly, smile overspreading his face. “Now,” Davon continued, “if you concentrate…” But Garvis had jumped ahead of Davon’s thought and a flame sprung to life on the delicate wick that stayed steady, unaffected by the night’s breeze.

Garvis passed his hand over it. “It doesn’t burn! This is extraordinary!” Davon forgotten, Mr. Garvis turned and eagerly returned to the house.

Davon smiled at the retreating servant and set off down the short lane that led to the road. The moon hung just over the top of the tree lined hills, swollen and bright, providing ample light for a chilly night ride. Breathing in the crisp air, he coaxed the horse into a trot to warm him up. The trip to Bellshire normally took a solid two days; he wanted to trim that time.

The road passed directly through the Hightower Township, and as he crested a low hill he caught sight of its lights punctuating the windows of the houses and businesses just two miles ahead. Again the troubling sensation of wrongness hit him like a bucket of cold water, and he jabbed his boot heels into his horse’s flanks. With a jolt it surged into a gallop, the air rushing by pushing the brim of his hat back.

A shot rang out from somewhere to his left, the bullet whizzing just behind him as the horse tore through the night. This was more serious than he had imagined. They had staked out the road! They couldn’t know if he had the ledgers, but whoever stood to lose from the ledgers’ contents probably assumed the Queen’s Underclerk knew more than he should about whatever secrets they contained.

He chanced a look behind him. Another shot. A muzzle flashed from a thicket just off the road behind him and a bullet ripped into his saddlebags. Davon hunkered down over the horse’s neck, every pulse of the beast’s legs inflating his chances of escape. The town’s lights steadily neared, bobbing up and down in his vision. The third report from the rifle sounded distant and was errant enough not to register any effect near him. In moments, the outer buildings of Hightower engulfed him and he relaxed his pace and his posture, the horse’s shod hooves sending up a racket on the cobblestone streets.

His plans changed. He would not take the time to hang around in taverns, though he had to ensure the general public knew he had the ledgers so that any would be thieves or assassins would leave Hightower manor in peace. His recent run in provided him with an opportunity, and guiding his horse to the first tavern, he jumped off in a bustle and banged open the door of the Winsome Maid.

“Someone shot at me!” he exclaimed to a surprised and subdued crowd. “I’m carrying a special package to Bellshire for Lady Hightower and I think someone’s trying to steal it! I’m not from here. Could someone tell me where the sheriff’s office is?”

Several mumbled answers and contradictory pointing fingers from inebriated patrons informed him of exactly where it probably wasn’t, and he left, mounting his horse quickly. He had no intention of visiting the young Sheriff who would undoubtedly detain him while he investigated the matter. One more tavern stop to set rumors flying and he would continue his journey. The Horned Head waited down a side street and was, Davon suspected, the source of the intruder that had menaced Hightower the night before.

He repeated his “I’m going to Bellshire with ledgers” routine to a more gruff and mean crowd that eyed him with suspicion and silence, despite what Davon figured was a well-executed attempt at appearing desperate and distressed. An awkward silence mingled with the stench of vomit and sweat for several moments when Davon caught sight of a pistol being raised underneath a table.

He dove out of the tavern as a shot took a plug of wood out of the door and set his horse to rearing. His job was done. Clearly, someone had set in motion a plan to get the ledgers back after the previous night’s failure, and the deader the troublesome underclerk, the better. He hoped the murderous plots didn’t include Arianne, and the thought of her in danger smote his heart.

Before more bullets could fly, he mounted the horse and rode, considering a return to Hightower. Were the sheriff’s men guarding the house trustworthy? Competent? If the villains behind the conspiracy believed he carried the ledgers, would they leave her be? He agonized for several moments before deciding he had to continue as he had originally planned. The ledgers were the key. Even if Arianne had some dangerous knowledge—which she didn’t—any accusations she might make would have no weight of proof behind them without the ledgers. Of course, the powers behind these attacks might not think so rationally.

Resigned, he turned south and set off at a good clip until the lights of Hightower fell far behind and out of sight and the sound of his horse’s hooves echoed alone in the starlit night. Fearing another sentry south of the town, he didn’t slow his pace until several miles had passed without incident.

Steady now. Steady and quiet the rest of the way.

The next morning Davon snapped his head up and shook it. He had dozed in the saddle as he had several times in the dead of the night, but movement ahead of him pulled him from slumber. He had to rub his eyes before he would believe them. There in the predawn gray was a group of North People, the Aua’Catan, clustered on the side of the road near a stand of tall trees.

There was one white haired woman and two bald men in leather pants and jerkins, and they seemed just as surprised to see him as he was to see them. Davon stopped the horse, and they hefted their packs, spears, and bows and darted away into the wilderness. While Bittermarchians didn’t hunt and kill the Aua’Catan like the Creetisians, most considered them savage and unrefined. Davon had been called that himself, so he didn’t put much stock in it. Still, it was odd that they were so far south.

He pushed the horse forward again at an easy pace, glancing into the woods but finding no trace of the Aua’Catan he had seen. They were good in the wild, but he didn’t trust his vision at the moment. Even the sun’s brilliant blaze as it crested the Ice Fire Mountains to his left couldn’t keep his heavy eyelids from dropping closed. He stopped and splashed water from a trickling stream on his face and chewed some bread to wake himself, but after dozing off and nearly pitching himself from the saddle a few miles down the road, he decided he could not avoid resting. He had too far left to go.

Resigned, he steered his horse through a break in a leafy hedge and into a dewy green field where mist still lingered. He needed a few hours rest, and he found a massive persimmon tree on a slight incline with a good view of the road. Staking out the horse near a rich tuft of broad spring grass, he leaned against the trunk facing away from the road and pulled his broad brimmed hat over his eyes. Accustomed to sleeping outdoors, he drifted off quickly…

…only to be roused by a gun poking him in the shoulder.

He startled awake and shoved his hat upwards, fearing he had been caught. The weathered, pruned face of a man holding a rifle and the bleating of sheep greeted him in the late morning light. Davon exhaled in relief. This was a shepherd and likely the owner or tenant of the field. His hard, dark eyes pinned Davon to his spot.

“Been men up and down the road this morning lookin’ for someone what matches your description. Say he shot up a place in Hightower.”

Davon tried to grin pleasantly, wishing he had the gift of charisma and charm that other Lords seemed to have in abundance. At least his recently trimmed beard and hair would lend him some respectability. “I assure you I’ve not shot anyone or anything in Hightower. I’m just a clerk.”

The man snorted. “A clerk, are ya? A bit tan for a clerk. Big gun for a clerk.”

“I always travel armed in case of brigands or predatory animals, as I can see you do.”

He wasn’t convinced. “Liar. Too tan for a clerk. Too big, too. You’re a ruffian of some sort.”

Hoof beats on the road a hundred yards behind the tree distracted them both, and the old shepherd leaned around the trunk to get a look. “There’s a couple of ‘em. You just stay put or I’ll blow a hole in yer chest wide enough to shake hands through.”

Davon couldn’t believe his extraordinary ill luck. The shepherd stuck two dirty fingers in his mouth and whistled so loudly that Davon’s horse shied back in surprise. Frantically, Davon took stock of his situation. The saddlebags sat by the tree with his rifle. The horse, now spooked, pulled at its stake some thirty feet away. His captor had his eyes on the road and was waving his hand to the riders. From his reclined position, Davon couldn’t figure a way to stand and overpower the man quickly enough to avoid the promised cavernous hole in his chest.

He needed a diversion, something to pull the old man’s attention away from his prisoner and his gun just for a few moments. The scars on his chest started to itch and he reached up to scratch them. The shepherd returned his malevolent attention back on his prisoner. Davon had just raised his hands in a gesture of innocence when a fierce growl and the screaming of terrified sheep unnerved them both.

From the deep grass to his right, a sabercat tore into the field. In a heartbeat it had punctured the neck of a fat, slow sheep on the edge of the herd. The shepherd swore and raised his gun, firing off a poorly aimed round that drilled his injured sheep in the hindquarters. The report of the gun momentarily scared the wary cat, but as soon as the echo of the shot settled, it dove in and began pulling its victim back toward nearby trees.

Davon didn’t waste the opportunity. Springing to his feet he easily separated the old man from his gun and chucked the weapon out into the field as far as he could.

“Good day!” he said before sprinting for his saddlebags and his rifle. While the shepherd spouted off several different epithets that compared Davon to the offal of various domesticated animals, Davon collected his equipment and settled his horse. The riders still sat on the road watching, perhaps intimidated by the sound of the gun, but once they saw their quarry run for his horse, they spurred their own and charged onto the field, further upsetting the sheep which had fled in that direction.

Davon undid the stake and left it, and without time to attach his saddlebags properly, he threw them over his lap as he thundered away to the south, following the line of the road and riding hard. Shouting and hoof beats followed him, echoing at a distance. Resting had been a mistake, after all. Someone was really, really desperate for the ledgers.

The exposed fields and low hills stretched around him like a green sea with islands of trees and occasional flotillas of hedges and bushes. With a trained eye, Davon watched for small gullies worn by rain water and kept an eye out for low rock walls left by farmers who cleared the fields of debris in the past. Expertly, he guided his horse around and over every obstacle, widening the gap between him and his pursuers.

Two dogged him from the rear, and from time to time he thought he heard more men in the direction of the road and even some off in the wilderness to his left, though he couldn’t be sure. After the initial sprint, the pace slowed as the terrain gradually turned more wild and difficult, pastures and fields giving way to untamed meadows and ever more expansive groupings of fir and aspen. The Ice Fire Mountains grew steadily in the west, and the inclines and declines of the hills more rocky and severe. Here Davon thought he had the advantage. Here he could get lost, hunker down, and perhaps get an idea of how many men trailed him.

He stopped for a moment to get the saddlebags properly affixed. An afternoon storm gathered in the south, high gray clouds gradually washing northward like a dull, ponderous tide. A few distant cracks of thunder rumbled in the sky as he pushed forward out of a fragrant copse of green spruce and into a rock strewn meadow. Again, his nerves tingled in warning as they had done twice before. He jabbed his heels into his frothing horse again. Wind whipping by his ears, he barreled across the clearing with white-knuckled hands on the reins, weaving in and out of clumps of rocks that would trip the horse.

A rifle report was all the warning Davon had before a bullet blasted into his horse’s head and then another into his thigh. The horse went limp and crumpled to the ground, sending Davon over the top. With reflexes he never knew he had, he tucked his shoulder and rolled, tumbling over the rough ground. When he and the horse settled, it took several moments for his bearings to return and the pain from his wounded thigh to register. Glancing back at the horse, a quick realization hit him: he was hit on the front of this thigh; the horse was struck on the left side of its head. He had ridden into a trap, and the riflemen were skilled. One gunman waited to his left and the other somewhere just in front of him.

Staying low to the ground, he scooted back toward his own rifle and ammunition bag in the low grass to the left of his dead steed. A knee-high crumble of rocks provided scant cover from one gunman, and he edged toward the back of the fallen horse for some cover against the other. In moments, he suspected his pursuers would gallop up from behind with possibly more arriving from the road. He shoved a bullet in the breech loader as a shot from one of the gunman whizzed overhead and another thudded into the corpse of the horse.

Rolling onto his belly, he propped his gun on the dead horse’s flanks and stared ahead, squinting. At about seventy yards he spotted him, the dome of a hat and the barrel of a gun sticking up above a fallen log in a small stand of trees. He was reloading. Davon waited for the head to rise just a few more inches.

As he sighted the shot, the sound of a horse approaching from behind him begged for his attention. He kept his aim steady, waiting. At last, the head poked above the log and Davon squeezed the trigger, the bullet slamming into the forehead of the would-be assassin, sending him to the ground in a spray of red. Davon rolled off the horse and reloaded. Another bullet chipped the rocks to his right as the other sniper tried to pin him down. Gun loaded, Davon crawled up against the rocks and faced backwards. The horse and his rider had yet to emerge from the same copse he had passed through before crossing the meadow.

While he waited, the incoming clouds extinguished the last of the sunshine. The approaching horse came slowly now, the rider no doubt exercising caution after hearing gunfire. But come he did, dark horse emerging at a cautious pace from the shadows of the trees, the rider holding a pistol out and surveying the meadow for signs of danger. Davon dropped him with a shot to his heart. The horse reared and dumped its rider, running wildly into the field.

Davon rolled onto his belly, noting the blood pooling by his thigh. With no proper bandages, he had to use one of his saber-tooth knives to cut a strip of cloth from his shirt. He bound his leg with it, all while trying not to raise his head above the level of the stones.

The third gunman hadn’t fired a shot since Davon had managed to wedge himself against the rocks, which meant he was either very patient or repositioning himself. In either case, Davon knew he couldn’t stay put. The field provided only sporadic cover, and getting from one spot to the next would expose him for too long. Any man that could hit a horse in the head while it ran across a field could easily drop a man with a wounded leg as he stumbled for cover.

Since the meadow was on an incline, sloping down to the road and away from the likely direction of the other shooter, he decided to crawl on his belly in that direction, doing his best to plan a path that included every tuft of grass taller than a rabbit and every rock of any size to crawl behind. The saddlebags were trapped irretrievably underneath the horse, so Davon took his loaded gun, carving bag, and ammunition pouch and set off on an uncomfortable and slow trek, his thigh screaming with each scraping pull forward.

When another bullet thudded into the ground to Davon’s left, he knew his enemy had repositioned himself close to where the first gunman had died. Davon shuffled quickly behind a squat cairn of rocks and stopped, reaffixing the bandage that the dragging had pulled loose.

He could see the road now between the trees. A man with a rifle rode back and forth on sentry along the lane, eyes scouring what he could of the field. Davon was lining him up for a shot when a bullet cracked the top-most rock on the pile he hid behind, sending chips and stone dust all over him. While the shot foiled his aim, it also had an unintended consequence. The rider stopped dead in his tracks and searched the field, he and his horse framed nicely between two poplar trees. Davon dropped him immediately. Just one more.

The last rifleman clearly had a bead on the rock pile and Davon knew better than to poke his head up. He waited, flexing his leg to test it, grimacing at the stinging pain. Another shot hit the highest rock on the cairn, but this time, Davon surged to his feet. He knew roughly how long it took to reload a rifle, and he half ran, half stumbled toward the road before throwing himself into a shallow gully, by far the best cover he had managed during the entire affair. The road was tantalizingly close, and so was his last victim’s horse, now chewing the grass in the ditch on the far side of the roadway. Twenty feet separated him from the cover of the trees. If he could trick the shooter into squeezing off another round, he might just make it.

For the next few minutes he tried everything he could think of, from raising his hat, to throwing rocks to make sounds nearby. None of it worked. To hit him in the gully, the shooter would have to reposition himself closer to the road, and that is where Davon could not afford for him to go. He could wait no longer. With a silent prayer to the Eternal Flame, he bolted from the gully and sprinted for the trees as fast as his gimpy leg would allow, weaving slightly left and right to make himself harder to hit.

And it worked.

He reached the trees without a shot being fired and cautiously approached the feeding horse. It startled at his touch, but with a firm hand on the reins and a soothing pat, it accepted his mastery. He mounted just as large drops of rain started to fall and spurred the horse on.

The rifle report sounded in his ears and a bullet bit into his left shoulder. The impact drove him to the right, and he clutched the saddle horn to stay on the horse. The animal lurched forward, and he urged it on, pain running like fire down his leg and throbbing in his shoulder. Hunkering down over the neck of the horse, he hung on for dear life. Three hours to Bellshire, at least. Maybe Arianne had been right, after all.

Melchor Raines shook his head in disbelief. The “underclerk” had dropped his three hired men with three very precise shots. Such a feat of marksmanship was extraordinary, even better than what he himself could manage. Even so, it was nothing compared to what had happened in Harrickshire.

Melchor had hired those men, too, to stage the fake assassination attempt. The Earl of Longford had supposedly killed those three with well-aimed shots to the head, as well, but Melchor had harbored doubts that any drunken lord could have pulled it off; it was unlikely a sober one could have. But the Lord’s overly modest behavior afterward was even more mysterious and out of character. It was all making sense now. Hadn’t this underclerk been at Harrickshire, as well?

Whoever he was, he was clearly not just a clerk and was very likely one of the Queen’s agents undercover. If the Queen had placed him in the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, then she had probably had some notion that something was amiss for longer than he or Ambassador Clout had originally thought. Fortunately, it appeared the clerk had left behind the critical bits of evidence that would lead to implicating some of the noble Bittermarchian turncoats. Not so fortunately, the evidence was trapped under a dead horse.

Melchor exhaled roughly as the rain pounded down from the leaden sky. His training as a member of the elite Fist of Creetis had not provided him with any instruction on how to extract items from underneath dead animals in a driving rainstorm. While he had some ideas, they were all messy, and with the storm, they would all be muddy. What he did have, however, was an iron will to do what had to be done—and a sticky memory. Mr. David Harper, supposed underclerk of Queen Filippa, would pay for this inconvenience, provided he didn’t bleed out before he got to Bellshire.

Chapter 20

When Arianne arrived in Bellshire, she ordered the carriage directly to the Queen’s palace and found that she was expected. She reasoned that Baron Carver had arrived in Bellshire before her. This comforted her, but she felt angry just the same, and she had a palm prepared to slap the beard right off his face. She hadn’t quite composed the words she would say to express her displeasure, but she rarely needed preparation to castigate someone who really deserved it, even if it was a baron in disguise; a baron should know better than to cross a viscountess.

Missa and a sleepy Elaine followed the baggage to their apartments, while a liveried servant guided Arianne to the Queen’s private dining room where she would take dinner. Arianne had a lot to ask, though she doubted many answers would be forthcoming. Baron Carver had arrived two days before her at best, and whomever the Queen had tasked with mining the ledgers for information would likely have progressed little.

The double arched doors opened before her, leading to a warm room trimmed with dark wood, plastered walls decorated with pictures of King Ostris and Queen Filippa in their younger years. Delicate trinkets of gold and silver lined a shelf that ran continuously around the walls, and the rich smell of roasted pork wafted in from the kitchen doors on the opposite side. A single arched window let in a late evening light that did little to add to the illumination of the candles on the table.

“Her Grace will be here shortly,” the servant said, bowing and then shutting the doors behind him. Arianne took a seat and noticed that provision had been made for four. Perhaps Baron Carver and the Lord High Sheriff will be joining us. She supposed the slap could wait; she didn’t want to shame him in front of others. He had, after all, defended her household. A frosty stare during dinner would suffice with a slap for dessert. She would forgive him quickly, though; she hated feeling upset with him and hoped he would take her remonstrations in the spirit they were intended, though she didn’t quite know what spirit that was.

The servants swung the doors open and Arianne turned, rising to her feet. It was not Baron Carver or the Lord High Sheriff. A gorgeous copper-haired woman wearing a beautiful but low cut dress strode into the room on the arm of a gangly, redheaded Lord. Her hair had been curled to perfection, and it bounced up and down as she walked, delicate features coming alive as she laid her eyes on Lady Hightower.

The man she recognized immediately as the Earl of Tahbor. He was tall, had a strong nose, and carried himself with a disdainful air. The woman she hadn’t seen in some time, but the widow Emile Carver was unmistakable.

“Lady Hightower!” she said, inclining her head. “We met once before, remember? I am widow Lady Carver! Soon to be Lady Tahbor, however. How do you do?”

Arianne nearly lost her composure. The Queen was playing games, again. How could she force her to eat a meal with such a beastly woman?

“I am well, thank you,” Arianne replied, returning the courtesy. “Earl Tahbor, it is good to see you.”

“Quite,” he said tersely before pulling a chair for his fiancée. Once finished, he joined them at the table, sitting with perfect, straight-backed posture. A younger woman, darkly complexioned and serious in demeanor, entered after everyone was seated and stood near the wall behind the Lady Carver.

“Just stand in the corner, Ori,” Lady Carver commanded the young woman. “I will call for you if needed. That’s my Lady’s Maid,” she confided to Arianne. “I bring her everywhere. Doesn’t she do the most delightful curls?”

“They are exceptional,” Arianne smiled, trying to catch Ori’s eye. The young maid focused on nothing, staring out the window and ignoring the conversation, or at least appearing to do so.

“Did you know, Weston,” the Lady Carver continued, “that my deceased husband killed Lord Cornton of Hightower? It was such a ghastly affair. I do apologize, Lady Hightower. Lord Carver—if one could call him a Lord—was practically a wild animal. Now that he is dead, I hope that you and I can be good friends.”

Arianne was taken aback. “My late husband insulted your honor and Lord Carver defended it. I’m surprised that you would fault him for what he did to rescue your reputation.”

The opening doors provided some relief from the uncomfortable silence as Queen Filippa, clearly in a hurry, strode in as fast as her aged bones would permit. All stood in deference.

“Enough,” the Queen said. “Sit down. I apologize for being late. I had hoped to be here before you all arrived.”

I’m sure, Arianne thought. She wanted to see what I would do when I met Lady Carver.

“Is everything well, Your Grace?” Arianne asked.

“As well as can be expected. I was at the Flame Cathedral passing a prayer into the Eternal Flame for one of my underclerks who is in need. The cathedral seems to get farther and farther away every year. And those damnable steps! Quite taxing.”

Arianna’s heart leapt into her throat. Surely she meant Baron Carver. Had something happened to him? Talking about the unfortunate events that might have brought him to harm could not be done comfortably with the Earl Tahbor and Lady Carver nearby. The last thing she wanted was for news of the secret ledgers to start making rounds through court any earlier than it had to. Nor did she want Lady Carver to take any interest in her not-so-dead husband, however unlikely it might be that she would. At the same time, her pounding heart demanded answers.

“Are you quite well, Arianne?” the Queen asked, tone bordering on the mischievous. “You appear a little pale this evening.”

“I am well,” she replied. “It was a long journey from Hightower and I am a little fatigued.”

“Ha!” Lady Carver said. “Hightower is a stone’s throw from Bellshire! Frostbourne might as well be in Creetis! It took the Earl and me over a week to arrive, didn’t it, Weston?”

“Yes, damnably tedious.” If giant sloths could talk, Arianne imagined they would sound like Earl Tahbor whose deep, slow voice barely conveyed any emotion.

“I hope the matter with your underclerk isn’t a serious one,” Arianne probed.

“If it weren’t serious, I wouldn’t have gone to the Eternal Flame itself,” Filippa answered. “But enough about that. We aren’t here to talk about my house staff, after all. Men get hurt all the time. It’s in their nature.”

Emile spoke up eagerly. “You’ve the right of it, Your Grace, though Earl Tahbor has yet to succumb to any foolish accidents. Lord Carver was always injuring himself in the stupidest ways. A few days before he died he ran afoul of a sabercat, of all things. I suppose it was fitting that he was killed by the trampling bison. What was it you said, Weston, that we should call him Lord Underhoof from now on?”

She giggled, and the edges of the Earl’s lips turned up a fraction of an inch, indicating amusement.

“The appellation was yours, Lady Carver,” he stated evenly.

Arianne, shocked at the woman’s cavalier disrespect for a husband not even a year dead, chanced a look up to the Lady’s Maid in the corner. Her eyes burned with displeasure, and she quickly wiped a tear from her cheek. The Queen sat an impartial and unmoved observer, and Arianne really hoped the food arrived quickly. She needed to find Baron Carver and she desperately wanted to get away from his wife. The Queen subtly and frustratingly had let her know that Davon was injured, and Arianne felt a silent terror building within her. Lord Carver should have listened to her!

“I was just telling Lady Hightower,” Lady Carver continued, addressing Queen Filippa, “that she and I can be good friends now that Lord Carver is dead. The disgrace of those tragic events four years ago need no longer stand between us.”

She reached out and patted Arianne’s hand, and Arianne stifled a flinch. She’d better not do that when I have a fork.

“Were you unhappy with Lord Carver?” Queen Filippa asked. “If I may be so bold, your statements seem to indicate that you were dissatisfied.”

“He was much different as a courting man than he was as a married one,” Lady Carver reported without hesitation. “He was always out of doors, always mingling with the commoners, always letting the servants do whatever they wanted. It’s as if he despised his own nobility! Whenever he went to assemblies he spent more time regarding the decorations than speaking with anyone. He never had the proper air of command or dignity as he ought. I, of course, discovered these defects too late. He is dead now, and thus the case is remedied. I am just sorry that he bereaved you, Lady Hightower. I should have seen what a wild thing he was.”

Arianne chanced another glance at Ori in the corner. Lady Carver was lucky that the young lady didn’t have a fork, either. Something very wrong was at work here. The Queen nodded her head in understanding, throwing Arianne a knowing look.

“Oh dear, Weston,” Lady Carver said, mirth revealing a set of perfect teeth. “You are eating dinner with three widows! What will the court think?”

His lips turned down a fraction of an inch. Displeasure. “It is hardly of consequence, Emile.”

She sobered. “Just an observation, Weston. You told me just this morning that I needed to be more aware of my surroundings.”

He stared forward silently despite her attempts to elicit a response with playful looks.

The food came shortly afterward, though Arianne had little appetite for anything. Worry for Baron Carver soured her stomach, and Lady Carver’s blather soured her mood. She ate little and quickly.

“Queen Filippa,” Arianne said, rising, “I must beg to be excused. I am feeling a good deal more ill than before.”

“I thought you might be,” Queen Filippa grinned. “Go see my physician, Dr. Otis, in the infirmary. If you happen upon my underclerk, convey to him my best wishes, will you?”

“Of course.” Arianne had a thought. “Lady Carver, I was wondering if I might borrow your Lady’s Maid tomorrow morning to put some of those delightful curls into my hair. Would you mind?”

“But of course not!” she obliged, face beaming. “I will send her first thing after she finishes with me.”

“I thank you. Lady Carver, Earl Tahbor, Your Grace. Good evening.”

The Earl stood as was proper, and Arianne left at a sickly pace until the doors closed—then she resumed a healthy one. The infirmary was down a floor and on the opposite side of the palace, and by the time she arrived she struggled for breath. A servant opened the doors for her.

Once inside, the smells of salves and the soft murmur of voices greeted her. It almost felt like the Flame Cathedral. The infirmary was a tall, narrow room with high windows that came to a point at the top. Ten beds lined the wall all the way down, each bed separated from the others by gauzy cloth. A thin, older man with a monocle and a black vest rose from a chair behind a desk as she entered.

“How my I help you, Lady…?”

“Hightower. I am looking for one David Harper. Are you Doctor Otis?”

He smirked. “I am, and, yes, we have one David Harper.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Thank the Flame there’s only one. The man has a hard time doing what he’s told.”

Arianne nodded. “That is the very one I’m looking for. Has he been troublesome?”

“Well,” Doctor Otis said, coming around the desk, “he keeps trying to escape to get paint or pieces of wood to carve. An odd fellow. Only the Queen’s fiat keeps him here. This way.”

The doctor led her down the row, removing his monocle to polish it. There, on the doctor’s palm, was the mark of the Eternal Flame. Davon was in good hands. Only two other patients lay in the beds, Baron Carver’s at the very end. A nurse was chastising him as they approached.

“I’m spending half my time sweeping up your mess, Mister! Now put the knife away and let me replace those dressings.”

Resigned assent followed. Arianne and the doctor turned the corner to find a shirtless Baron Carver sitting on the edge of his bed while the nurse peeled a soaked, bloody bandage away from his shoulder and pressed another into its place. Arianne gawked for a moment both at the muscular frame and the three white scars running down the middle of his chest. Another bandage encircled his thigh, his pant leg split up above the knee. He had been shot! Somehow they had found him!

“A Lady Hightower to see you, Mr. Harper,” Dr. Otis announced. Arianne had no idea what to say as Baron Carver’s surprised face regarded her. His wounds and obvious discomfort persuaded her not to slap him just yet. He needed to properly convalesce first. He appeared a bit pale and feverish, and compassion pushed aside her anger over his disobedience and her anxiety over the ledgers he had absconded with.

“Lady Hightower,” he said, raising his arms as the nurse pulled his shirt back over his head.

The nurse butted in before Arianne could say anything. “You lay down, Mr. Harper!” she ordered irritably, shoving him back. “It’s nearly dark. No more carving! You lay back, tell the Lady what she wants, and then go to sleep.”

The nurse turned away from her patient, rolling her eyes as she left. The doctor left, too, promising to bring her a chair.

As soon as the nurse had cleared earshot, Baron Carver sat back up. “The ledgers are safe, Lady Hightower,” he assured her, voice low.

“To ashes with the ledgers! How are you?” she inquired, voice more emotional than she intended. Did he really think she only cared about the ledgers?

“Doctor Otis says I am doing well,” he replied.

Doctor Otis arrived with the chair. “I said you would do well if you would rest properly, Mr. Harper, which you have failed to do with all your little excursions. I believe the nurse ordered you to lie down.”

“It wouldn’t be proper in front of the Lady,” Mr. Harper refused.

Arianne sat. “Mr. Harper, lay down. It will go a long way toward me forgiving you in other matters.”

He acquiesced and the doctor left. Arianne noticed that his bedside table was littered with shavings and the new carvings he had worked on. A sabercat very like Elaine’s sat next to an exquisite hoop bracelet of intricately carved vines painted to look nearly lifelike. A half-finished walking cane—fashioned to look like a snake—leaned against the wall.

Without thinking, Arianne stood and retrieved the bracelet, seeing the paints that Baron Carver used to detail it on the floor under the table. Just as with the rosebud, it seemed like it was hers even though he had said nothing. She found Baron Carver watching her.

“This is for me, isn’t it?” she inquired, feeling a little foolish.

“So you can tell,” Baron Carver said. “I wondered if they called to their owners as the wood calls to me.”

She moved the bracelet toward her wrist and a section of intertwined roots pulled apart, allowing her to slip it on easily. Once in place, the roots knotted together and the leaves along the vines expanded outward, tiny pink flowers blooming along the entire length. She smiled in wonderment and turned it over for several moments, admiring the craftsmanship and the delightful magic behind it. As with her rosebud, she could order the flowers and leaves to retract and expand at will. Baron Carver was a marvel.

She sat back down. “This is beautiful! I thank you, Mr. Harper. I think I have very nearly forgiven you, now. I do confess, however, that I had a mind to slap your face to a nice boiled red for abandoning us at Hightower.”

Baron Carver put his head back on his pillow, eyes closed.

“I thank you for your forgiveness, Lady Hightower. Moving the danger away from you and Miss Brighton was my only objective. I am glad you are here safely. The sabercat is for Miss Brighton. I passed a stack of firewood and I saw it there. I had the oddest thought that the other sabercat might be lonely. It’s a female. I apologize if that seems odd. It is odd to me.”

“She will be delighted,” Arianne said. “She named the other one Fangs. I will bring her down tomorrow so she can see you and you can give it to her then. Is there anything I can get for you? Some water, perhaps?”

“No, thank you,” he replied. “The nurse is very dedicated to my water consumption. You do need to take the ledgers to the High Sheriff, however.”

Arianne thought she could detect the barest hint of a self-congratulatory smile on his lips, the kind men always got when they thought they were being clever.

“Where are they?” she asked. “In your domicile, or with Mr. Lambert?”

“They are in the false bottom of your trunks. I had Mr. Garvis put them there after I left.”

Arianne’s eyes shot wide. “But I thought you had the ledgers!”

“I had ledgers, just not the ones in question. Whoever shot me got the ledgers I had and is now discovering what your late husband’s grandfather ate for meals and spent on parties one hundred years ago.”

Arianne laughed. “Very clever, Mr. Harper—and very foolish to get yourself shot over one hundred year old ledgers! Are you well enough to relate the tale?”

He began with his preparations with Mr. Garvis and told her all. He was light on the details of the shooting, probably to spare her mortification, but Arianne had little difficulty filling in the blanks. Lord Carver was extraordinary, his manner an odd blend of rugged and refined—and was a far kinder man than she had imagined him to be. How he had ever loved the cruel Emile Ironhorn was beyond her, unless her beauty completely unhinged his brain and blinded him to her true nature.

Near the end of his story she could see he was flagging, the pauses in the narrative lengthening and his eyes closing more frequently and for longer periods.

“I will go now, Mr. Harper,” she announced softly. “You take your rest, and I will visit you tomorrow. I thank you sincerely for everything you have done. I owe you a great deal.”

“It was my pleasure to serve you,” he said sleepily. “Don’t worry, my Lady. This will all be over soon and you’ll be free of danger and disobedient clerks.”

She left him and headed for her apartments, a sudden feeling of loss washing over her. What would become of Baron Carver now that the affair with her estate was out of his hands? Was he to disappear inside of Mr. Lambert’s office and do figures for the rest of his life? It seemed a waste to her. Perhaps the Queen would knight him after all and he would be given some small estate. There were two vacant properties near Hightower that would suit a man like him perfectly. One was even close to the Elder Forest that he had so enjoyed visiting.

She entered her rooms quietly so as not to disturb her sister, but found that Elaine had forced herself to stay awake to await her return. The bloodstained sabercat crouched next to her on the bed standing sentry. Her little sister wasn’t so little anymore, and from time to time the young woman in her displaced the girl. While her mother pushed for the woman, Arianne secretly hoped that the girl would remain a while longer.

Elaine yawned and stretched to wake herself further. “Did you see Mr. Harper, Arianne?” she asked.

“I did.”

“And?”

“Why don’t we talk about it in the morning, dear? You’re about to faint,” Arianne suggested, not wanting to upset her before bed.

She would have none of it. “What is it, Arianne?”

“He has been shot twice, but he is well. He is recovering, and I will take you to see him tomorrow.”

Elaine gasped. “That is awful! Can I go see him now? I’ll have Missa come dress me!”

Arianne sat beside her and took her hand. “Not tonight. He is sleeping now. I promise we will see him first thing after breakfast.”

She nodded, and picked up her sabercat. “You know, I think Fangs gets lonely during the day when I out. I think I’ll ask Mr. Harper to carve a girl sabercat for him to keep him company.”

Goosebumps bloomed on Arianne’s skin. Extraordinary man, indeed!

Chapter 21

Miss Orianna Moreshire, Emile Carver’s Lady’s Maid, arrived just after breakfast as promised. Missa busied herself with Elaine, who—as Arianne had expected would happen—was dressed rather coquettishly. Her younger sister had fretted all morning, wanting to see Mr. Harper as soon as possible. The ledgers, as Baron Carver had indicated, had been stowed neatly in the false bottoms of her and Elaine’s trunks. Now they were locked safely away in the armoire.

Arianne had sent word to the Queen that she had an urgent matter to discuss with her after breakfast and hoped she would be able to free up mid-morning tea. She was eager to put the matter to rest, and while not as outwardly enthusiastic as Elaine, she, too, wanted to see how Baron Carver fared. His brief stay at Hightower seemed to connect him to their fates, and she felt honor bound to care for him until he could manage on his own. She owed him a great deal and wondered how best to reward him for his service to Hightower.

Orianna heated the curling rod on a rack above the coals of the fire. She appeared drawn, unhappy, and even a little pale. Since her arrival, she had answered all courtesies and questions laconically, and Arianne wondered how to steer the conversation toward Lord Carver without causing her undue distress. Arianne could hardly fault her for extracting little joy in her service to widow Lady Carver. Who knew what terrors the vain, silly woman inflicted on her Lady’s Maid?

“So how do you find Frostbourne, Miss Moreshire?” Arianne asked, finding someplace safe to start. “I hear the winters are quite dreadful.”

“We do have the Wasting Wind for two weeks in the winter,” she answered, returning from the fire with the rod, “and it does get colder earlier than most places, but the summers and autumns are pleasant. It is a bit lonely there. Lady Carver is always complaining that there is no good shopping within a hundred miles. I suppose that’s true. It’s not a place to go if you care much about fashion.”

Arianne couldn’t help but grin. Oh how Emile must hate it! “And is it true that the late Lord Carver rebuilt the estate’s wealth from practically nothing?”

Orianna’s countenance changed almost immediately from somber to bright. “He did. The townspeople talk of it constantly. He’s a bit of a hero to them. He was a lord, but he learned to do low work so he could save money and pay off debts. They talk of how he would grow his own garden, hunt for his own food, clean the huge manor where he lived alone. Washed his own clothes. Kept up the yard. Cooked his own food. And he has always been a good master. Well, he was.”

Encouraged by the girl’s enthusiasm, Arianne plunged right in. “Widow Lady Carver certainly didn’t think much of him, if you’ll forgive me for noticing.”

Red rose in her cheeks, her eyes narrowing. “Everyone, and I do mean everyone, Lady Hightower, loved Baron Davon Carver except Emile Ironhorn. I didn’t begin my service with her until after they were married, but he did everything he could to make her happy and she treated him cruelly at every turn.” Her voice began to break. “I could hardly stand it last night when she talked of him with such mockery and disdain. I know you likely think ill of him for what he did to your husband, but he was a good man, Lady Hightower. I swear by the Flame.”

“I believe you, Miss Moreshire,” she soothed, amazed by the girl’s reaction. She obviously had loved him, too. She continued, “I do not fault Lord Carver for defending his fiancée’s honor. I’m sorry if my question upset you.”

The smell of burning hair filled the room as Orianna set about her work. The girl snuffled a bit, choking back tears. “I am sorry, my Lady. I’ve had a hard time letting Lord Carver go, and I have to endure Lady Carver’s insults and disrespect for him almost daily.”

“What about him do you miss so much?” Arianne asked. “Did you spend much time with him?”

Arianne watched Orianna’s face in the mirror, and the young lady smiled wistfully at the question.

“Not as much time with him as much as around him,” she answered. “I don’t know how to express it. I’ve worked in two noble households, and, well, he was different. I think it was because he had to endure poverty when he was young, but he treated everyone like they were important. He took no pleasure in ordering anyone around, said please and thank you to the lowliest pig farmers, would ask for opinions of his servants and listen. He was never harsh or cruel. He was just what I always imagined a good man would be. I hope I don’t sound too silly, Lady Hightower. Nor do I wish to imply that we had a special friendship of any kind. He was good to everyone, including me.”

Arianne felt like she was beginning to understand Baron Carver more clearly now, though she couldn’t help but wonder how bad his marriage must have been to have inspired him to leave Frostbourne. Had he any notion of how his people loved him, or was he only able to see how much Lady Carver didn’t?

“Thank you, Miss Moreshire. One more question. I have recently lost the steward of my house and noticed in the paper this morning that a Mr. Saunders was advertising himself. He mentioned that he was the steward of Frostbourne. I thought I might interview him. What did you think of him?”

Orianna shook her head, a mirthful smile coming to her lips. “Lady Carver hated him! Lord Carver swore by him. I warn you that he is thrifty to a fault and an old military man. You might desire someone a bit more genteel for an estate as grand as Hightower, My Lady.”

Arianne smiled. “Genteel? Is he a bit rough around the manners?”

“He speaks plainly, My Lady. Very plainly. And loudly. He’ll act the same way for a duke or a street urchin.”

“Consistency is a good quality for a steward,” Arianne said. “But I have one more question for you, after all. So what’s to become of you once your Lady marries the very tall Earl Tahbor?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose I’ll be putting my name in the papers, too. I don’t think I am quite fancy enough for an Earl’s wife.”

“Nonsense,” Arianne said, wanting to do the girl a good turn. “If you are released, I insist you write to me first. If you’re willing to come this far east, I can probably find you employment, especially since you are a master with hair. You are very talented.”

Orianna blushed. “You are very kind, Lady Hightower. I am finished. Do you need me for anything else?”

Arianne stood, turning her head to admire the curls. It was good work. “If you could help me into my dress, I would be much obliged. Are you about ready, Elaine?”

“I’ve been ready since breakfast, Arianne,” she returned grumpily.

Arianne chose to match Elaine’s flirty attire so that Baron Carver wouldn’t think that Elaine was pursuing him. If they both dressed for pursuit, that meant neither of them was, or at least she reasoned it so.

She chose a cream colored dress with a deep maroon surcoat embroidered with golden thread. She had worn it many times before she wed, but little since. It emphasized just the right curves, and when she saw herself in the mirror she felt a little spark from the days when she was Elaine’s age and the world revolved around romance and attracting the right sort of man.

“Your Ladyship looks extraordinary,” Orianna complimented her. “As do you, Miss Brighton.”

Arianne thanked her and Orianna left. The door had hardly stayed closed for three seconds when Elaine took her hand and dragged her out into the hallway. Arianne wondered if Elaine had ever acted this way over a man before and what it was, exactly, that Baron Carver had done to win her enthusiastic good opinion.

Orianna’s words provided the likely answer: “He treated everyone like they were important.” Perhaps that was what drew Elaine so powerfully. Her mother and father taught them that they were important but never treated them as such until they were married. Arianne remembered feeling like a nuisance until she was betrothed to Viscount Trevain Cornton of Hightower. Baron Carver had treated her sister with friendly respect, and something in Elaine reverberated the welcome and proper attention.

When they arrived at the infirmary, Doctor Otis greeted them. “Lady Hightower and…?”

“Good morning, Doctor. This is my sister, Miss Brighton.”

He genuflected. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I’m afraid that we had to move your friend, Mr. Harper. He decided to take another unauthorized excursion into town to get some paint for his carvings. I had the house guard track him down, and in the ensuing chase Mr. Harper managed to reopen the wound to his leg. When the Queen heard of it she ordered him placed in a nearby room under guard. I need to check up on him, so if you’ll follow me.”

Arianne covered a smirk with her hand. Baron Carver definitely had an independent streak in him, probably born of his long days alone while recovering his estate. As they approached the room, the doctor asked the guard outside if Mr. Harper had offered any more trouble, to which he responded in the negative. Doctor Otis knocked on the door and cracked it.

“Doctor Otis and two ladies to see you, Mr. Harper. Are you dressed?”

“Yes. Come in,” came the reply.

They all went in together. The room was one typically used for those having a protracted illness or who needed special care. A comfortable bed, tables, an armoire, and a desk allowed room for a couch for visitors. Mr. Harper, wearing a loose white shirt and the split brown pants, sat near a bright window, his paints scattered around the snake-like walking stick Arianne had seen the night before. Somehow, he had finished it. He reapplied his unnecessary glasses and politely stood, welcoming them and inviting them to sit. To Arianne’s relief, his face had a little more color than the previous evening despite his recent misadventures, though dark circles still ringed his tired eyes.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Harper?” the doctor asked, examining the bandage on the leg. “It appears the wound has closed again.”

“I am fit, Doctor, thank you. I request to be released to my own recognizance.”

The doctor threw him a disapproving look. “Hardly, Mister. You do as you’re told and lay still for two days and I’ll consider it. I’ll leave you to the ladies then.”

He left quickly, and Baron Carver turned his chair toward them, his countenance worn and sleepy. “You both are always so beautiful,” he said, seeming lost in some thought. “Have I lost track of the day? Has the Day of Burning ball arrived?”

Elaine blushed and Arianne was surprised to find that she was too. “You are too kind, Mr. Harper. The ball is still two weeks off. How do you fare?”

“I feel a bit better, but more tired,” he said. “I am glad you came. Did you find the ledgers?”

“Yes, of course,” Arianne answered. “You needn’t trouble yourself about them anymore. You need to forget all these troubles and do as the doctor says so you can recover. Will you promise me you will, for our sakes?”

“The ledgers are your business, Lady Hightower,” he said. “I won’t inquire into the matter further unless your request it.”

“Then rest, Mr. Harper!” she urged, a little annoyed by his apparent insistence that all she cared about when she visited him were the bloody ledgers. “Promise me you will stay in bed and get well. No more running around town for wood and paint and whatever else you are looking for.”

“Yes,” Elaine added. “Do promise, Mr. Harper. You must get well so the Queen can knight you.”

He laughed, and Arianne could hear the tinge of bitterness in it.

He regarded Elaine kindly. “I don’t think that will happen, young Miss, though I thank you for the thought that I am worthy of it. One moment. I have something for you. He reached down into his carving bag near the table and pulled out the companion sabercat, placing it on the floor. “I thought the other might be lonely.”

Elaine’s eyes opened wide. “But how did you know? Did you tell him, Arianne?”

“I did not.”

Elaine concentrated and the sabercat came to life, bounding across the room and into the eager hands of its new owner. The satisfied smile on Baron Carver’s face touched Arianne. He truly relished seeing the joy his gifts brought. His marriage to Emile continued to make less and less sense. As much as Arianne despised the woman, she now wanted to spend more time with her to see if she could divine just one redeeming quality—besides her looks—that would have attracted a man like Davon Carver. He was so warm and gentle.

“And Lady Hightower,” he said, “I wondered if you might see the Queen today.”

“I believe I will, though I have no fixed engagement, as yet. Is there something I can bring to her attention for you?”

He grabbed the walking stick, probing it to see if the paint had dried. Satisfied, he picked it up and started to stand. Arianne, realizing what he was doing, shot up first. “Sit down, Mr. Harper!” she scolded. “For pity’s sake. You must not move so much or you’ll reopen the wound!”

“I don’t mean to be troublesome. I apologize.”

“And quit acting like we think you’re an annoyance!” she continued, emotions getting the better of her. Why am I so overwrought?

“Yes, well,” he stammered, “this is for the Queen, if you wouldn’t mind giving it to her for me. I know that it’s hardly feminine, but that is what the wood…well, that’s it.”

Arianne took it, trying to settle herself. Another masterpiece. For eyes he had placed two pieces of jade that seemed to glow in the sunlight. The scales were all carved to overlap perfectly, something that should have taken him weeks, not days. If news of his gift ever got out, he would be one of the most sought after artisans in Bittermarch. She had been severely tempted to show off her pendant and bracelet to everyone, but refrained, fearing it would bring him unwanted attention.

“I wonder if she’ll be able to make it slither about?” Elaine said excitedly, commandeering the carving as Arianne returned to the couch.

“Warn her to be careful, if you would, Lady Hightower,” he cautioned. “That is an Arrow Asp, and they are deadly poisonous. Of course, sabercats are dangerous, too, so I hope she can control it in a similar fashion as Emile does hers. You’re the Queen’s friend, Lady Hightower. Do you think she’ll like it or is it a bit strange? She doesn’t use a walking stick now, so I hope she can find some use for it.”

“I’m sure she will be as amazed and thankful as we all have been.”

He nodded and stifled a yawn, seeming to tire before them. “I am sorry. I am poor company today, especially for two such fine ladies as yourselves. Not that clerks are well known for their conversation anyway. I wanted to thank you both for your kindness to me. It is likely our paths will cross little in the future, so before you leave I want to say that it has been an honor to know you both, and I wish you the best. If I have caused either of you any pain or offense, I regret it.”

Arianne, not sure what she was feeling, stood suddenly. “I told you, Mr. Harper, quit acting like you have ever been an annoyance!” Something powerful was rising within her and she couldn’t suppress it. Embarrassed, she crossed to the door, pulled it open, and rushed into the hallway, completely unsure of herself and finding her eyes stinging. The door opened and closed again, Elaine rushing to catch up to her. Arianne choked down the urge to cry—for what, she couldn’t guess—and tried to steady herself.

“Arianne?” Elaine asked, face troubled. “Are you angry with Mr. Harper?”

“I am not angry with him,” she explained. “I don’t know what I am today. The last week has been so draining. I don’t know. This whole business has me out of sorts.”

Elaine’s mouth dropped open. “You’re going to miss him!”

“Yes, Elaine, I will miss him. You won’t?”

“Of course not. I’m going to marry him. I plan on visiting him every day until he asks me.”

Arianne stopped mid-stride. “Miss Elaine Brighton, what a notion!” She wanted to be angry, but the insanely bold statement pulled her up short. “You’re the daughter of a Viscount, Elaine! Mother and Father are hardly going to let you marry a clerk, or even a knight! Besides, he’s at least ten years older than you and hardly has the income to support someone with your fine tastes.”

Now she had offended Elaine.

Her sister frowned and put her hands on her hips. “Prescilla Danton married a man nearly twice her age!”

“Yes, but she was twenty-five!”

“So? When I’m twenty, he’ll be what? Thirty? Does that sound so awful?”

Arianne shook her head. There was clearly no point in trying to reason with her. “You discuss it with Mother and Father and tell me what they say.”

“We’ll elope.”

Arianne ignored her as they went to their rooms. A message awaited her there. As she had hoped, the Queen agreed to take mid-morning tea with her. Arianne used the intervening hour to rein in her emotions. She still couldn’t understand what had triggered the outburst in the first place. She would miss Mr. Harper, of course, but she determined that it was the stress that had turned her emotions so erratic. Her confrontation with her steward, the invasion of her home, the mystery of the ledgers, Baron Carver expressly going against her orders and acting like she thought he was a fly she needed to swat. All of it was adding up. Once her head was clear she would go see Baron Carver again and be as controlled and pleasant as ever.

When Arianne arrived at the Queen’s drawing room, the servant told her she was in the infirmary and that she should meet her there. Arianne wondered if she had gone to visit Baron Carver and perhaps issue further orders to force him to comply with the doctor’s instructions. Upon arriving, however, she was surprised to find the Queen stretched out on the bed, a grimace on her face, as the Flametouched hands of Doctor Otis nimbly wrapped her ankle.

Arianne bowed quickly. “Your Grace! What has happened?”

The Queen winced as the doctor pulled the bandage snug. “Nothing out of the ordinary for an old woman who doesn’t lift her feet as far up as she used to. I caught the edge of a rug and twisted my ankle. What is that you have there?”

Arianne again wondered at Baron Carver’s strange prescience. “It is a gift from Mr. Harper. A walking stick.”

Doctor Otis looked up. “Ah yes, I saw him working on it. A nice piece of work. And timely.” The doctor finished his wrapping and gave the Queen a drink of a red tonic. “Rest here for an hour, Your Grace,” he ordered. “I’ll check on you then and we’ll get you up to your chambers.”

The doctor bowed to them both and left. Arianne sat at the foot of the bed, letting Filippa examine the gift.

“An Arrow Asp,” the old monarch said, turning it over. “Very cleverly done, too. I was bitten by one of these when I was younger. Almost killed me. A timely gift, indeed.”

Arianne lowered her voice. “And there is more. Look here.” She drew the Queen’s attention to her rosebud and bracelet, willing them to bloom and close.

The Queen smiled. “So that is his gift, then. You do know he is Flametouched?”

“Yes.”

“I recommended him to Lord Ember just after you left for Hightower. So how does it work? How do you command them?” she asked, inspecting the serpent’s head.

“With a thought, though he wished me to convey to you that you should exercise caution. He has given two sabercats to Emile, and they seem quite docile and protective, but he couldn’t be sure about the asp.”

The Queen concentrated for a moment and the walking stick wiggled to life. Arianne gasped and darted away from the bed as the snake slithered about. The Queen laughed, pleased, and then returned the snake to its more comfortable form.

“Excellent. I don’t recall that the Flame has ever gifted anyone with this kind of animism before. There are tribal tales among the Aua’Catan of such things, but those come from long before Creetis was formed. I shall have to talk to Lord Ember about it. But let’s turn to more urgent matters. Now that you’ve spent a few days with Mr. Harper, how do you find him?”

Arianne returned to the bedside, finding herself struggling with uncomfortable emotions. “He is too self-effacing. He is stubborn and independent and doesn’t respect the peerage. He flat out disobeyed me when I told him not to ride off with the ledgers! And I hate his beard. It’s an awful thing.”

The Queen grinned. “You liked him, then?”

“He was very tolerable.”

“Tolerable?” the Queen asked, eyebrows raised. “Well, I suppose that is a respectable quality. You do seem a little sad today. Perhaps it will cheer you up to know that the Earl of Longford, the Hero of Harrickshire, should be here this evening to rescue you from these sad reflections caused by this intractable, tolerable clerk. The Earl will certainly be pleased by your divine looks today. I do hold you some ill will for not informing me that you are betrothed.”

Arianne bolted upright. “What?”

“Yes. The Earl is coming to announce it at the Day of Burning Ball. That is why the two of you went off alone into the Elder Wood together, was it not? Did he not drop the knee?”

“He did, but he never finished!” Arianne explained. “The shooting interrupted his proposal! He never formally gave it and I never formally accepted. How dare he be so presumptuous!”

The Queen’s continued humor at her expense was starting to grate on her. “Calm down, Arianne. Everyone has been quite enamored with the Earl since his heroics. He probably calculated that there was simply no way you could refuse him now. He has become quite the celebrity. Why, there’s even talk of a statue.”

“But they were not his heroics!” Arianne corrected, keeping her voice low.

“Ah, but he thinks that you think that they are. What a wonderful secret to carry into a marriage! Now, I am sorry, Arianne. One day you may find these little vexations as amusing as I do. Please sit down and tell me about these ledgers and the attack. Do not leave out any details. I need everything, including how and when Mr. Harper gifted you and your sister these carvings.”

Arianne’s mind spun. She took several moments to push out thoughts of Baron Carver and the Earl—with whom she was now furious—and the Queen seemed content to let her take her time. When she finally related the tale in full, she fought to control her voice, memories dredging up the same indescribable emotion that had been threatening to drown her. When she finished, she felt better, though a little exhausted.

The Queen appeared troubled. “This is bigger than I thought. I will send the Lord High Sheriff to collect the ledgers immediately. It sounds like our Mr. Harper is deserving of a knighthood, though I wonder if he would accept.”

“I think he fears noble society more than bullets and brigands.” Arianne sighed. “Elaine hopes you will knight him. She is intent on marrying him and has threatened to visit him every day until he proposes. Silly, silly, girl.”

“Yes, how ridiculous to pursue the thing one loves,” the Queen returned sarcastically. “I need to rest now, Arianne, and you should prepare for the arrival of your parents and the Earl. Convey my regards to them all.”

“I will. Thank you, Filippa.”

Regards! Uticus will get a piece of my mind.

Chapter 22

“This is outrageous! It must be some sort of a joke at our expense!” Mr. Lambert exclaimed, invitation in hand. Davon looked up from his ledger, finding the older man standing rigid with a white knuckled grip on a message recently brought in by one of the Queen’s messengers. “This must have something to do with you, Mr. Harper. This office hardly ever attracted the Queen’s notice before you arrived. Whatever will I wear?”

“What is it this time, Mr. Lambert?” Davon asked, trying to keep from smiling. Mr. Lambert took the unexpected so poorly that he thought it best not to make light of his indisposition.

“We’ve been invited, Mr. Harper!”

“To what, exactly?” Davon hoped it was another outdoor excursion to Harrickshire. There were so many places there he wanted to explore.

“The Day of Burning Ball! And I mean the Ball with all the nobles! We’ll look like pair of fools! What does Queen Filippa think we’re supposed to do?”

Davon joined Mr. Lambert in surprise. The Day of Burning celebrated the discovery of the Eternal Flame after the Creetisian Council had ordered Joris’s house burned. The midsummer celebration packed the streets and taverns, and any noble of note was invited to Bellshire for a day of sport, entertainment, and a ball so ornate and expensive that not to go was considered sheer idiocy. Emile had begged him to go every year, and he had only obliged once. It was at that ball he first realized he could never satisfy her expectations of a nobleman.

“Are you sure?” Davon asked, eyebrows scrunched. As a member of the House of Light, he was expected to attend a more somber ceremony in the Ember Chapel that consisted of singing, speeches, and mingling with fellow members. The Queen’s invitation superseded that of the House of Light, but it was an oddity to have been invited at all.

“Just because I’m a man of numbers doesn’t mean I can’t read, Mr. Harper. See for yourself. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Mr. Lambert tossed the letter on Davon’s desk, sat down, and put his head on his arms in what Davon supposed was an attempt to fend off a headache. Davon opened the invitation, and it was indeed specific. They were invited to the festivities by special request of the Queen, which meant they couldn’t refuse without incurring her displeasure. He could understand Mr. Lambert’s indisposition. Fools, indeed. They would end up serving punch or spending hours alone gawking at the fine lords and ladies just as puzzled by the attendance of two clerks as they were. Even worse, it was absolutely guaranteed that his recently betrothed wife and the Earl of Tahbor would be in attendance.

He had to find a way out. He had planned to spend his day carving. The stack of stray wood piled in his humble domicile in the Crooks was taking the place over. The need to carve had grown, occupying almost every moment of his dwindling free time. He had decided to send his gifts anonymously to avoid attracting attention to himself. By his own count he had gifted only six. He had twice that many nearly finished and nearly twenty sticks, boards, and logs all piled up in a corner and changing shapes before his eyes the moment he came home.

But his plan was coming to naught. Only severe illness or injury could honorably excuse him from what seemed more like a summons than an invitation. Mr. Lambert’s nerves would likely throw him into sufficiently poor health to earn a pass; as for himself, Davon figured he would just have to find some other way to get himself shot or beaten. Getting thrown in jail would also do the trick, but he certainly didn’t want to sacrifice his comfortable position in the Queen’s household.

Davon returned the letter to a nearly indisposed Mr. Lambert. “Take courage,” he intoned comfortingly. “We’ll both go find a book we’ve never read and if we stand still enough, we might be mistaken for statues.”

“What a stupid thing to say,” Mr. Lambert moaned. “Who has ever chiseled a statue of a clerk?”

The room felt a bit stuffy, so Davon stood and decided to walk about a bit to refresh himself and let Mr. Lambert recover—if he ever did. Davon rarely ventured around the palace now, fearing an encounter with Emile or Lady Hightower. He was sure his wife would pick him out in an instant, and his last encounter with Lady Hightower ended on an odd key. He apparently had frustrated her to the point of tears, and he thought it best to avoid her to not cause her further distress. He found her intruding on his thoughts a little more regularly that was entirely appropriate for an underclerk.

Still, he wondered how she fared. What the lady’s ledgers contained and what the Boot and Wheel Caravan had been hauling had still not been revealed, at least not to him, and the Lord High Sheriff was keeping the investigation close to his chest.

Davon turned the corner to leave the offices and found himself face to face with Queen Filippa, who carried an envelope in one hand and the Arrow Asp walking stick in the other. A pair of her personal bodyguards flanked her. He removed his hat and bowed.

“Your Grace. It is an honor to see you,” he said. “How may I serve?”

“Thank you, Mr. Harper, and I am happy to see you. I wanted to stop by to thank you for the timely gift of the walking stick. As you may have heard, I turned my ankle not an hour before Lady Hightower brought me this from you. How are your wounds coming along?”

“Quite well. This is the first day I’ve tried to work my full shift, and I feel fit enough.”

“Very well. I have a favor to ask of you,” she said, extending the envelope. “Will you deliver this to Lady Hightower for me?”

Davon’s forehead creased. “I think it might be better if someone else delivered it, your Eminence. I’m not sure the Lady Hightower would appreciate—”

“Do be quiet, Mr. Harper. Lady Hightower has been unwell and unseen for three days, and I am ordering you to do it because you are familiar with her difficulties. Deliver it to her personally; do not give it to a servant. Inform her its contents are of a sensitive nature and that she should read it alone.”

News of the ledgers, perhaps. Davon took the proffered envelope. “I did not know that she was ill. Is the case serious?”

The Queen shrugged. “A bit of melancholy over some distressing news, I fear. More than that, I cannot say.”

Davon opened his mouth to inquire further, but the Queen shushed him and sent him on his way with a swat of her stick. He turned the envelope over in his hands and walked in the direction of Lady Hightower’s chambers. Whatever the Queen had written for her, it was short, probably only a single sheet of paper. Curiosity sped him along. The Lady Hightower surely wanted the matter of her estate’s finances kept as secret as possible, but he hoped she would feel to confide him if something serious had occurred.

After straightening his jacket, he knocked softly at the door, Missa answering. “Thank the Flame!” she whispered, stepping aside. “Come in, Mr. Harper, please.”

The spacious apartment’s living area appeared empty save for the two of them, and the whole place was deadly quiet. “Is Lady Hightower resting?” he asked, taken aback by the Lady’s Maid’s desperate tone. “The Queen asked me to deliver a message to her Ladyship personally.”

“No, she is not resting,” Missa answered, wringing her hands and lowering her voice to a whisper. “She’s been in her room staring out the window for three days. Her parents came three nights back and there was an awful argument. They sent Miss Hale home that evening. I’ve never seen her like this, Mr. Harper. I am worried.”

Davon nodded, wondering what she and her parents could find to argue about. If her family knew of her troubles and of the attack, surely they would rally to her support. “May I see her, or can you ask her for a convenient time for me to visit?”

“Please go see her,” Missa begged. “Please. I took her some wine moments ago. Just knock before you enter.”

Nervously, Davon rapped at the door and cracked it. “Lady Hightower? It is Mr. Harper. May I see you for a moment?”

“If you wish,” she said, voice subdued. He entered quietly, leaving the door open for propriety’s sake. As Missa had indicated, Arianne sat on a divan near a window, legs pulled up to her chest and hair down.

The window revealed an overcast and stormy sky, and the weak light grayed Arianne’s beautiful face. A fitful rain pecked lightly on the window, her head leaning against the wall and a glass half full of red wine resting untouched on the sill. She wore a plain, white dress and didn’t turn to look at him as he neared and placed the letter on the desk next to the jewelry he had carved for her. He pulled the chair out and sat down.

“The Queen asked me to deliver this letter to you and to see how you fared. I was sorry to hear you were unwell, and I am resolved not to make the situation worse by apologizing for anything.” The edges of her lips turned up ever so slightly and she wiped one of her eyes, gaze remaining upon the storm outside. He continued, “I know I am not entitled to know of your concerns, Lady Hightower, but if I can help you in any way, I would be pleased to do so.”

She hardly moved for many moments, and Davon listened to the pattering of rain on the window pane until she sighed and straightened a little. Her gaze she kept fixed out the window.

“When I was nearly eight and Elaine was just a baby,” she said, “I remember sitting around the dinner table one evening when a servant pouring wine mishandled the bottle and sent my Father’s glass rolling off onto the floor, spilling wine all over the white tablecloth. I thought it was funny and started to laugh, but my Father backhanded the servant, his ring cutting the poor man’s cheek almost to the bone. He swore at him, beat him, and threw him out of the room. My two older brothers found this amusing. I was horrified. I had heard my father and mother yell at the servants, but had never before witnessed anything approaching that kind of violence.

“I came to understand that my parents believe in the ‘proper order of humanity’ as they call it, and even as children we were treated little better than the servants until we were married. Well, you know what my mother is like. I found out last night that since I am an unmarried woman, apparently I have regressed in my status.” At last she turned her tear-stung eyes fully toward him, her left cheek marred by a dark bruise.

Davon’s chair squealed as he rose in shock. Who would dare strike someone so good and lovely? He approached her, inspecting the purple mark on her cheek. Gently he took her face in his hands and probed the cheekbone, her eyes cast down. “I am very sorry, Lady Hightower,” he consoled, a steady rage building within him. “Does it hurt when you talk or when I press the bone?”

“No,” she answered quietly.

He stalked out of the room and found Missa. “I need you to go to the infirmary and ask Dr. Otis if he has any Banded Elver Leaf. Under no circumstances tell him what it is for, only that a noble lady requires it. Then bring me cold water.”

“But I should not leave you two alone,” she objected.

“Propriety be damned, girl. Please do as I say,” he ordered.

She nodded and left quickly, and he returned to sit with Arianne, who continued her vigil out the window. For the first time since leaving his noble title behind he wished he could take it up again, find her father, Viscount Hale, and force him onto the field of challenge. While he doubted Arianne would thank him for killing both her husband and her father, the latter certainly deserved it.

“What are you up to, Mr. Harper?” she asked, voice colorless.

He pushed his violent feelings aside and softened the look on his face; now was a time for healing. “Fortunately, I happen to know a few remedies for the common bruise. We’ll have it cleared up in no time, Lady Hightower. I don’t wish to pry, but what inspired such violence?”

She turned toward him, eyes flinty. “I found out three day ago that I was betrothed to the Earl of Longford, Duke Longford’s son.”

“The Hero of Harrickshire?” he asked, realizing now why the two had been alone in the Elder Wood that day.

She smirked. “We both know he’s not the Hero of Harrickshire, Mr. Harper. You are. Yes, I know.”

Davon opened his mouth but no words came out. He had thought that she had remained out of view in the wrinkle of the Elder Tree. It took several moments to compose himself. He wanted to interrogate her more, but realized that there were more pressing matters than credit for Harrickshire.

“So,” he pressed, “you weren’t betrothed then? How could your own betrothal be a mystery to you?”

She turned back to the window. “He did indeed drop to a knee, but he never finished his proposal before the shooting began. I suppose he figured that I couldn’t refuse such an illustrious person. So with a mountain of ego and presumption and a mound of sense, we have Earl Uticus Longford prepared to announce our nuptials to the world. This marriage is the fondest wish of my parents, and when I informed them that I had not consented to marry him and had no mind to in the near future, this was the result.”

“Your Father’s behavior is unconscionable, Lady Hightower. They may be unhappy with your decision, but to lay a hand on you? I am deeply angered. What will you do?”

“What can I do?” she returned. “Despite these events, I don’t wish to disappoint my family or cause them any shame. Connection to a duke’s family is my parents’ deepest ambition. They could have a grandson as a duke one day, have access and influence they can only dream of now. And I am at the center of these expectations. How can I refuse?”

It suddenly struck him what Lady Hightower reminded him of: Emile after she had married him. In idle moments of pain in his own marriage, he often practiced what he would have said to his wife had he known her true feelings for him before the marriage. That unexpressed advice was what the good Lady Hightower needed now.

“Forgive me if I overstep my bounds,” he said, “but you told me when we were together in Hightower that your previous marriage was arranged and that there was little love. Speaking as a clerk, Lady Hightower, the math is quite simple: if you must be at the expense of two marriages, then at least one of them should profit you.

“Trust me when I tell you that if you marry the Earl against your feelings you will spend many days as you are now, staring out the window with lifeless eyes and a heart robbed of joy. For the first few months you will force yourself to smile at him and be pleasant, but soon the pretending will give way to a loathing of the one you should love but can’t. The red dress you look so fetching in will rot in the closet and you will take to wearing anything drab enough not to attract the attention or the touch of the stranger you married for someone else’s sake.

“Your parents you can hide from until their wrath fades. A husband you can’t love will find you unprepared for his company every day. As for your Father, you remind him that you are the Viscountess of Bittermarch and will not be treated like a dog. And if need be, you tell him that the real Hero of Harrickshire can drop a deer from two hundred yards in a stiff wind.”

The door banged open and Missa entered, water and Elver Leaf in hand. Davon asked for a small dish and mashed the leaf into a watery paste. Removing his handkerchief, he put the wad of paste inside, just as Saunders had done many times for him. After a quick soak in the water, he approached the Lady Hightower, finding her cheeks tear soaked, but her eyes alive with some new spark.

“I know this smells unflattering,” he said, “but it will help. Missa, come here, please, and pay attention. I’ll need you to do this for the Lady when I am gone.” He took the back of Arianne’s head and daubed her cheek with the handkerchief, her eyes closing as he worked. “Do this to the bruise for a few minutes every hour for the rest of the day,” he instructed. “When done, just leave the handkerchief to soak in the water. You can throw it all out tomorrow. The bruise should fade very quickly over the next couple of days. Now if you could fetch her some food, something light, and a little more wine.”

“Yes, Mr. Harper,” she said, leaving them alone again. Davon completed his ministrations, and without thinking he kissed Lady Hightower’s head as he might when comforting a child. As he returned the handkerchief to its bowl he noticed the rosebud pendant on the desk and picked it up.

“I was wondering if I might paint this for you. It’s a new skill I’ve suddenly acquired.”

He found her regarding him softly. “Leave it, Mr. Harper. I like it just as you gave it to me that day in Hightower.”

He nodded in understanding. “Very well,” he said. “Eat all the food and get some sleep. I will leave you now, but if I can be of any further use, please send word to the Clerk’s office. Remember what I said about your dilemma. And don’t forget the Queen’s letter.”

And if anyone hurt her again, they would regret it.

“You have been a great help, Mr. Harper. I feel much better. Won’t you stay a while longer?”

“For your reputation’s sake, I had best be gone.” He bowed. “Good day, Lady Hightower.”

“Good day, Lord Carver,” she said quietly after the door had shut. “And thank you.” Davon Carver. Had there ever been such a man as he? How had so few minutes with him banished days-worth of despair? Everything she had to do fell into an orderly line before her as he spoke, the wisdom from his own disastrous marriage breaking her heart and bolstering her courage in equal measure.

And he kissed me!

While just a modest peck on the head, it was entirely inappropriate and wholeheartedly appreciated.

She rose from her divan by the window and stretched, willing life and energy back into her limbs. Her gaze fell upon the desk where the Queen’s letter waited. Hoping for news of the investigation, she opened it, finding that the entire missive consisted of two simple words. “You’re welcome.”

For the first time in three days, she smiled. She would disobey Davon and forgo the sleep. It was time to write some letters of her own. She reaffixed her rosebud pendant and blooming vine bracelet; she needed to keep Davon close in her thoughts to lend her strength for what she must do.

Chapter 23

By Davon’s reckoning, balls were redundant and tedious affairs for the vain and the bored. The same cows and the same bulls were herded into the same pastures to chew the same cud year after year. He had once expressed the thought to Emile who considered it the most scandalous thing he had ever said and had spent the entire afternoon expounding the virtues of balls and assemblies. Opportunities for news. Opportunities for alliances. Opportunities to woo. Davon always searched for opportunities to escape. The peerage had shunned him during his difficulties, only warming to him when prosperity had returned to Frostbourne. He considered most of them self-serving and without compassion and could hardly stand their shallow conversation.

Now that he was a clerk hiding from a wife and noble acquaintances who thought him dead, an opportunity to escape had inflated to a need rather than a desire. The first part of his plan had worked: arrive early enough so that he could avoid being announced. Under no circumstances would he have the herald bellow to the crowd, “Mr. David Harper, Underclerk” to provide amusement or disdain to a preening, proud audience. If he would have had the company of Mr. Lambert, perhaps he could have endured it. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Lambert embarked on a voluminous vomiting spell that afternoon and was excused from the proceedings; Davon’s firm constitution deprived him of so easy an escape.

He supposed he could have lied, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, surprising himself with his own confused scruples. His very identity was a lie of epic proportions, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to fake an illness? He’d even been shot not three weeks before and could have claimed a relapse, though with Mr. Lambert’s absence, Davon thought the Queen would look at another health related excuse from the accounting office with a little suspicion and perhaps some displeasure.

He had to admit, however, that there were two things he hoped to accomplish at the ball. First, he wanted to see Emile, though from a distance. It was a perverse and dangerous wish, but he had to know if she was happy, even if it cost him some pain. He also wanted to see if he could get news about Lady Hightower’s situation. Nearly a week had passed since he had ministered to her, and he had not seen her since or heard more about the ledgers. He had felt it too forward to visit her apartments without an invitation or without the Queen’s order. Those two purposes accomplished, he would make sure the Queen saw him once and then he would dive out the door as if the building were engulfed in flames.

The ball was not held in the Palace, but rather in the Lord’s Assembly Hall nearby. It was brightly lit with white walls lined with paintings, statues, and leafy plants. A half orchestra played at one end, a large table with foods at the other, while side rooms—as Emile would have pointed out—provided opportunities to get news, to form alliances, and to woo. Not to mention to get drunk and make a fool of oneself. It was in one of those rooms that he had issued his deadly challenge to Arianne’s late husband, Lord Cornton of Hightower.

Depressingly, the dung shovelers in the drive had dressed more ornately than he was. No one would mistake him for a servant; they would likely think him some impertinent intruder and attempt to evict him. The safest place to escape scrutiny was to the side of a tall plant near the orchestra. No one mingled there because it was simply too inconvenient to talk over the music. Emile and Lady Hightower had not yet arrived, so he spent his time in observation.

“Excuse me, Mr. Harper?”

Davon turned to find the most effeminate man he had ever seen addressing him. He wore white pants and a jacket ornately embroidered with golden thread. A powdered wig and vanity dot on his cheek conspired to make him ridiculous. His accent was Creetisian, and despite the frippery, the man’s eyes were those of a hunter.

“Yes?” Davon answered.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Melchor Raines, attaché to the honorable Ambassador Horace Clout of Creetis. I am, you see, a bit like yourself. I fear the ladies will simply ignore me all evening. Has the plant offered you any conversation or perhaps asked you to dance?”

Davon understood the attempt at humor, but the nagging sense of wrongness in his mind prevented him from feeling any mirth whatsoever.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Raines,” he answered, “though you may find the conversation with the plants more rewarding than the conversation with the people.”

Mr. Raines laughed politely, an affected levity worthy of the nobles he was apparently trying to imitate. “You are naughty, Mr. Harper. But that does remind me that there was a matter I wished to speak with you about. Weren’t you the one who discovered the nobles were being duped by some society or some such?”

“Yes, though I hardly think it would be of any interest to Creetis. Nobles are notoriously careless with their money. It comes from having too much of it.”

“Yes, yes, quite,” Melchor said. “Ambassador Clout comments about that particularly often. My interest is in how you were rewarded. You were made a clerk, correct?”

Davon wondered where this was going. “An underclerk, yes.”

“But still a commoner?”

“Yes. I simply have a more pleasant work environment and better pay,” he explained.

“Interesting,” Mr. Raines said, screwing his face up into a thoughtful expression. “Are you a good shot, Mr. Harper?”

Now Davon was thoroughly confused. “Better than some, worse than others.”

“I recently heard someone comment on your shooting skill, I believe. Said you could hit a man between the eyes at one hundred yards. I was wondering if you could do the same if a man were galloping away on a horse.”

“Like the Earl of Longford, you mean?” Davon returned, fearful of what this attaché knew.

“Was he the one?” Mr. Raines asked, acting as if he was thinking hard. “I’ve always had such a hard time remembering all the names of your nobility. But yes, like him. I was so surprised to hear the tale. The attack came at least four hours into the outing. Most Lords are good and drunk by then and couldn’t have shot a horse that had its hoof on their boot.”

Davon shrugged. “Some men shoot better when they are a little drunk. The liquor calms their nerves and bolsters their enthusiasm.”

Mr. Raines laughed again. “You are a delight, Mr. Harper. And quite right. Well, I suppose I shall leave you to your plant. Your name just keeps popping up, and I thought I might come take the measure of you. If I get bored, I think I shall take a few drinks and try shooting birds in the dark. You could join me.”

He walked off, practically mincing as he went, humming to the tune of the music. The warning voice in Davon’s head blared. Something wasn’t right about that man. How would an attaché know anything about the shooting that had occurred in the clearing when fleeing to Bellshire with the old ledgers, and how could he know that he had shot the men on horseback down in Harrickshire? Was word getting out? Did Creetis have spies everywhere?

Maybe all this lying and pretending is making me paranoid, he thought.

“Lady Arianne Cornton of Hightower!” the herald announced. Davon glanced up and smiled. She wore the red dress and the curled hair just as she had done the day he had annoyed her so during his convalescence. She appeared vibrant, practically glowing, and a low hum of gossip filled the room. How much had her troubles circulated among her peers? Servants were notorious for spreading secrets, and Missa knew a great deal about the business of Lady Arianne Hightower.

He kept a careful eye on Arianne as the ladies dove in and out of her circle, probably pecking at her for news. It would take work to pry her away from the needling women to have any real chance at extracting news from her. While he couldn’t say for sure, it appeared the men were busily and hopefully commenting among themselves while throwing inviting glances her way. Perhaps her rejection of the Earl of Longford’s presumptuous proposal had circulated, as well.

The hall continued to fill with familiar faces and Davon kept to his plant until he grew tired of its company. This is ridiculous. He amended his plans. He just needed to leave as soon and as inconspicuously as possible. While the Queen might not see him, he could, if called upon to report, honestly tell her that he had attended. He could appeal to the strange Melchor Raines as proof. Chances were that Filippa wouldn’t even miss him or even care that he had come, despite the specific invitation.

“Mr. Harper!” Lady Hightower exclaimed, emerging from the crowd with a bemused face. “What are you doing here?”

Davon bowed. “The Queen incomprehensibly invited Mr. Lambert and me to this ball. I’ve been asking this plant to dance for some time now to no avail, so I was about to leave.”

She laughed. “I am sorry for your lack of success with such a lovely plant. I am glad to see you, though I’m afraid I have a complaint to lodge against you.”

What have I done now? “And what is that, Lady Hightower?”

“Well, after your assistance several days ago, I commented to Missa that you made a better doctor than a patient. But a good doctor, Mr. Harper, checks up on his patients to make sure the remedy has taken hold. No apologies for your failure, Mr. Harper, only explanations.”

She was playful. That was good. Her spirits had returned. “Doctoring is a new profession for me, I’m afraid, and I do not know my duties well. How is your cheek faring?”

She seemed satisfied with the answer. “Very well. The herb had set a reek about the entire room by morning, but the bruise was nearly imperceptible in two days.”

“And can I assume by the speculative glances of the young men in the crowd that you must have had some resolution to the other matter as well?”

A blush reddened her cheeks. “Yes. I think I exercised considerable restraint considering how violent my feelings had been. The Earl of Longford took it well but is undaunted in his determination. As for my parents, my restraint was less shackled as I wrote that particular note. They have yet to send a reply or even visit me since that time, though they are here in town. I thank you for your advice as much as your herbs, Mr. Harper. You seem to see very clearly. It must be your spectacles.”

The herald pounded his staff. “Earl Weston Kernwill of Tahbor and his fiancée, Widow Lady Emile Carver of Frostbourne.”

Davon shrunk involuntarily behind the plant, Lady Hightower’s gaze following his to the entryway where the couple entered. It took a concentrated force of will to steady the hammering in his chest and clear his mind. He couldn’t determine if fear of discovery or the woman herself caused his indisposition. She was clearly in her element, a trophy for her lordly fiancé and proud to walk at his side. She was happy then. He wasn’t sure if he should feel loss or be pleased at the success of his plan.

“Are you well, Mr. Harper?” Lady Hightower asked, eyes sympathetic.

“I am fine, thank you, Lady Hightower,” he said. “I think I am a little hungry. I have yet to eat because I’m afraid that if I approach the table dressed like this, I will either end up serving food or getting kicked out for looking like I came in off the street to beg. You’re a friend of the Queen. Perhaps you could ask her to explain this bizarre invitation. It sent Mr. Lambert to his sickbed.”

Arianne laughed. “I will inquire for you and report. Do you—”

“Dearest Arianne! Why are you talking to this…person?” It was Lady Carmen Drury of Underton, wife of a Baron. Davon recognized her, the Lady’s penchant for gaudy fashion setting her apart from the rest of the finely dressed ladies. Her dress was colored an improbable green, and he was sure her hat had denuded an entire gilded partridge. She had turned the corner from youth to age and possessed an enthusiasm for all things gossip.

“This is Mr. David Harper, Lady Drury,” Arianne said. “He’s the one that rescued us from the scandalous Aid Society plot that robbed our estates year after year. He is also Flametouched.”

“That’s nice, dear,” Lady Drury said while scanning the crowd. “My nephew is around here somewhere, and I wondered if you would do me the honor of meeting him. He is quite handsome! Now that the matter with you and the Earl is in question, I thought it might be a good opportunity for you to meet a few eligible men.”

The Herald’s staff struck again. “Duke Miles Longford, Duchess Dayna Longford, and Earl Uticus Longford, Hero of Harrickshire.”

The Longfords, prim, proper, and dressed to shame the room, were one of the oldest families in the Kingdom, one of the few left whose names matched the property they owned. The Duke was an average-sized man with a controlled, oval face, coal black eyes, and a gray wig hiding whatever time had done to his hair. His wife was plump and bedecked with a drawer full of jewelry. For having recently earned the rebuff of the woman he was courting, the Earl of Longford appeared in remarkably good spirits. Lady Hightower didn’t even bother to turn to look at him.

All part of the game, Davon surmised with a smirk.

“Shall we go, Lady Hightower?” Lady Drury prodded. “I should like you to get acquainted with him before Earl Longford siphons away all your time in an attempt to recover you.”

The Lady Hightower seemed torn, so Davon rescued her. “Thank you for your well wishes, Lady Hightower,” he said. “I was about to leave. It was a pleasure to speak with you.”

Did she appear disappointed?

“Very well, but I will get you the answer you requested as soon as I can.”

He genuflected and Lady Drury dragged her off into the crowd.

Time to leave.

He checked the room to ensure that Emile was nowhere near his intended route of departure and waited for the orchestra to kick up a tune to dance by. The dance would pull all eyes to the floor and no one would notice him scurry away like a rat into the night. As soon as the violins began their lilting tune, he commenced his journey, noticing Lady Hightower—paired with Lady Drury’s nephew—regarding him.

I think I could tolerate a ball if I could spend it with her.

He continued on, swooping in close enough to the food table to grab a bit of the proffered cake before walking nondescriptly toward the door. The servants stationed there were about to open it for him when a hand grabbed his arm in a firm grip, sending his cake to the floor. The Lord High Sheriff pulled him aside. “Leaving, are we, Mr. Harper?” he asked, voice flat, but emphasis on the name chilling.

“I was, Milord,” Davon said. “I can’t see a purpose in staying here amongst my betters, so I thought I might try the ceremonies at the Flame Cathedral.”

The Sheriff’s expression was impossible to read, a skill that had no doubt served him well in his profession. It froze Davon’s blood. “The Queen asked me to make sure you didn’t leave before she arrived. So sit tight, Baron, and watch your equals for a while.”

Baron. Davon’s face blanched, fear pricking his skin. It was over. His charade had come to an end. His limbs didn’t seem to want to work anymore, and he let the Lord High Sheriff pull him aside. What had betrayed him? In his mind he retraced his actions and his interactions. At no point had anyone shown the slightest flicker of recognition when they had met him. Perhaps Mr. Lambert or another of the Queen’s agents had actually decided to investigate his fabricated background, of which, he realized, he had not been particularly consistent in the telling.

“Perhaps we should retire to some location more private?” Davon suggested.

“No, no,” the sheriff replied, eyes and face hard, even a little angry. “I have orders to keep you here, Lord Carver. I’m sure this will be one of the more memorable Day of Burning Balls in recent history. There was always something just a little off about you. I had started to forget my first impressions of Mr. Harper. I’d wager skulking off on your wife would account for that nervous, hunted cast to your face that I noticed when I first saw you.”

Running for the door crossed Davon’s mind. The sheriff no longer had a lock on his arm and Davon could run like a purebred racehorse in a pinch. Only two bored servants and the outer door guard separated him from the freedom of the street.

“Don’t even think about it, Carver,” the sheriff remonstrated. “I know that look. I’ve got men in the street that will put a bullet in you if you so much as poke your nose out the door.”

“Queen Filippa of Bittermarch!”

The music died and the entire room bowed as the Queen and two Ladies in Waiting entered through the door Davon had just eyed as his escape route. Noticing Davon, the Queen shuffled over and grabbed his arm, pulling him forward.

“I must apologize, Lord Carver, for what I am about to do. I’m afraid this easy life you have constructed for yourself is at an end. I no longer need Mr. David Harper. I need Baron Davon Carver. All rise!”

Davon turned to her. “I beg of you, do this privately, Your Grace, not for my sake, but for that of the Lady Carver.”

Her return expression was almost sinister, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have no mind to spare Lady Carver any pain whatsoever. She certainly spared you none. I think a good shock might take a little of the starch out of her stockings. Again, forgive me.”

She stopped as the assembled nobles awaited her pleasure, some nattering to each other, no doubt about why the Queen chose an underclerk as her escort. Releasing his arm but indicating that he should stay put, she turned to the audience. Davon, stripped of his pride, face burning, stared at the floor in shame.

“Lords and Ladies, friends and enemies, welcome to the Day of Burning Ball!” Polite laughter and clapping ensued, which the Queen waved off. “Now, I am quite sure that by now you have all run out of any good or witty conversation and are no doubt in want of some bit of gossip to fill your mouths and the time. It is with some sadness I announce the death of a rather illustrious person, Mr. David Harper.” The Queen appeared to enjoy the confusion for a moment. “While his demise is tragic to say the least, his birth, perhaps, was the greater tragedy. You see, David Harper had no natural mother, but was rather the offspring of one man’s pain and desperate imagination.

“Beside me is the man who brought David Harper into the world nearly a year ago. David Harper has done us honorable and brave service, but I must lay him in his grave now. The man who has served as my underclerk, who exposed the Aid Society plot, and who is registered as a member of the House of Light is not Mister David Harper as he would have us think, but rather Lord Davon Carver of Frostbourne.”

Gasps faded to gawking, searching stares. In a fit of pride, Davon lifted his burning face to the on-looking crowd, fighting to keep his knees from pounding out a racket one against the other. Shock. Disgust. Disdain. Anger. And then Arianne. Pity and tears. The whispering began to boil when the Queen raised her voice.

“Hear me!” she yelled. The crowd quieted. “Hear my punishments that—”

Before she could finish, a haunted, disbelieving Emile emerged from the throng. She stepped forward cautiously, mouth agape, as if approaching someone so diseased or mutilated as to be repulsive at a distance. She stopped in front of him and Davon removed his glasses. The crowd went dead quiet as she examined him and then punished him with a stinging slap.

“Cannot even the grave rid me of you?” she screamed hysterically, naked fury consuming her. She backed away from him. “I hate you! I hate you! I HATE you!” She swooned, unsteady. “I am getting married! Do you hear me! To a Duke! Die! Just die…” Her words faded with her consciousness, eyes rolling into her head as she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“Oh dear,” the Queen intoned coldly. “Would one of you gentlemen please scoop the Lady up? Earl Tahbor, perhaps? No? By all means, someone help her and convey her to the infirmary.”

In the end, the Lord High Sheriff drafted two of his men to the task, shooting Davon a look of disgust while they executed it.

The Queen continued. “Now, good people, hear what I have to say. I pronounce that Davon and Emile Carver are divorced effective from the date Lord Carver left her. Her marriage to the Earl of Tahbor may proceed unhindered…that is, if both parties are still agreeable. I strip Lord Carver of his lands, his honor, and his freedom until such time as I redeem him. He will be resident in the Queen’s dungeon until I will it otherwise. Lord High Sheriff, remove him and deal with him as I have instructed you.

“Now where is the cake? I hear it is especially moist and I wouldn’t want it to go stale before I sampled it.”

Melchor Raines couldn’t suppress a grin. So Mr. David Harper, sharpshooting clerk, had no connection with the Queen’s agents and had stumbled upon the Aid Society plot by chance? He had abandoned his wife and assumed another identity? It explained a few loose ends that had troubled Melchor.

First, the trained eye could spot Mr. Harper’s sloppy disguise in an instant. The glasses clearly hindered rather than helped him, and the poor man could hardly remember which leg to limp on. But had he really stumbled into the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company and uncovered the suspicious accounting by happenstance? Had he really been perfectly placed to shoot down the phony assassins in Harrickshire? And would a Lord of Bittermarch be so clever as to sneak the ledgers into Bellshire as he did, not to mention blasting down the men sent to kill him with uncanny skill?

And then actual shame and embarrassment as the Queen exposed him. These from a man who fought Dales with knives and shot men without a second thought. Lord Davon Carver simply didn’t add up. Perhaps the man didn’t see that the Queen had merely taken from him what he had already given up, or notice that she had a particular fondness for him.

He would ask Ambassador Creetis what he knew of Davon Carver, but for the present the disgraced Lord would disappear from view and would no longer serve as the patsy as Melchor had planned. He needed another, and now that Melchor knew the secret of the pretended fame of Earl Uticus Longford, he could squeeze him into filling the role Agor Ghest, leader of The Fist, had in mind.

If the original plans of Ambassador Clout had provided any fruit whatsoever, then this next move would not have been necessary. But parading all the dead bodies of the supposed victims of the massacre through Bittermarch and all the fiery rhetoric in the House of Lords had hardly started the rebellion against the Queen that Horace had hoped. The old lady had grit. She was cleverer than Horace had anticipated. She knew that if Creetis dared take the first step toward war that Bittermarch would rise up and squash them like insignificant insects.

So with Horace’s plan failing miserably, Agor Ghest had sent Melchor some private instructions outside of the Ambassador’s knowledge. Still, the Ambassador had one more part to play.

From the relative safety beside the plant previously occupied by the late Mr. Harper, Melchor surveyed the room. The Queen had certainly been right about one thing: the scandalous affair had woken up tired tongues and minds, the entire room now aflame with speculation and mockery. The sleepy Earl of Tahbor had left soon after his fiancée had collapsed. Some speculated that he went to console his bride; Melchor rather thought he would be consoling his horses after whipping them all the way back to Tahbor. The Queen, quite oddly pleased with herself, appeared the only content, carefree person in the room.

After a little searching he found his intended target, Uticus Longford, in a side room accompanied by his parents and the lovely Arianne Hightower. A pale, drawn visage afflicted the noblewoman, the only one, Melchor noticed, who had shed any tear of sympathy for poor Davon Carver. It would be a shame when such a beautiful bird as Lady Hightower ended up caged in a real dungeon rather than the Queen’s more accommodating one where Davon would serve.

She was a vision, though. Melchor reined in his thoughts with effort. The ladies of Bittermarch, like the larders, were luxurious and well appointed, unlike the ascetic, scrawny offerings of his own land. These distractions, however, were beneath a member of The Fist and he turned his attention back to the business at hand.

The Earl had placed himself across from his intended bride, no doubt to lend himself an advantageous view of her gifts. His father, the Duke of Longford, had embarked on a sour lament.

“Such a blight! Such a blight on our fair country to have this cowardly, base behavior turn us all to fools! Were I a younger man, I would shoot Lord Carver myself! I hope the Queen has him horsewhipped daily until either the idiot or his idiocy is dead!”

Lord Longford cut his comments short as Melchor approached. The four nobles eyed the representative of Creetis narrowly as he invaded the area where they conversed. Lady Hightower appeared on the verge of tears.

Melchor dropped into his ridiculous fop persona. “I do hate to trouble you,” he apologized obsequiously. “But I wonder if I might have a word with the Earl.”

The incensed Duke Longford regarded him as he would a pile of dung on his driveway. “Creetis can have no business that concerns my son. Now be gone. Back to your Master and his lies.”

Melchor bowed low. “Pardon me. I just wished to inquire about some rumors going around about Harrickshire and the credit of it. I will leave you.”

He turned to go, noting Lady Hightower’s surprised look. Uticus, while not as demonstrative, remained composed by comparison. His parents might mistake their son’s shocked expression for indignation.

So the Lady Hightower knows, Melchor thought as he hummed and minced back to the main room. The reports of the events hadn’t mentioned her as a witness. Had Uticus told her that Davon Carver had killed the three horsemen? Had Davon Carver confided it to her during his brief visit to Hightower? Most importantly, did other people know of Uticus’s fraud?

The Earl found him sooner than Melchor had expected, stopping him near the food table during a dance.

Good. He is fearful.

“I would hear what you wished to speak with me about,” the handsome Earl said curtly and quietly, plucking a strip of juicy beef from a platter.

Melchor cast his gaze around furtively to signal to the Earl that what he wished to say had great import and secrecy. “I must be brief. I fear for the life of your Queen.” Uticus blinked, eyes wide. Melchor continued with an air of furtive urgency. “Creetis is unhappy with her response to the massacre of our people, and I am afraid our leaders are planning something rather drastic. Now before you get too incensed, know that I have no proof, as yet, of their plans. I have only suspicions about actions that I cannot, in good conscience, condone, as they will bring us to a war we cannot win. Can I count on your help if there is some plot against the life of your monarch?”

The Earl was pleased. “But of course!”

“Good. I know it must be hard to wear someone else’s fame, but this may give you the chance to purchase some of your own. I will contact you if I uncover anything.”

The Earl nodded, eyes bright. “I am at your disposal, Mr. Raines, in anything that will serve our Queen.”

Melchor nodded and left Uticus Longford behind. Easily done. Offing the pesky Davon Carver would take a little more planning now that his whereabouts would be difficult to ascertain, but with all the powerful nobles incensed at the disgraced Lord, Melchor thought he might not even need to try.

Chapter 24

Lord Carver’s horse, Ceril, whinnied as Arianne led him across the freshly cut grass toward the rear gardens. The Queen had sent late word requesting that Arianne meet her, Lord Carver, and unnamed others that morning in the outdoors. As a consequence, Arianne had paced nearly the whole night through, anxiously trying to script words she could say to help the disgraced Lord Carver.

To see one who had helped her so much endure such abuse tore at her heart, and not until she had excused herself from the ball early and returned to her apartments had she let her feelings flow. Her swift departure had upset an amorous Uticus, who had mistaken her tender feelings as some sort of encouragement to him. Only after she had shed her tears had she realized how Lord Carver’s exposure and public divorce might, one day, prove a blessing. At last she could treat him as an equal and with openness and honesty without needing to tiptoe around his past or his disguise.

On the other hand, she pitied him. The lips of Bittermarch carried his name everywhere, and not in a positive way. His return deeply shamed Emile, something Lord Carver had desperately tried to prevent despite how awful she was. Arianne still couldn’t fathom how he could care about Emile’s feelings when she despised him as badly as fire did water. Clearly, neither one could truly live in the presence of the other.

In the end, she couldn’t find words, but she had found something else. If Saunders was right about Lord Carver’s affections for his old steed, the horse would, at the very least, be a welcome gift. She had purchased the animal from Emile shortly before the Day of Burning Ball and had intended to send it back to Saunders in Hightower until such time as Lord Carver visited again. She had intended to gift it to him in thanks for all he had done and confess that she knew who he was. But his identity was out now, and the time for the gift had come.

The soft morning light brought a feral spark to the horse’s eyes. Orange rays from the early sun tinted everything with warmth and highlighted the insects and spores wafting in a breeze alive with a chorus of birds. Arianne soaked it in, hoping she could radiate such brightness and life when she spoke with Lord Carver.

As she rounded a tall hedge row, she found him. Lord Carver sat lifelessly on a wide tree stump wearing clothes for traveling. His head hung down, and he held his round, leather hat lifelessly in his hands. The carving bag sat nearby, fresh wood shavings on the grass beneath his feet. His thoughts so absorbed him that he failed to notice their approach until they were nearly upon him. Surprised, he shot up like a bolt, face pained.

“Lady Hightower,” he said softly, eyes down in shame. “I had not expected you. The Queen told me to meet her here at eight this morning.”

“And I, as well. How are you, Lord Carver?” Her heart threatened to break at the agony mapped so plainly in his sad eyes. How could she heal him as he had done for her?

“I can hardly say. Now you have discovered that I am a fraud and a coward.” He steeled himself and lifted his eyes to hers. “I truly regret having deprived you first of your husband and now of any good opinion of me. I swear by the Eternal Flame that I never wished to cause you pain, Lady Hightower, and I regret what I have done.”

She reached out and rubbed his smooth cheek, hunting for anything to say. “I always thought you would look better clean-shaven.”

His eyes registered confusion at her odd response.

She sat on the stump, holding the reins of the horse in her hand. “I should confess to you, Lord Carver, that I’ve known who you are since the day after the events at Harrickshire. The Queen has known since she first laid eyes on you in disguise. So while I have worn black today to mourn the loss of my good friend, Mr. Harper, I am delighted to finally be able to speak with you without any pretense between us. That has worn grievously upon me these past weeks.”

His forehead scrunched together. “How can you look on me and not feel loathing?” he asked, taking a seat next to her on the stump. “Oh, how I loathe myself. I have always prided myself on my sensibility, but three times now I have committed errors so incalculably thoughtless that I question what sort of man I really am.”

Arianne reached over and put her hand on his arm. “I know you better than you think. I have talked with Mr. Saunders and Miss Moreshire. I have seen your generous, courageous manner for myself. And yes, I have spent time with Lady Ironhorn. I don’t wish to anger you, but she is a monster that has never had a tender feeling for you in her life. She used you cruelly. While your desire to shield her from embarrassment does you credit, and while few people truly understand why you acted as you did, I know the truth. I am and will always be proud to call you a friend.”

He remained silent for a few moments, face thoughtful. “You are too kind, Lady Hightower, too kind for your own good. You must distance yourself from me. I would rue what I’ve done all the more if my mistakes hurt you or your good reputation. Don’t let my shadow overcast your good life. I couldn’t bear it.”

“No, Lord Carver,” she said. “You have brought nothing but joy to my sister and me, and we will support you however we can. You have friends, whether you see it or not. In fact, you seem so blind this morning that you’ve failed to notice that I have brought an old friend to you.”

He looked at her questioningly and then at the horse, realization dawning.

“Ceril?” he said, doubting at first. “That’s impossible…but it is!” He rose and patted its neck, his face lightening with the first pleasant expression she had seen from him that morning. “How are you, old boy?”

The horse whickered in response, and Arianne smiled. Here was an old bond renewed, a simple connection that he needed as desperately as she had needed his care a few days earlier. Her heart rejoiced in her success. She stood and rubbed Ceril’s nose while Davon looked him over nose to tail, too overcome to speak. He approached her, face full of wonderment, and embraced her warmly. She closed her eyes and pulled him in tightly, happily soaking in his gratitude.

When he pulled away, he turned toward the horse to conceal his effort to clear his eyes of tears. “This is the best gift, Lady Hightower. How could you have known?”

“I heard that Lady Carver was using your beloved horse to pull carriages. I got my information from one Mr. Saunders, whom I recently hired as my new steward.”

His eyes widened. “You can’t be serious! I don’t think you know what you’ve done! He’ll keep your house in order, to be sure, but he’s a bit of a rough character. I don’t wish to speak ill of him. I owe that old soldier a great deal. He helped me get Frostbourne on its feet in my younger days and taught me how to be a man, though I can’t endorse all of his habits.”

“That he worked for you was recommendation enough for me,” she explained. “And if he helped you become the man you are, then he is welcome indeed. How do you think he’ll take your return from the dead?”

“With a great deal of coarse language, I’m afraid.” Lord Carver returned to the stump, letting Ceril gnaw on some nearby grass. “What a mess this is. You have been the only bright spot in this whole wretched affair, Lady Hightower, and I thank you for it. I must admonish you, however, to heed my earlier advice. If your peers choose to abuse me, let them do it. Under no circumstances offer any defense in my behalf or attach your name to mine in any—”

She interrupted him by sitting down and leaning rather forwardly against him. “As you so appropriately reminded me a few days ago, Lord Carver, I am a Viscountess and I will behave as I see fit. So you can keep your admonitions to yourself. This will all die down in time, you’ll see. At some point, Emile will be exposed for what she is, and while people may see your method of ending your marriage as unorthodox, they will, at the very least, understand why you acted as you did.”

He shook his head. “I am not sure that I fully understand why I acted as I did. I’ve only been David Harper for a year and still my old life seems like a distant, horrible dream. I should have confronted my difficulties more directly, but I knew that doing so would have injured Emile, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. She can be a good person, Lady Hightower. She can be agreeable and kind. I failed her expectations…badly.”

While her encounters with Emile Carver had been brief, Arianne had seen nothing of kindness or an agreeable nature in the woman at all. She was certainly eager to please anyone she viewed as consequential. She could only imagine how nauseatingly delightful the disgraced Emile Ironhorn must have acted when her parents thrust her into the life of Baron Carver in an attempt to rush a marriage to cover up her indiscretions. Did he not understand this?

“As I said, Emile used you to escape her reputation, and one, I am afraid, she deserved! You must have learned all of this later.”

He nodded. “I did, not long after our marriage. Doesn’t it sting you, Lady Hightower? I killed your husband to defend a pretended honor. While I am glad that I afforded Emile the chance to start over, was that chance worth the life of Lord Cornton of Hightower? It was not. It is not fair that he paid for her mistakes, and it’s not right that I robbed you of the husband of your youth.”

She crouched in front of him and grabbed his hands, forcing him to look at her. “You did precisely what you should have done! My late husband should not have said what he did about Emile, truth notwithstanding, and you behaved toward your fiancée as a gentleman should! Do not reproach yourself, especially not on my account. I do not miss my husband, Lord Carver. I will miss you. You must swear to me faithfully that you will come to see me at Hightower and visit your old friend Mr. Saunders as soon as the Queen permits it. Do you swear?”

“Lady Hightower, I—”

“Do you swear it? Yes or no, Lord Carver.”

“Yes, I will.”

Satisfied, she released him and returned to admire the horse. “Very good. You help him remember, Ceril.” She patted his flanks. He was a fine beast, dark and powerful. “I’ll have you speak with my horses so they can help you learn the way.”

The horse regarded her briefly and then dipped its head to chew the Queen’s grass. Lord Carver watched her, face soft but puzzled; he still didn’t understand her regard for him. What else could she do to convince him? She had a few ideas, none of them very appropriate, but hadn’t he embraced her rather forwardly? While gratitude rather than passion motivated his affections, she wanted to show some gratitude, too.

“Since we are apparently left to our own devices, Lord Carver, shall we take a stroll about the garden?”

“I would like that,” he agreed.

She grabbed one of his arms even though he hadn’t offered it. A lot could happen on a stroll.

Queen Filippa stared out the windows, watching the two subjects of her little experiment talk to each other in the morning sunshine. She quite purposefully lied to them both and sent them into the garden at eight knowing full well that the Duke of Longford would keep her long past that time with his concerns. She hoped the venerable Lord didn’t try to discern why she spent most of her time gazing to the gardens below. She knew exactly why he had requested a meeting with her, but he had, as yet, not come to the point.

“And I must say,” the iron-haired Duke continued, “that this business with Lord Carver is most unfortunate. How is it that he escaped your discernment?”

Arianne had just arrived with the horse and stood wonderfully close to Lord Carver. This was going just as she had intended.

She focused her eyes back on the Duke. “My discernment is hardly omnipotence, Duke Longford. How much attention do you pay to your clerks?”

Lord Longford was a powerful man, the epitome of a gentleman, and everyone naturally and incorrectly calculated that she would choose him as her successor.

He leaned back on the couch, relaxing his flawless posture. “Not much, though I daresay we are all paying a little more attention now after the Aid Society plot. How did you come to ferret out Lord Carver’s true identity at last?”

“I had personally commissioned him to oversee certain matters, and closer association with him eventually allowed me to see him for who he really was. I am surprised Lady Hightower didn’t figure it out first. She saw him on a number of occasions, as well.”

Davon and Arianne sat on the stump side by side talking now. The Queen could only imagine how Davon hated himself. Self-doubt and self-reproach were a strong part of his nature, a part the Queen needed tamed. Arianne was her only hope to help fortify him with a little confidence. Exposing Baron Carver brought her no pleasure, but she needed the Lord now, not the clerk, and she needed one with a little iron. Maybe his wounds were too deep.

“Yes,” the Duke continued, “that is right. I had almost forgotten that the brute killed Lord Cornton. How Lady Hightower must hate him.”

The Queen faced more fully away from the Duke, unable to conceal a grin. “I am sure she has strong feelings for Lord Carver.”

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed. “And on the subject of Lady Hightower, I know she is your particular friend, so I wondered if I might speak with you on a matter of some delicacy.”

And here it comes. “But of course, Duke. You may speak freely.” It appeared that Lord Carver had just figured out that Arianne had purchased his old horse from his very angry ex-wife.

“My son, Uticus, as I am sure you are aware, is very much interested in the hand of the Lady Hightower. It is a good match, don’t you agree?”

Davon had engulfed Arianne in a close embrace. Most unexpected! Arianne didn’t appear to mind at all. The Queen wanted to shout for joy, but kept herself calm.

“In terms of politics, certainly, Duke Longford. Two large estates, two families of renown. As for a match of hearts, I really couldn’t say. They are both pleasant enough young people.”

“They are hardly young anymore, my Queen,” the Duke disagreed. “Is she not twenty and six?”

The two separated and were talking again. The Queen turned briefly back toward Duke Longford. “I will hardly out a lady’s age to anyone, Duke Longford. They are certainly young to me.”

“Of course. To the point, then. My son sent a notice that he would announce their betrothal at the Day of Burning Ball.”

“He did.”

“And you are aware that Lady Hightower expressly ordered him not to announce it?”

The Queen peered through the window again. Arianne leaned against Davon as they sat on the stump together. Marvelous.

“I hope your son explained to you that the proposal was never properly given and certainly never properly answered.”

The Duke appeared taken aback, eyes narrowing. “I had not understood that. Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. The Lady Hightower explained all the particulars to me. Her refusal to honor the announcement angered her parents, as well, but she is perfectly within her rights and is a woman who does not tolerate presumption. Your son got a bit carried away with his own notoriety, I fear, and assumed that Lady Hightower would be just as impressed as the rest of the ladies at court who fawned over him so diligently at the ball. I was afraid your son might drown in the adoration.”

“I will inquire of him more closely as to the particulars,” the Duke assured her, “but Uticus fears that Arianne is angry with him and he is eager to make amends. I might ask if you would speak with Lady Hightower and lend some encouragement to my son’s cause? His desire for her hand is genuine and motivated by a sincere affection and regard.”

Arianne’s hands were occupied with Lord Carver’s for the moment. She was pleading earnestly with him about something. “I will speak with her about her hand and what she intends to do with it,” the Queen answered vaguely. “I am determined, however, to leave matters of the heart to her. She is a dear friend and I don’t wish her to marry against her feelings.”

The Duke stood. “I understand, Your Grace, and thank you for your consideration of the matter. I hope to speak with you again soon about my concerns regarding Creetis. The House of Lords is getting nervous about your apparent lack of progress on that front.”

The Queen turned fully toward him now and suppressed a snort. Progress? Creetis’s bogus accusations of massacre were not the real danger. “Let them know I have things firmly in hand, Duke Longford.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Good morning.”

He left and the Queen returned to her window, hoping she hadn’t missed much. The horse had been let stand to eat the grass while Davon and Arianne walked together in the garden, she having secured one of his arms.

What would Duke Longford say if he saw this?

Realizing that there would likely be little left of interest to watch, she supposed it time to fetch the Lord High Sheriff and put Davon to work. The ledgers had revealed a few secrets, and some of those secrets involved powerful people, including the one that had just left the room. Creetis slowly and cleverly moved some scheme forward, but the Queen suspected they had a little help from some disgruntled Bittermarchians. The safety of the Kingdom was not as secure as she had thought, and if she guessed right, she could completely trust but few. Lord Carver was one.

She took one last glance out the window. Arianne stumbled slightly, forcing Lord Carver to put his arm around her waist to steady her until she could recover enough to continue. An old, old trick, Filippa smiled. Arianne, at long last, played the game. Filippa had feared the Lady had forgotten how, but apparently she had just required the proper motivation.

Wrapping a shawl about her shoulders and fetching the clever walking stick, she gathered her guards about her and sent a messenger to fetch the Lord High Sheriff. She walked as quickly as she could. Lord Carver needed to understand the terms of his imprisonment in the Queen’s dungeon, and he needed to know that his road would send him into danger. While she doubted he would shrink from the task, she wanted to give him the choice just the same. He also needed to understand what would soon befall Lady Hightower if the matter didn’t find a quick resolution.

The teeming garden steered her mind toward the more pleasant matter of Davon and Arianne, and when she found them walking near a wall of flowering, purple lilacs, Lord Carver’s expression was sober, Arianne’s doting.

One more expression to change. The more difficult of the two.

Davon and Arianne walked toward Filippa and she stopped to wait for them. Lord Carver appeared to want to separate himself from the Lady’s arm, but Arianne hung on too fiercely. They stopped and greeted her.

“Thank you both for coming,” the Queen said after they had bowed. “The Lord High Sheriff will meet us here shortly, but I need a private word with Lord Carver, Arianne, if you can spare him.”

“For a while, Your Grace,” she acquiesced, releasing him. The Queen led him away, signaling her guard to remain behind with Arianne. These matters were for as few ears as possible.

She waited until they were far along the hedge lined path before speaking. “Seeing the two of you this morning among the flowers makes me feel my age most keenly, Lord Carver. It seems ages ago now that I walked these same paths with King Ostris. Better days, those. He and I had the rare gift of loving one another despite the forced arrangement of our marriage. I have always wanted my friend Lady Hightower to enjoy the same gift.”

“She deserves it,” Lord Carver agreed, eyes distant.

“Indeed she does. How do you find the Lady now that you’ve spent some time with her?” the Queen probed.

“A most excellent and beautiful woman,” he answered tersely and a little too disconnectedly for the Queen’s liking.

“I think so, too. She seems fond of you.” The Queen glanced up, finding his face looking sick. Not what she had hoped. “Does this trouble you, Lord Carver?”

“She does not seem to understand what associating with me will do to her reputation. I killed her husband. I faked my own death to escape my marriage. I am stripped of my lands and my honor. She should run from me, not befriend me. Perhaps you can explain this to her in a way she will understand. I have failed to impress upon her the weight of the situation.”

The Queen chanced a look back, finding Lady Hightower watching them intently. “She won’t run from you, Lord Carver, so I suggest you accept her friendship. I know the Lady, and she can be stubborn in these matters. But since you invoked the sentence I laid upon you for your crimes, let us turn to it now. Your lands I took as punishment, your honor as a protection for you and for a lord or two that would demand a duel with you, leaving them both dead, most likely. These may be returned to you.

“The Queen’s dungeon is not quite what you expected, I am sure. It is a place for those who have done wrong but who are simply too useful to lock away. The terms of my dungeon are these: serve me and you can spend your days in the sunshine. Choose against me, and you can go to the more traditional dungeon and enjoy poor accommodations and the company of rats. I tailor the terms of release to each of my inmates. Yours are these: you will win back your freedom, your honor, and your estate when you agree to marry Lady Arianne Hightower.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, disbelief hindering words. “With all due respect, Your Grace, how could ask your friend to do such a thing? Do you not value her good standing in society? Have you informed her of your terms?”

“I have not, Lord Carver,” she returned firmly, “and you are not to speak to her of this. You’ve already won her good opinion. Winning her love should not prove too difficult. Or do you find her repulsive?”

“Of course not!” he said. “But that is hardly the point. I am an outlaw, and she is a Viscountess!”

Brace yourself, Lord Carver. “I’m afraid that brings us to a more serious matter and the first task I shall lay upon you. If you do not succeed in what I commission you to do, the Lady Hightower will be more of an outlaw than you.”

“What?” he exclaimed.

At last some real passion was rising from the man. He was trembling. The Queen took his arm and dragged him forward, farther from Arianne. “Do keep your voice down, Lord Carver. What I am about to relate you must keep from the Lady at all costs. I wish to spare her the pain of this as long as possible. It took little time to comb through the private ledgers you recovered. The missing funds from Hightower were being funneled to someone in Longford under the guise of several fake businesses.”

“How do you know they were fake?” he asked, eyes intense. “And even so, Lady Hightower is innocent in these matters!”

“We managed to capture her steward and her clerk,” the Queen answered. “Very conveniently, I might add, delivered quite literally to our doorstep. They informed us of the false nature of the entries and asserted that the Lord and Lady of Hightower were both complicit in sending the funds to Longford. They claim that the Lady Hightower threatened to frame them for robbing her estate and they fled.”

“Lies!” A livid fire sparked in his eyes, arm tensing under her grip. He liked the Lady Hightower more than he let on.

“Yes, yes, of course. The problem is that the two wish to press charges against the Lady, who, they say, sent assassins after them. Their attorneys are quite persistent, but the Lord High Sheriff has agreed to stall for as long as he can. I’m afraid the evidence is against Arianne. No one will believe that she was ignorant of the loss of so much of her estate’s wealth. If this goes to trial, she will be in that dungeon with the rats, possibly worse. She might be executed, Lord Carver. There is more.”

“Say on,” he said, voice barely controlled.

“The Aid Society plot you uncovered. The Boot and Wheel Caravan Company was not just mishandling the funds. From what the sheriff has been able to gather from a few of the suppliers and warehouse hands, the funds were used to ship weapons and horses to various places in the north in worrisome quantities, though there is no hard evidence as yet to prove it. I think the accounting irregularities in Hightower are related. The Aid Society contributions alone would not be enough to buy weapons in the quantities the warehouse hands described to us. I suspect Hightower funds, perhaps added to others, were used to outfit an army yet unseen.”

He nodded, his eyes flint and his face resolute. Good. I knew he would be the one.

“Have you confronted Lord Longford?” he asked.

“I have no evidence to implicate him in anything,” the Queen answered. “The ledgers only record the money going to the town of Longford, not the final recipient or the use. I have a hard time believing him ignorant of thousands of pounds pouring into his demesne, but if it comes to trial, he’ll have nothing with which to worry himself. If I give him advance warning now, I’m sure the evidence I need will vanish. The clerk and the steward from Hightower claim they have no knowledge of what the funds were for and simply delivered them to a man they knew only as Justus Paige. I need your help.”

Davon looked back in Arianne’s direction. “Anything, Your Grace. I will not allow these scoundrels to sully the Lady in this fashion. Not on my life!”

The Queen smiled. She knew his feelings now, probably better than he himself did. He loved Arianne Hightower, whether he would admit it or not.

The Queen patted his arm. “Good man. The Lord High Sheriff wishes to capture Justus Paige as well, but as a favor to me has delayed his own orders to his counterparts in Longford. You will arrive first. I will have you work with two other men who are also serving time in my little dungeon. They are Sir Charles Goodwin and Mr. Landon Killcreek. I sent word ahead to Longford two days ago. They will expect you at the Brawny Maid Tavern. Ask the barkeep for the Queen’s Bull Ale and you will be led to them. Do you understand?”

His eyes rested on Arianne. “I will depart immediately.”

“You need to be properly supplied first. I see you have a horse. The Lord High Sheriff will provide you with any weapons, food, or money that you need. Now, Davon, we must return to Arianne and convince her all is well. I’ll give you a few moments to offer your goodbyes to the Lady. You keep your mouth closed about falsified ledgers and nefarious plots. Remember, marry her and everything will be returned to you.”

He declined to comment further about her offer. Stubborn man! For the moment it didn’t matter. Keeping Arianne from stepping foot in the dungeon or ending up in the drowning cage was Davon’s mission now, and by the look on his face he itched to shoot off to Longford like a bullet in her defense. Filippa led him back toward a curious Arianne, and the Queen smiled to throw her off, fearing Davon’s fiery intensity might reveal that something was at stake that concerned her.

“Lady Hightower,” Filippa said, noting the Lord High Sheriff striding up. “Davon will escort you back to your apartments in the palace where I will come to speak with you shortly. Davon, if you will see the Lord High Sheriff when you are finished. Do not try to pry, Arianne. Lord Carver must prosecute an errand of the utmost importance and secrecy and he is not to speak of it.”

Arianne inclined her head. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Chapter 25

Arianne was no fool. She kept a good eye on Filippa and Davon as they conversed, and Baron Carver had reacted strongly to whatever the Queen had to say, his incensed emotion visible from a distance. As she and Baron Carver left the Queen and the sheriff behind, he strode forward energetically, jaw set and eyes distant, as if looking ahead to somewhere he had to go.

He led Ceril by the reins with his right hand, and she had commandeered his left, much to the surprise of one Lord High Sheriff. Everyone, she realized, thought she hated Davon. It gave her a perverse pleasure to disappoint their assumptions.

“Could you walk a little more slowly for a Lady?” she asked.

He returned his focus to her and his face softened. “I am sorry, Lady Hightower. I am a bit preoccupied. I must away as soon as possible. There isn’t a moment to lose!”

“You will keep your promise to me won’t you, Lord Carver?”

He stopped and released Ceril’s reins, taking her hands in his. “At the first opportunity, I swear it. But now, I must fly. I thank you, Lady Hightower, for your kindness. Please keep safe and give my best to Saunders and your sister.”

Her heart pounded. Something about the worry and determination in Davon’s voice bespoke dangers ahead. He had already been through so much. Gently she pushed forward and wrapped her arms around him and he wrapped her in his.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Davon,” she said. “Come to me at Hightower.” She felt those unbidden tears rising again and she released him, turning away and fleeing inside before she could see his sympathetic face and say more than she intended.

Arianne returned to her apartments, heart brimming with feeling. Her life had rolled along on such a steady track since her husband’s death. Her contentment had continued unabated until the Earl of Longford had pressed his attentions upon her, forcing her to worry about losing her independence. Uticus was handsome, affable, and a gentleman from a powerful family, but all of his charms had failed to persuade her to surrender her unmarried state. Now that Davon Carver had entered her life, her satisfaction in her own independence seemed a feather in turbulent wind of emotion.

Such ridiculous romantic feelings! Often she had internally chastised some of her peers for their irrational flights of fancy as they swooned and simpered over this man or that, proclaiming undying devotions that always met swift demises when the next handsome pair of trousers waltzed into the room.

But now here she was, flushed with hope and desire. It was as if someone had rung a great bell in her heart, waking her and announcing that, indeed, love was not a fluke, an imaginative delusion, or a just a label given to make a good match appear to better advantage.

Love was within her grasp.

She wanted to control it, stifle it. She wanted to be the master of her feelings. But Davon Carver had brought water into the dried garden of her affections, and everything was blooming and bursting over walls and fences, bounding out of beds and gardens with such startling fecundity that the restrictive gardener within her could only look on helplessly.

Surely it wasn’t prudent to love someone so early into an acquaintance. Was she deluding herself? Had she turned into one of the silly ladies of which the Bittermarchian court had no short supply? And what would everyone think of a woman who loved the man who had killed her husband?

In the midst of these reflections, the Queen sent a servant to fetch her into the drawing room where they often met. Arianne tried to collect herself. She wanted to be in control when she met the Queen, but as soon as she crossed the threshold of the drawing room, Filippa threw her a particularly knowing grin that prompted a giddy smile in return.

“Good morning, my Queen,” Arianne said, genuflecting with stiff formality. If she couldn’t stifle the sunshine in her heart, she could at least try to cloud it over on her face.

“Good morning to you, dear. Please sit.” The Queen waved everyone else out of the room while Arianne situated herself on her customary chair. “Before we get to more pleasant matters,” the Queen said, “I have been asked by Duke Longford to put in a good word to you on behalf of Uticus Longford, who cannot help but be distressed by your apparent coldness to him of late. I don’t quite have the heart to tell the Duke or his son that if things seem cold, it is because the fire has moved off to warm someone else.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Arianne replied evasively.

The Queen laughed. “I see. Well, listen for a bit then. I don’t doubt that at some point during our conversations you may have come to understand that I regard Lord Davon Carver a vast deal. Though perhaps not so much the case now, I am sure that at one time you might have wondered what it is about him that I admire so. I wish to explain it to you, if you wouldn’t mind, because I think it important that you understand. Will you hear me?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Arianne answered, surprised by the serious tone.

“I have lived longer than I should—as the House of Lords would no doubt agree. I have read much and seen much. Have you ever wondered why there is such a thing as a ‘noble’ class and a ‘common’ class?

“In our history, noble families evolved—and quickly—based on those who married into Joris Pulsipher’s line. People naturally admired him for his connection to the Eternal Flame, and those who intertwined their lives with his and those of his family partook of that admiration by association. But that was not all. The early days after exile from Creetis were hard and dangerous, and there were those who rose up, who led and protected their fellow refugees. They possessed elevated qualities people could sense and feel, so much so that they placed their trust upon them, and with that trust came privilege.

“With privilege, unfortunately, follows indolence, vanity, and pride. The prosperity the nobility enjoys has, I am afraid, nearly bred out them those remarkable qualities that once made men and women noble by nature. So much of what we think of as ‘noble’ now is practiced affectation and pretense. But our Lord Carver is a noble man, not just a nobleman. There are others, to be sure, but I find Davon remarkable in so many ways. He takes no pleasure in power, has no improper pride, is temperate, treats those beneath his station with respect, eschews intrigues and courtly foolishness, and is manly and strong.

“If our ancestors who struggled through that dark winter in the mountains and who fought and scrapped and suffered to survive could see us now, I think they would be disgusted with the lot of us and would only find a kindred Bittermarchian in Davon and those like him. What do you think, dear Arianne? Do I see clearly or am I just an old blind woman rambling on about nonsense?”

“I agree with your assessment of Davon, Your Grace,” she answered, wondering what the Queen’s point would be, “but surely this disease of pretended nobility is not as widespread as it may seem.”

“Perhaps not,” the Queen answered, “but don’t forget my gift and what I see when I look at the men and women assembled in my hall. But you are wondering why I tell you this.”

“Yes.”

“For all Davon’s good qualities,” the Queen said, “he has a flaw I should desperately like him to overcome, and I need your help in the matter.”

“I would be glad to help where I can, though I am unsure I have much influence over him.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” the Queen chided, “especially where Davon is concerned. He cares for you a great deal, this I can see.”

No amount of concentration could thwart the blush reddening her cheeks, the flow of happiness into her soul. She had not mistaken his regard for her.

Arianne cleared her throat. “What flaw do you see that you wish to correct?”

“That he does not feel like he belongs in our circle, the circle of court and politics. He avoids them out of a sense of disgust and sometimes, I think, a belief in his own inferiority. With you at his side, and with a little guidance, I think he might at least tolerate a session at the House of Lords or perhaps even talk to his fellow nobles at an assembly.”

Arianne thought for a moment. “So your punishment will be of short duration?”

The Queen smiled. “I hope so, for your sake and mine.”

“And why should you care that he participate more at court?”

The Queen sighed and leaned back, turning her gaze out the window as she spoke. “I want him to lead, Arianne. The court is in desperate need of the voice of one so steady and so uninfected with stupid frippery! For now, Lord Carver is content to stand in corners and send ballots through the post. I want his words, his wisdom, and his example to be known to more than just you or me or his tenants at Frostbourne! You know him quite well by now. Am I delusional?”

Davon was unique, Arianne had to admit. But what the Queen was asking would be difficult. “He is a quiet, gentle man, but one of passion, as well. To turn him into a public man, yes, could take time. I’m not sure I am equal to the task. I fear that until he is able to escape your disfavor, I may see him very little.”

“It is not disfavor, dear Arianne,” the Queen said. “It is merely a way to transition the man back into society in a way they can understand. I have work for him to do, but I promise you that I will have him back enjoying your warm smile as soon as I can.”

Again her heart pounded, and no amount of control could staunch the glow she could feel beaming from her face. “I thank you, Your Grace. I miss him already.”

“As do I. Be patient some few weeks, my girl. Now, I do have a request—no, an order—to give you. You won’t like it.”

Arianne frowned. “What is it?”

“I need you out of Bellshire, immediately. It is for your protection. For the sake of appearances, I need you to accompany Miss Ironhorn back to Frostbourne and help her collect her things. She is to return to her parents’ estate.”

Arianne fought to keep her composure. “Accompany that beastly tart of a woman? For days? I would rather take my chances in Hightower.”

The Queen’s face hardened. Arianne knew the look. Filippa the friend had disappeared; Filippa the monarch had taken her place. “You will do this, Arianne. You may not thank me for it now, but it cannot be helped. I need you far from Bellshire. This instant. It will appear to everyone that two women wronged by one Baron Carver are taking solace together. While you may find such dissembling distasteful, you will just have to trust me when I say it is absolutely necessary.”

Was she really in so much danger? She’d rather take the journey with a sabercat. “As you wish, my Queen.”

“Good,” Filippa said, her softness returning. “It may be nigh on intolerable, but you may just learn a thing or two about Davon that might temper your regard for him. I’m sure Emile will introduce you to another side of Davon Carver you do not know.”

Arianne folded her arms. There was only one side of Davon she did not know: the side that had decided to marry Emile Ironhorn.

Chapter 26

The rabbit lasted surprisingly long. Its soft and now still innards glowed wetly in the lantern light, streaks of red staining its brown fur and joining darker red streaks where blood had flowed from the top of the rough stone slab down to the cave floor. Heavy odors of rot and decay hung motionless in the rough subterranean chamber shot through with cracks and slick with seeping water. Pale tendrils of roots dangled lifelessly from the ceiling, water droplets clinging to their tips before losing their grip and falling into glassy, dark pools in the pockmarked floor.

Years ago, the Voice had led him to the crack in the rocky hill near Tenwheel Creek not far from his modest manor. Thickly leaved vines and a nearly impenetrable tangle of debris washed down during a flood had completely obscured the wide but low fissure. It took two days of work to clear enough of it away to allow entry, and then another day to cleverly conjure a way to conceal it again so anyone chancing by would continue on their way.

The low crack required him to stoop when coming and going, and rendered it difficult to pull game animals of any size into its depths. Once past the opening, the crack shifted and grew tall and narrow, slanting slightly but unevenly downward. Walls slick with water and slippery fungus always befouled his clothing. His increasingly frequent visits had cleared the floor of most of its slippery carpet, but he still watched his footing carefully. The chamber in which he now worked waited beyond a larger one filled with a wide, knee-deep pool. A school of pale fish the length of his forearm glided through the water, dark eyes stunned by the lantern light when he crossed in an out. The fish retreated to cracks and unseen reservoirs, his echoing splashes startling them whenever he tread through the basin on his way to snuff out the life of another victim on top of the slab.

The water in the walls, the pools, the drips, and the basin itself spoke to him. The Voice in him brought him as a guest into its dark, lonely home. This evidence of his progress pleased him during his first visit, but the Voice banned him from returning to the dark tunnels until he could crush the emotion of pride and enter stoically, devoid of self-aggrandizement or ambition. He succeeded in time. Learning to view the unimportance of everything in the world around him took years of grinding work and now formed part of his very nature. Quashing feelings of his own importance took little time by comparison.

He traveled a great deal during the summers, so when he returned during the fall months, he killed regularly and casually, always careful to avoid detection. His offerings to the Voice he brought to the bowels of the cave, killing them there. The small animals, like the now motionless rabbit, were easily transported in a sack. His larger prey—a dog, a pig, or an itinerant worker—he had to bludgeon into submission before he could pull them through the tight passageways. The pale fish licked up his victims’ blood as he pulled them through the pool, the same way they licked his blood when he first passed through the waters, barefoot at the Voice’s behest.

The fish had teeth. On that first visit into what he viewed as an underground temple, he had doffed his boots and slipped his legs into the water. In panic he had nearly dropped the lantern when the fish darted toward him. When they had nibbled on the flesh of his legs, terror gripped him and he turned to escape, only to be forbidden by the Voice. He had endured their feasting, the fish darting in and snipping away bit after bit of his skin, blood oozing into the water to be inhaled by the hungry creatures.

When he could endure no more, when the crimson in the water seemed more than the fish could ingest, he had cried out in agony and the fish retreated into their holes. Wincing, he had pulled himself out onto the bank, angling the lantern to inspect his wounds only to find a ring of curious scars around both his ankles, patterned into what looked like a primitive language. Nothing bled, and the pain faded quickly.

The Voice had marked him that day. He belonged to it now. He was its servant, its priest. These thoughts of exultation earned him his first expulsion from the sacred chambers, and it took a winter of sacrifice until he was ready to return. But when he did, he earned a greater gift. That gift would protect him and one day propel him forward into the chamber of the Eternal Flame. And there, as a vessel of truth, he would turn the eternal into the ephemeral, and the Voice would have its victory.

Carefully, he untied the rabbit’s paws. He had driven four spikes into the altar rock just for the purpose of immobilizing the smaller offerings. Larger animals and men required larger stakes pounded into the ground and heavier ropes for restraint. He had learned much from his vivisections about what creatures of many varieties could endure before succumbing to death. Any fool knew where to shoot a deer to free its life from its body; few knew how to remove tiny bits here and clamp this and cauterize that to keep it alive as a grotesque version of its former self. The Voice had begun to disapprove of his experiments, seeing his budding arrogance at his skill, and he had to make more offerings and lock away more inappropriate feelings.

Now that spring had come and his work with the Aid Society plot had arrived prematurely to its conclusion, the Voice had set the stage for his final act. He would, of a rarity, spend his summer at home until the call came for him to travel to Bellshire. The longer he tarried, however, the more bothersome his wife, the Baroness, became. She had acquired another bird. She pampered it and fawned over it and treated it with such bizarre condescension that he could scarcely stand it. His years of training had not rubbed off on her in the least. The oddest of things endeared themselves to her, like the drapes in her drawing room, the painting of her great uncle, or even the silverware.

All foolishness and idiocy. If she prized the drapes so dearly, would she be shocked when he destroyed them? He had desperately wanted to kill the bird since she first purchased it, but wouldn’t do it until he was sure he could strangle the life out of it and not feel any satisfaction doing so. Kill it he would, though, and its fawning mistress, too. He would do it with a blank heart and a blank eye. He would walk away from his riches and his land without a glance back or a stitch of sadness his heart. All was vanity. All was purposeless. All was here now and then forgotten in the long march of years. In the end, only the wind, water, and earth remained to claim all, all three impervious and independent. Life and fire were but upstart encumbrances to the world, dependent upon the more stable forces. Like parasites, fire and life must have an end.

He would end them.

Chapter 27

Longford.

Davon pulled back on the reins, bringing a laboring Ceril to a halt at the top of a ridge overlooking the prosperous town and the estates it supported. The mid-day sun and summer haze obscured the most distant villages across the plains beneath him. If judged by size and prosperity, Longford was no longer a town, but a city. Like Bellshire, Longford had an old city encompassed by a new one. Longford Castle, home of the Duke of Longford and his son, Uticus Longford, was built from limestone chiseled from the cliffs just below where Davon had stopped. The edifice shone in the sun like a beacon to travelers.

Many of outlying manors on the plain and along a lazy river boasted the same white stone, but some of the newer houses outshone their predecessors by virtue of crushed quartz mixed into their exterior plaster. A sparkling sheen played off the walls in the brilliant light of midday, always teasing his eye to take a look. By all accounts, Longford was a fine city, and one Emile had missed greatly upon her taking residence in Frostbourne—the holdings of the Ironhorn family lay within the Longford’s duchy.

The burgeoning sprawl of growth had forced the citizens to expand the pike walls that served as a deterrent against the migration of bison and mammoth. The walls extended an impossible distance along the city’s edge, but besides these defenses, Longford had no city wall or even towers besides those on the castle itself. Trees and parks graced the old town, while buildings choked out the greenery at the outer edges. Beyond the breaks to the east, stands of trees too small to be called woods or forests dotted a rolling plain blanketed in fields and orchards glowing with the green of new growth. To the west, the Ursaline forest, dense and nearly impenetrable, forbade the city grow in that direction.

Davon’s hurried journey to Longford had taken him through Hightower, Sharpton, and Hackwind, the road running along the western edge of the Ice Fire Mountains before turning west and into the Duchy of Longford. Now that he had arrived, Davon prodded Ceril forward at an easy pace, forcing himself to consider the needs of the exhausted horse, which he had driven mercilessly. His heart wanted to race into Longford and to find Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Killcreek as soon as possible. Arianne may have already suffered arrest and imprisonment, and greedy relatives would no doubt line up to see Hightower stripped from her control as soon as possible.

That anyone could devise a scheme to harm such a treasure of a woman defeated his understanding. She was so kind. So forgiving. So generous. Only a truly callous and depraved soul could perpetrate such a fraud upon a woman such as Lady Hightower. And if Davon found that soul, he would pay. Before leaving Bellshire, he had half a mind to find where the sheriff had hidden her former steward and clerk, tie them both to Ceril, and drag them through a field of stinging nettle until they gave up their scheme and its conspirators.

As it was, Justus Paige—whoever the scoundrel was— would bear the brunt of his ire, if indeed the man could be found. If the mysterious go-between had heard anything of the ledgers and the ensuing investigation, he might have decided to disappear into another place and find a different identity as Davon himself had done. Perhaps Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Killcreek would already have ascertained his whereabouts, but what then?

The Queen hadn’t specifically instructed him about what to do with the criminal, once found. His job, as far as he understood it, consisted of gathering evidence, though surely the sheriff’s men would be better suited for such a task. His personal assignment from the Queen gave him authority, but none that anyone would recognize.

The well maintained road descended smoothly down a wooded ridge, crossing a small river that had swollen in the early summer heat. Travelers on the road increased as he pushed past several large manor houses swarmed over by servants manicuring lawns and caring for animals. The buildings and the spaces between them shrank the farther he pressed into the city, the bustling streets filled with men and women from all classes and professions. He began his inquiries into the location of the Brawny Maid Tavern and found it on the other side of the city in the newer growth near the edge.

Unlike nearby buildings, the Brawny Maid sprawled outward rather than upward. Davon smirked. Perhaps its owners had realized that stairs and hard liquor made for poor companions. The edifice had a rough-hewn feel, constructed of unsanded, thick timbers and wide planks that could endure the tempers of both nature and its patrons. By the noise and the patronage lingering outside, it was clearly not a place for gentlemen. Reminding himself that he was not a proper gentleman at present, he lashed Ceril to a post outside and opened the door into a raucous world of loud laughter, pipe smoke, and drunken brooding.

No one paid him any mind, his worn travel clothes not distinguishing him from the rabble in the least. The woman behind the bar fulfilled the tavern’s namesake. Stoutly built with arms that could crush an ox, the proprietor regarded him with a practiced eye as she collected empty mugs. Her wild, curly red hair she tamed with a bonnet, and her dingy, frayed dress bespoke a lack of personal pride when it came to fashion. Davon dared any man to comment on it. He sat on a stool at the bar, remembering the Queen’s instructions. The barmaid spoke first.

“A man with a purpose and a bit of strength in his stride. New to the Brawny Maid, unless I am mistaken,” she said in a sweet, high pitched voice reminiscent of a young girl’s. The disparity between the sound and the source prompted a grin which her meaty fists kept in check.

“I’ve just come for a bit of the Queen’s Bull Ale, if you please…Miss?”

“So sure that it’s Miss are you, and not Missus? Think I ain’t got a man to call me own?”

“When in doubt, it is the custom to call a woman Miss,” he said defensively. “In society it is apparently more of an insult to be considered married than not. I congratulate you and your husband on your love and humbly repeat my request for the Queen’s Bull Ale.”

She winked at him. “I’m not married. I’ve been saving meself for a man who’s sturdy enough so that I won’t break him. You’re as fine and strong a man as I’ve seen at my humble tavern in a year. You think you could survive a night with the Brawny Maid, do ya?”

Davon swallowed. “I think that would greatly depend on what we were doing.”

She leaned forward, yellow teeth revealed in full glory as her lips pulled back to deliver a sultry grin. “Well, I don’t mean chopping wood, love. Where does your imagination take you?”

Davon cleared his throat. “It is that purpose that you so readily noticed in my stride earlier that takes me here and keeps my imagination from going anywhere else. So if you wouldn’t mind, the Queen’s Bull Ale, please.”

She pursed her lips in a mocking pout. “Don’t be such a bore! Most of the prisoners my aunt sends along are much more fun. So what did you do, Mr. Purpose?”

“So sure that it’s Mister and not Sir?” he shot back, earning him a wink and apparently a drink as she filled a mug from a barrel. Her aunt? Was this woman implying that she was the Queen’s niece? He didn’t have the courage to ask for confirmation at the moment, but as she approached with his drink, he tried and failed to see any family resemblance.

“Here you are, Lord Carver,” she said with a smile. “Been expectin’ ya since yesterday. If you cross the room, you’ll see an older gentleman there nursing his ale by the window all alone. Mr. Goodwin is his name. A bit of a grumpy codger, that one, so don’t expect a warm welcome. Oh, and call me Mary, love.”

“Thank you, Mary, and good day,” he said. “How much?”

“Queen’s Bull Ale is free.”

He approached the table Mary had indicated, finding the sole occupant gazing lazily out the window. His old, pale face was pinched and narrow, dark eyes penetrating. A hedge of gray hair encircled the back of his bald head, meeting with woolly sideburns that dropped nearly to his mouth. The dour cast of his expression and the skeletal, emaciated form bespoke disappointed expectations turned to bitterness. An older man, he wore all black save an expensive white shirt, and his tailored black coat and waistcoat with golden buttons evidenced some wealth.

Before Davon could introduce himself, the man spoke without moving his gaze from the window, his refined accent and easy speech coming languorously from thin lips. “You really are a fool for leaving a fine beast like that unsecured in front of a place like this, Lord Carver. I might steal him myself, but if you arrived today then you must have whipped the poor horse something fierce. I’d probably get farther riding Mary over there, but then she might enjoy it, and even a wretch like me has some scruples as to his mode of transportation.”

Davon sat down, noticing that Mr. Goodwin had not touched his ale. “So you are aware of why I am here and of my urgency?”

“In part,” Mr. Goodwin said, finally turning his gaze upon the man across from him, folding his hands together. “I know you seek Justus Paige, but I am not aware why you wish an audience with that pompous cretin. But I must inquire, Lord Carver, are you not dead? Weren’t you a doormat for a herd of bison? Last I heard, several hundred of them had politely wiped their hooves on your innards so as not to muddy the plain north of Tahbor. A cover for your induction into the Queen’s dungeon? Faking your own death?”

“The latter leading to the former, though it is a private matter, so I would ask you not to inquire further,” Davon answered, feeling uncomfortable.

Mr. Goodwin snorted. “Private matter! You are a fool, Lord Carver, bless your soul. No need to stand on privacy here. I’ve had relationships with women so cold and nagging that I’ve wished for many kinds of deaths, and none of the fake variety. I’ve certainly returned the favor in the other direction, too. Your solution was, I might say, quite brilliant, though overly friendly to the hag you were escaping from.”

Davon gritted his teeth. “And how do you know so much, Mr. Goodwin?”

“Boredom. The mother of invention, dissolution, and idle gossip.”

Davon raised his mug and took a drink, gagging immediately as the vile, acidic liquid scraped down his throat like the claws of a dire wolf. He tried to hide his discomfort from Mr. Goodwin, who regarded him with a sympathetic shake of his head.

“I’m afraid that Mary has yet to learn the difference between the chamber pots and the ale barrels.” He removed a flask from his coat. “This will clear out the taste. In the future, don’t ingest anything from this place unless if comes from a bottle, and only if you are relatively sure the bottle is yet unopened.”

Hastily, Davon downed the proffered spirits, the fiery liquid burning away the foul taste of the ale. He wiped his mouth and returned the flask.

“So you know this Justus Paige then?” Davon asked.

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Goodwin said as he stowed his flask back in an inner coat pocket. “He’s a dirty little man who has built a life on fulfilling the illicit desires of those of wealth and consequence. He is, by necessity, good at keeping secrets. A slip of the tongue and he’ll lose his clientele and likely his life. So, what are we to do to this man, Davon? Since we are called upon to deal with him directly rather than hand him over to our not-so-trusty local sheriff, I assume we are to kill him? Get information?”

Kill him? Davon wondered about the type of men he was to work with. “We are to get information from him pertinent to an investigation of Lady Arianne Hightower’s estate.”

Davon rehearsed the history of the situation while Mr. Goodwin absorbed the information with his cold, dark eyes.

“Ah, it makes much more sense now,” Mr. Goodwin said, leaning back. “The Lady Hightower is a special friend of the Queen. Let’s see. The Lady Hightower lost her husband because…you shot him! That’s right. Yes. Yes! Quite poetic then that you should do this for the Lady, eh? Does she not despise you?”

Reflexively, Davon reached for the mug before memory warned him off. “That is hardly your concern.”

He grinned. “Well, it’s clear you don’t despise her. I doubt any man would. The last I heard, the good Earl of this very town had his aim set upon that Lady and her beautiful estate at Hightower.”

“You feel his affections disingenuous?”

Mr. Goodwin scrunched his eyebrows. “Disingenuous? My goodness, how naive you are! A beautiful woman of large fortune? I daresay his affections are very sincere.”

“I mean that you don’t think he loves her.”

Mr. Goodwin laughed, an oddly sonorous sound from one so thin. “Oh, dear. Love. You see, Lord Carver, before I can answer that question I would need some coherent definition of that feeling. I’ve seen men beat their wives, throw fortunes and caution to the wind, do absolutely nothing and then absolutely everything, all for something they call love.

“When you blasted Lord Cornton into the grave for insulting Miss Emile Ironhorn, was that out of love? When your father, Asper Carver, married a farmer’s daughter with no dowry rather than seeking a more profitable alliance with a nobleman’s daughter, was that love? He certainly thought so, but I think perhaps those blonde locks of your mother’s were just as enchanting to him as Miss Ironhorn’s ones of copper were to you. Given these two examples, it seems love is a bit of a disaster. Perhaps if your father had more of Uticus Longford’s type of affection, you would have scrubbed fewer pots as a youth? Yes?”

Davon’s ire rose and he slammed his hand down on the table. “Who do you think you are, Sir?”

Mr. Goodwin extended his hand pleasantly. “How rude of me. Mister Charles Goodwin, at your service. Now, should we leave this idle speculation about love behind and concentrate on the matter at hand? It seems you were in a dreadful hurry earlier.”

“Yes, let us do that,” Davon replied, biting back his anger and shaking Mr. Goodwin’s hand. “Do you know of Mr. Paige’s whereabouts?”

“Certainly. We had word that he was wanted yesterday when we learned of your imminent arrival. Landon Killcreek has him tied up in a room Mary makes available to us. We can question him at your convenience. Shall we?”

Davon rose. “Of course! At once!”

Mr. Goodwin stood, checking his watch. “Very good. Two warnings. First, I’ve worked with Landon Killcreek before and he is a man who has only used his head to cushion falls. A good enough brute for our purposes, however. Second, as I indicated, Mr. Paige keeps secrets for a living, which means prying them out of him may be a bit difficult. Mary! A bottle of rum!”

“And who will be payin’ for that?” she shot back, face indignant.

“My friend here has just had a drink of your ale, so believe me, he’s paid, Mary dearest.”

A staring contest between Mr. Goodwin and Mary ensued, exhausting Davon’s patience. He pulled out handful of shillings and plopped them down on the table. Keeping her eyes on Mr. Goodwin, Mary reached under the counter and retrieved an opaque green bottle and handed it to Davon. Satisfied, Mr. Goodwin walked away, leading Davon through a kitchen area behind the bar and into storage area at the rear of the building.

Mr. Goodwin pointed to a trapdoor in the floor. “If you wouldn’t mind, Lord Carver, my back would appreciate it if you did the heavy lifting. I’ll hold the rum. Oh, and I’ll call you William. Don’t use your real name or mine or Landon’s. And don’t use your recently exposed fake name, either.”

The long trapdoor led down a steep set of wooden stairs into an ample cellar. Mr. Goodwin descended first, instructing Davon to close the entrance after them. Illumination from a lantern at the far end provided light for their steps. The cellar, deeper than it was wide, was lined with racks of dusty bottles of every hue. Barrels of beer and ale awaited strong backs to carry them upward. The resulting smell of barley and fermenting rot mixed with the mildew clinging to damp stone walls. It took Davon several minutes to accustom himself to the stench, though Mr. Goodwin hardly seemed to notice.

At the far end their quarry awaited. Justus Paige was bound to a chair and gagged. A burly young man in rough boots, leather pants, and a dark brown shirt watched over the prisoner. Landon Killcreek. His full head of bushy hair complimented a round, sanguine face with boyish blue eyes. Like Davon, he was strong and athletically built. The two pistols in his belt, his rough hands, and a rifle leaning nearby proved him a fighting man, despite the youthful innocence of his clean-shaven face.

To Landon’s side, Justus Paige sweat his bonds. Pretentiously expensive and colorful clothing covered a flabby body. The chair on which his ample backside rested squealed in injured protest as its occupant squirmed for the new arrivals. Davon swallowed. This was clearly and literally not above board. He had entered a den of thieves and crooks and wondered if the Queen condoned this sort of underhanded behavior. Wouldn’t the Lord High Sheriff do just as well at extracting information from the man? Justus regarded them both, eyes defiant, but his pasty jowls quivered beneath the gag, belying his attempt at confidence.

A round, four-legged table of rough wood sat near the captive, supporting the lantern. Mr. Goodwin put the bottle of rum on the table and opened the cork with a flick of a paring knife he produced from inside his coat. After a long swig, he returned the bottle to the table and scratched three roughly equidistant lines on its side with his knife. Mr. Goodwin sat in a chair in front of Justus, staring at him for a while with an intense, cold gaze. What had Mr. Goodwin been before he began his service in the Queen’s dungeon? Despite his age and apparent frailty, he could project such a powerful sense of malice that Davon’s skin crawled.

After what seemed an age of staring, Mr. Goodwin began. “Mr. Paige, let us be clear. You are a dingleberry on the dirty backside of society, however finely you dress or richly you eat. That is how I regard you. I care not for your life and am well acquainted with your habits and your business. I will remove your gag in a moment so we can converse. If you scream or make a ruckus, the tree trunk of a man behind you will renovate your smile to give it a bit more ventilation. Understood?”

The man nodded. Landon stepped forward and pulled the gag away from Justus’s mouth while Mr. Goodwin checked his pocket watch. As soon as Justus’s mouth was free, he spoke with a guarded fury.

“And you had best understand, Sir whoever-you-are, that I have friends. Important friends. You let me go now, and I’ll be satisfied with your immediate departure. You detain me further, and you’ll regret it.”

Mr. Goodwin replaced his watch in its pouch. “Please, spare us the threats, Mr. Paige. The only friends you have are ones who are scared of you or want to replace you. I’ve seen funerals for hunting dogs that were better attended and more full of sorrow than yours will be. So answer my questions carefully and you might live long enough to endear yourself to someone sufficiently so that his first thought on hearing of your passing won’t be to plunder your house.”

Davon tried to read the effect Mr. Goodwin’s words had on the wretch before him, but Justus steeled himself, confidence from an unknown source rising in his face. Perhaps now that he was sure that his death was not the only outcome of the meeting, he thought he might be able to bargain or bully his way out of what at first must have appeared a dire situation.

“If you want information, why doesn’t a fine gentlemen like you just pay for it like the rest of them?” Justus wheedled.

“I sincerely doubt there is a price I could afford for this information, Mr. Paige,” Mr. Goodwin continued. “My colleague behind me recently told me what you’ve been up to, and I do believe that the information I seek concerns a scheme that I would wager has made you an inordinately wealthy man. You recently built an inn with its proceeds, a convenient little place you can run your nefarious operations from. But in the quantities you’ve been skimming, I suspect you could build yourself a nice castle on a hill somewhere and stuff it full of every depravity you enjoy until the portcullis burst. Do you know the money of which I am speaking, Mr. Paige?”

The interrogated assumed an indignant air. “All the money I have comes from my legitimate business practices.”

Mr. Goodwin shook his head disappointedly and drank deeply from the bottle of rum. “Let me explain these three lines on the bottle, Mr. Paige. By nature, I am not a kind man in the least, and, as it turns out, I am a meaner drunk. So the more I drink, the worse it gets for you.” He removed his paring knife from his pocket and brandished it. “When I get to this first line, I’ll take away that which is most precious to you, your hoarded wealth. When I arrive at the second, little bits and pieces of you will start falling to the floor. When I get to the third, well, let’s just say that it will take a man of learning to be able to tell exactly what kind of carcass he is dealing with. So let’s begin again. You’ve been receiving large payments and socking away some of the cash for yourself. Who were these payments coming from?”

“You’ve got no proof of anything!” Justus growled.

“Does this look like a court?” Mr. Goodwin returned. “We know you’re guilty. Consider this the sentencing. The more time you waste and the more I drink, the worse the sentence gets.”

Justus strained at his bonds. “I’m not telling you imbeciles anything. My lads are like to burst through that door any second and take your heads off!”

Mr. Goodwin took another drink. “You mean the tall lanky fellow and the stocky, tan one? Those two ‘friends’ of yours abandoned you for one hundred pounds each—of your money, I might add.” He tipped the bottle again.

“My money? It’s safe and sound in the bank. You can’t touch it.”

Mr. Goodwin leaned in close. “Your revenues from the inn are safe and sound in the bank, all for appearances. But you wouldn’t put your earnings from your blackmails and dark favors and embezzling in a bank where someone might charge fees or taxes or ask questions. And you obviously wouldn’t put it someplace easy like your room in the inn. It was very nice, by the way, in a tacky kind of way. No, you wanted it nearby, so not so ingeniously you stuffed it in empty ale barrels in a cellar underneath your inn. Thanks for the new golden watch, by the way. I couldn’t have afforded it without you. That is truly a staggering amount of wealth you have down in that basement of yours. Wonder what will happen to it when your inn catches fire tonight?”

Mr. Goodwin had Justus’s attention now, the low-life’s mouth agape. Clearly, Mr. Goodwin had known of Justus Paige for some time. Davon wondered for how long and for what purpose. Killcreek wore a goofy smile on his face, enjoying the proceedings.

Another drink from the bottle and Mr. Goodwin held it up to the light inspecting the level of the liquid against his three marks. “Whoops! Looks like the money’s gone now. Landon, remind me to kick over a lantern in the stables of Mr. Paige’s inn tonight. A questionable design decision to directly attach the stables to the inn proper. Stable boys are notoriously sloppy and clumsy, and you know how they love a fire! I do hate the screaming of burning horses, but what’s to be done?”

Justus’s face drained of blood. “Now you wait a minute!”

Sir Godwin’s hand slammed down onto the table. “I’ve had just about enough of waiting, Mr. Paige. I’m going to relate to you a little story before I ask my question one more time. I tell you this so that in a few minutes you can understand why it is I seem to be having such a delightful time carving you up like a feast-day goose. Are you familiar with Manchester Street?”

“Of course,” Justus answered nervously, eyes shifty.

“There was a flower girl who worked there up until about three weeks ago. Maybe you remember her. She had hair the color of honey and a smile that could wake up even a heart as old and broken as mine. Sweet tempered, but soft-spoken and diffident. Every morning I would stroll up Manchester and see her there with her white apron, basket of flowers, and blue eyes as bright as the sunshine. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she would say with that modest look of hers. Every day I would ask her for a flower for my lapel and she would say, ‘What color, sir?’ I let her choose. Some days it was the yellow of a Black-eyed Susan. Another day it might be a cluster of Blue Bells, or perhaps the passionate red of a Rose. I overpaid her by ten times and she would thank me just as kindly and sincerely as I have ever known. I actually started to feel young again when I saw her.

“Notice, Mr. Paige, that I’ve no flower for my lapel today. I haven’t had one for three weeks. When she wasn’t there at the corner three weeks ago, I thought she might be sick or on holiday, but after missing her for four days, I found out where she lived with her aunt and uncle and inquired after her. Do you know what happened to that sweet little girl, Mr. Paige?”

“She done took her own life! That wasn’t none of my doing!”

“Really?” Mr. Goodwin began scraping the undersides of his fingernails with the knife. “I want you to know, Mr. Paige, that I cried when I learned that she was lost forever. Do you know how hard it is to squeeze a tear out of an old piece of leather like me who has seen and done things that would make even you cringe? Of course, I didn’t let the matter of her unexpected disappearance go, Mr. Paige. I had to know it all.

“See if this little tale sounds familiar. A certain son of a Lord fancied my little flower girl, but she rebuffed him as his intentions weren’t honorable. To ease things for your noble client, you hooked the uncle into gambling himself into destitution and told him that if he would sell his little flower girl into your brothel, that his debts and problems would go away. He agreed. She killed herself rather than fall into your clutches. Have you seen the poor girl’s uncle lately, Mr. Paige?”

“I heard he went traveling.”

“And the son of the Lord in question?”

“I heard he went traveling, too.”

Mr. Goodwin took a long drag from the bottle. “You know, the two of them spilled their secrets before I even got to the first line. And they did go traveling, after a fashion. After the pack of dire wolves chewed them up, there were little smelly piles of them all over the countryside. There is such pretty country around Longford this time of year.”

Sweat poured down the fatty creases of Mr. Paige’s face. “You lie!”

“Where was the money coming from, Mr. Paige?” A long silence ensued while an unseen battle of wills was waged. It ended when Mr. Goodwin reached for the bottle again.

“Wait! Wait!” Justus squealed frantically. “If I tell you anything, they’ll know it came from me! I’ll be dead before the week is out!”

“You can be dead before the week is out or dead before today is out,” Mr. Goodwin deadpanned. “Seems an easy choice to me. The faster your answer, the more of a head start you’ll have.”

Chills ran up Davon’s spine. In his heart, he wanted to believe that Mr. Goodwin’s threats were empty, a tactic to scare the truth out of Justus Paige. But if they were, Davon couldn’t tell. His tone, his intensity, his expressions all testified that his every word and every threat was genuine. What man could do such wanton cruelty, even upon a victim as deserving as Justus Paige?

Justus glanced around as if looking for eavesdroppers in the ale racks. “The money came without names attached from messengers who asked for no receipt of delivery!”

“Tsk, tsk,” Mr. Goodwin scolded him. “I’m sure a resourceful man like yourself was able to ferret out the origins of the messages. Let’s have it.”

“Just a few, I swear. The ones that contributed from the beginning. At first only a handful came in. Then it grew. Hightower. Brighton. Goldfield. Milbunn. Those for sure. Others I suspect, but cannot prove.”

Davon frowned. Hightower and Brighton. Arianne’s parents were involved. He wondered if the late Lord Cornton had recruited them or the other way round. Either way, Justus’s information would damn more than one important family. He was needed alive.

“And who do you suspect?” Mr. Goodwin prodded.

“Tahbor. Sharpton. Hackwind. I cannot prove it!”

“And is the money delivered on a schedule?”

“Yes. Each at different times and places.”

“For how long?”

“Almost five years.”

“And when you receive the money, what do you do with it? Begin with what you are skimming off the top and end with the person to whom you deliver it.”

Justus exhaled, reluctant to speak further until Mr. Goodwin’s hand snaking toward his rum bottle loosened his tongue. “I take ten percent, that’s all! The rest goes to a local noble.”

“Name!” Mr. Goodwin demanded.

“Do not make me tell it, Sir! He is a frightful man!”

“I am a frightful man, Mr. Paige, and I’m right here. Name!”

Justus seemed to consider for a moment, sweating more profusely and scrunching his face together as if he had to squeeze the information out. “I would deliver it to a man who works for Duke Longford’s brother, Baron Olivanne Longford. He is a giant brute of a man and I dare not cross him. I only know him as Dales. The Baron collects the money himself sometimes. Comes to the inn for it. But it’s usually Dales.”

“I know of Dales,” Davon offered. “He worked at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company.”

Mr. Goodwin nodded and Justus appeared relieved. “Then you know, Sir, of what I speak! He is as cross as a rabid cat and as big as a mammoth! He’ll kill me for sure if he finds out I said something. The Baron will string me up, too, or just have me torn apart in the woods!”

“You’ve done the right thing, Mr. Paige,” Mr. Goodwin soothed, assuming a relaxed tone. “I’m afraid you won’t be dying any time soon, even though the ground begs for your immediate interment. You see, I believe you have just become the most sought after person in Bittermarch. You have evidence of a massive conspiracy against the Kingdom, so I’m guessing you’ll be spending a good portion of the rest of your life in courtrooms and prison cells. And yes, when you turn up missing today, I’m sure a lot of important people will be looking for you to make sure your lips don’t wag, meaning being in your company is going to be dangerous.”

“We need to get him to Bellshire,” Davon said. “Right away.” There wasn’t a moment to lose. Arianne had to be cleared immediately.

Mr. Goodwin took a swig from the bottle. “Yes, I’m afraid we do. But we need to have a chat with the Baron, first.”

“Shouldn’t we have the sheriff bring him in?”

Mr. Goodwin laughed. “The sheriff? Of Longford? He’s as crooked as Mr. Paige here and under the thumb of the Longfords. If we want to know what’s going on here, Baron Olivanne Longford is our man.”

“You two will be dead before the day is out,” Justus Paige warned.

Mr. Goodwin stood and pointed to Mr. Killcreek. “Make sure Mr. Paige is good and tied up, and see if you can hire a carriage to carry us and this rat to Bellshire. We’ll likely need to leave in a bit of a hurry when we return.”

Chapter 28

Davon slowed Ceril’s healthy stride to give Mr. Goodwin’s emaciated nag time to catch up. The creature matched its owner in age and temperament, its back swooped so horribly that Mr. Goodwin’s head barely cleared the beast’s. Such was its distemper that it would repeatedly slow from its already modest pace, requiring Mr. Goodwin to flick it with a whip three times to return it to a desirable speed. And the horse complained mightily with each strike of the whip.

They had traveled out of Longford proper, passed by the road to the Duke’s massive castle, and rode out into a fair stretch of country where various of the Longford family had sizable manor houses backed up against the river Davon had crossed earlier that day. A low range of wooded hills beyond the river provided an idyllic backdrop of bursting green. Longford was indeed choice country.

The well-kept gravel road had just turned back to packed dirt when Baron Olivanne Longford’s house slid into view around a wooded bend. It was three story structure, a large box of brick with a colonnade of white at the front entrance. The Baron clearly despised gardens or gardening, the lawn about the house bare save for four large elm trees. The grass, however, was trimmed to perfection, and two young men looked up from that task to regard the two riders coming up the lane.

“Have you been here before, Mr. Goodwin?” Davon asked as he surveyed the estate. An uneasiness had settled upon him. Something smelled off, twitching his nose.

“I’ve wandered this lane before,” Mr. Goodwin replied. “This is the last house. The Baron is a lesser Longford, and few even mention him. He is the Duke’s youngest brother and not well known in society. He is infamous for absenting himself from the town every summer of late.”

They left the shady protection of the lane and passed through the open gates of the estate and into the harsh sunshine. Besides the two men trimming the grass, the house appeared lifeless and abandoned. Perhaps the Baron had already gone traveling. As they neared the front drive, a servant walked out of the front door wearing white gloves, a powdered wig, and a blue uniform pressed to unwrinkled perfection.

What had twitched Davon’s nose earlier had matured into a scent, a sour, rotten smell. It didn’t emanate from the house, but somewhere behind and to the south of it.

“Do you smell that?” Davon asked his companion.

“Smell what?”

“Carrion.”

“No. I smell rum.”

The servant halted their progress. “Excuse me, but what business do you have on the Baron’s property?”

Davon realized that neither he nor Mr. Goodwin was dressed to impress anyone. He opened his mouth to answer, but Mr. Goodwin jumped in ahead, tone irascible.

“We’re here to accuse the Baron of treason and collect him for transport to Bellshire. Please inform him immediately.”

The servant squinted. “Who are you? Under what authority?”

“I am Mr. Goodwin, and this is Davon Carver, once a Lord, but for now taking a temporary hiatus to do dirty work for the Queen, under whose authority we operate.”

“Wait here.”

The servant jogged back into the house. Mr. Goodwin pulled the rum bottle from his saddle bags and took a swig. It was well below the second mark now, flirting with the third.

“You may wish to refrain from the liquor,” Davon warned. “We will likely need all of our wits.”

“Rum is the grease that loosens my rusty wits, Mr. Carver.”

Davon loosened his rifle from its restraints. He always kept it loaded when he traveled in or near the wild. How Baron Longford would receive Mr. Goodwin’s blunt accusations worried him. If he was as guilty as Mr. Paige made out during the interrogation, then he would either feign ignorance and outrage or see two strangers that needed their throats cut. Either way, one hand on his rifle seemed in order.

The servant trotted down the stairs and approached them stiffly. “The Baron will see you. Please tie your horses to the post and follow me.”

“Wonderful,” Mr. Goodwin said, downing the rest of his bottle before stowing the empty container in his bags. The servant crinkled his brow but refrained from comment.

The persistent smell of rotting flesh faded as they approached the house proper; Davon was thankful for the relief. Could no one else smell it? Perhaps the house staff had grown accustomed to it. When a big animal died, the rot would smell for days, sometimes weeks. Burning the carcass was the only way to find relief, and the effort to drag enough wood to do it was often more unpleasant than the stench.

The servant pushed open the gilded white door. “He will receive you in the drawing room just to the left.”

Davon took one last look at the rifle on his horse before stepping inside the quiet manor of Baron Olivanne Longford. A chorus of ticking clocks and the squawking of a bird alleviated some of silence as they strode down the wide hall toward their destination. The Baron certainly had more finery than Davon had expected. Bejeweled silver balls and painted ceramics sat atop decorative stands, serving no purpose other than ostentation. Silver and gold trim lined the black wooden frames of portraits, some nearly as tall as the people they portrayed. The Longfords certainly wanted for nothing.

As they stepped into the drawing room, a thin woman wearing all white stood to greet them. Her heavily caked makeup accented eyes that seemed permanently stretched with surprise. Long white gloves ran to her elbows, a ring with a clear stone of immense proportions gracing her finger. She patted down a stray clump of dark hair shot through with gray.

“Come,” she said, voice quavering. “I am the Baroness Brenna Longford. The Baron will join us presently.” She trembled, her hands not quite steady as she returned to her seat. At first Davon thought her twitching from fear, but the longer he observed her wide-eyed countenance, he realized that the Baroness was not in her right mind.

“Do you like my bird?” she asked. The monstrous white avian with a yellow beak sat on a golden perch in its golden cage, which was suspended from a chain just behind the couch where the Baroness sat. It squawked and nipped at the bars of its cage. The bird was nearly as tall as Davon’s forearm was long.

“It is a fine specimen, Milady,” Davon said.

“And what was your, um, name again?”

“Davon Carver, Milady.”

She chewed her lip and looked up in the air as if following something flying about the room.

“And do you like my bird,” she finally said.

“A fine specimen.”

“You know, I’ve had seven of these birds. They keep dying or flying off. I blame the servants, you know. They really should take better care. And do you like my bird, Mister…”

“Goodwin, Baroness. A handsome bird, indeed.”

She stood and crossed to the cage, poking at the bars. “I call him Plucker. He’s always pulling at his feathers and making such a mess. Feathers, feathers, feathers! Isn’t that right, Mr. Plucker?”

The bird bit at her finger and she stepped back, eyes widening further. “Bad Mr. Plucker. Bad birdie! You mustn’t nibble on your mistress!” She banged the cage with her hand, sending the contraption swinging, the bird bouncing back and forth and squawking up a ruckus.

The Baroness’s delicate, pale face saddened and she caught the cage in both hands, tears running down her face. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Plucker. But you mustn’t nip me, you know. Forgive me. Forgive me. I will have the servants find you a treat.”

“That’s enough, Lady Longford.”

So focused had Davon been on the odd scene before him that he didn’t notice the entry of Baron Olivanne Longford into the far end of the drawing room. Something about his tone seemed familiar, but Davon was quite sure he had never seen the man before.

Like all the Longfords he had known, the Baron stood as straight and tall as an Elder Fir, manner and bearing severe. A big head topped with dark hair and a square jaw gave him the demeanor of a lord, eyes devoid of any warmth or concern for his fragile wife. He wore a black vest over a white shirt, large silver buttons running down the front in two rows.

“I am sorry, my Lord,” she said, returning to her seat. “We have Davon Carver and a Mr. Goodwin. They like the bird. They say it is a fine specimen.”

Baron Longford walked fully into the room. “Two members of the House of Light come to visit me and accuse me of treason. Singular. Such an accusation does not even warrant a visit from the Lord High Sheriff? The Queen sends a disgraced clerk and a disgraced Baron to level these charges against me.”

Davon glanced at Mr. Goodwin. He’s a member of the House of Light?

Mr. Goodwin sat up straight. “The information that implicates you is quite fresh, recently squeezed from an associate of yours, Justus Paige.”

“I hardly know the man,” the Baron returned, taking a seat.

“How well you know the man is hardly the issue,” Mr. Goodwin continued. “It’s the money you take from his hand that’s the problem, money sent to you from a number of prominent families, all northern nobles.”

“Ridiculous,” the Baron said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Really?” Mr. Goodwin said. “The barrels full of money Mr. Paige has in the basement of his establishment aren’t ridiculous or fictitious, I having inspected and borrowed a bit from his skimming. He has personally confessed to delivering the money to you or to your man, Dales, who was involved in the recently uncovered Aid Society Plot.”

“I know of no person named Dales.”

Davon fancied he knew a liar when he saw one, but the Baron’s unreadable, expressionless face stymied any attempt to discern his true character. His cold gray eyes were like shut books that gave no hint of the contents of the soul. Without a guilty twitch the Baron sat, thumb beneath his jaw and an index finger running up to his temple.

“Aren’t you curious,” Davon jumped in, “to know what families have been implicated in this scheme?”

“If you wish to tell me, Mr. Harper, I have no objection to hearing it.”

The Baroness suddenly emerged from her stupor. “It’s not Mr. Harper, my Lord. It’s Mr. Carver.”

The Baron’s eyes flickered for a moment, and Davon’s narrowed. There was something familiar about the Baron, but he couldn’t make the connection clear. Was his slip of the tongue a mistake, or was he attempting some kind of strategy or insult? Of the nobility, only the Lady Hightower and the Queen knew him well when he was David Harper, though many knew of him.

“Quite right you are,” the Baron said, rising. “Please take your rest upstairs, Brenna. Mr. Carver, Mr. Goodwin, I should like to speak to you in private about these sensitive matters. I wouldn’t like idle gossip to get to the servants, who turn the most trivial rumors into the most troublesome truths. Take a turn with me by Long River, if you will. There is a nice secluded path there where we can speak freely.”

The Lady stood and obediently left, while the Baron crossed to the bird cage. Davon stood and helped an unsteady Mr. Goodwin to his feet. The Baron opened the cage and pulled the protesting bird out. Its clipped wings gave it no leverage, but it settled as he let it perch on its forearm.

“Follow me,” Baron Longford commanded.

They left the house through a rear door and walked into the brilliant sunshine, following Baron Longford to a back lawn as devoid of decoration as the front. The manicured property quickly gave way to a well-worn trail through a sparse but tranquil wood. Plucker issued a few quiet coos from his perch on the Baron’s arm, but as yet the Baron had said nothing. Mr. Goodwin threw Davon a nervous look.

The foul stench Davon had noticed earlier worsened the closer they came to the Long River. After a hundred paces, the path turned abruptly south as it encountered the water, following closely along the river bank. The Baron continued on ahead of them at an even pace as if they didn’t exist, his head forward and pace stately.

“I smell it now, Mr. Carver,” Mr. Goodwin said. “You have an exemplary nose.”

The Baron stopped by a wide oak that cast its broad shadow across the water and the path, relieving the oppressive heat of the sun. The water here was shallow and wide, several large rocks poking up to interrupt the swift flow.

“And what do you smell, Mr. Carver?” the Baron asked.

“The rot of a dead animal. You have a carcass somewhere near here that needs clearing.”

The Baron just stared at him for a moment. “Don’t you think it odd, Mr. Carver, that we are so discomfited by the smell of rotting flesh? Things are born and things die in the same proportion. The smell of death should be no more unfamiliar and unpleasant to us than the smell of tea or a woman’s perfume or the offal of all living things.”

What is he playing at? Davon wondered.

“Baron Longford,” Mr. Goodwin said, “we didn’t come here to speak of rotting animals or what odors we might enjoy. You are party to a plot to gather money with which to buy weapons. These facts are not in dispute.”

Olivanne Longford cocked his head. “They clearly are in dispute or the Lord High Sheriff and not two of the Queen’s little grubs would be here speaking with me. You’re trying to paint a picture. All you have are brushes and colors, but no idea what to draw.”

Davon stepped closer to the Baron. “We know about Brighton. We know about Goldfield, Milbunn, and Hightower. We know you are the money man. Is your brother, the Duke, involved?”

“You have absolutely no proof of anything,” the Baron said, face not registering even a twitch of concern.

Mr. Goodwin, reeking of rum, pulled his paring knife and went to work on his immaculate fingernails. “We have Paige. The clerks of these families will soon be in our hands. You know just as well as I do that one cannot buy weapons in the quantities you have without a trail. The Lord High Sheriff will get to the bottom of that. The Queen doesn’t send the grubs because there is no proof. She sends us because we can get information in ways that tend to speed up an investigation considerably, if you take my meaning.

“The Queen needs to know who her enemies are, Baron Longford. You are one. Is your brother? Is the Duke just using his younger sibling to get his dirty work done so nothing leads back to him? Just be nice and cooperate. We don’t want this to get ugly.”

“I see,” the Baron said, exhaling roughly. “Threats. One moment.”

Baron Longford reached out and grabbed his wife’s bird by its long orange legs, pulling it off his arm. Its talons ripped the sleeve of his fine coat, the bird’s impotent wings flapping as the Baron hung it upside-down. With a savage swing of his arm, he bashed the bird’s head into the oak tree, feathers exploding into the air.

He tossed the lifeless body into the river and wiped his hands together. “There. I swore that I would not kill the bird until I could do it with equanimity, and I have done it.”

The man was as mad as his wife. Davon took a step backwards. The Baron stepped toward the river, removing his coat and throwing it into the water after the bird.

“What are you doing?” Davon asked.

“You know what is truly amusing?” Baron Longford said, stepping down into the water. “You and I, Mr. Carver, both hated attending the House of Lords. No one paid us any mind at all. The other Lords would be hard pressed to have even remembered our names or known our faces only a year ago. But now, here we are, the two of us, at the center of the most important event of our age.”

The river directly around the Baron’s legs turned out of their normal flow and toward him as if he were a lodestone. Stranger still, it seemed to flow into him. And while it appeared a trick of light and shadow at first, his stretching shirt and pants confirmed that what Davon saw was no illusion. Olivanne Longford was swelling, growing.

“Tell me,” the Baron said, voice deepening as his size increased, “what gift did the Eternal Flame bestow upon you, Mr. Carver?”

The Baron’s coat and shirt ripped all the way up the sleeves and back, pants riding up and splitting along the thighs.

Davon pulled his knives from his belt. “Get back to town, Mr. Goodwin. Get Justus Paige and leave. Now.”

Mr. Goodwin stared at Baron Longford, transfixed.

“Now!”

The old man turned, jogging off at a sickly pace. Davon faced the Baron. The transformation was complete. Only a stretched breech cloth clung to the Baron’s waist. Massive and muscular he was, dripping wet and knee-deep in the river. A scar in the shape of a wave crossed his chest.

“Care fer another go, Mr. Harper?” the Baron said in the low speech of the streets.

Davon swallowed. Dales Marter and Olivanne Longford were the same man.

Chapter 29

Dales stepped out of the river like a mountain stepping foot onto the plain. “I quite fancy those daggers of yours, Mr. Carver,” he said, returning to his genteel speech. With a massive hand he reached up and yanked a dead branch off of the oak tree he stood beneath.

Davon brought up his daggers. He had to buy time. If Mr. Goodwin could get to his horse and then to the Brawny Maid before the Baron could alert anyone, they would get a good head start. If the Baron got past him, they would end up fighting their way out of Longford. Unfortunately, Mr. Goodwin’s drunken, elderly pace meant Davon would have to conjure up something a little longer than a short delay—more like a decade.

Dales hammered down with his improvised weapon. Davon sidestepped, a small branch off the main trunk whipping his arm, leaving a stinging welt. Keeping an eye out for rocks in the path, Davon backed away farther down the trail, pulling Dales away from Mr. Goodwin. Davon could no longer see the old man among the trees and hoped his old legs had some iron left.

“You’re quick,” Dales said, thrusting the branch at him like a fire poker. “Is that the gift the Eternal Flame gave you?”

The brute swung the branch at his head, Davon ducking.

Dales grinned. “No, you were fast when I faced you in the warehouse. So what’s your gift, Carver? A quick wit? Clearly not discernment.”

Davon finally understood what power aided the Baron. “You found the Primal Water. Or it found you.”

“Obviously. And something more.”

Davon had no time to think about what that meant. The Baron charged, driving the branch down from high to low at an angle. Davon rolled under it, another protruding branch whipping his forearm. As he rose from his roll, he sliced the Baron’s massive thigh with the dagger and leapt away, turning back to face his foe. As in the warehouse, the wound dripped water, not blood, spattering on the dust of the trail.

Olivanne turned, lips curled up in a snarl. He stepped to the side and inserted his foot into the river. Immediately the gash in his leg knit together.

“You really are quite nimble, Mr. Carver. Quite out of the ordinary. Have you always been so?”

Run, Mr. Goodwin!

“It is no business of yours, Baron Longford. Give up your attack and come peacefully. You’ve been exposed. Your death or mine is unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary? Hardly relevant. Everyone dies, Mr. Carver. No one’s death is necessary or unnecessary. It simply is.”

Rivulets of sweat ran down Davon’s back, the nauseous smell of rotting flesh souring his stomach. “I’m guessing that you think my death is necessary. Mr. Paige’s, too.”

“Not necessary,” Dales said. “Expedient, yet still irrelevant. But you’re trying to keep me from stopping Mr. Goodwin, aren’t you?”

Dales cast the branch at him, and it whirled toward his chest hard and fast. Davon rolled flat on his back to avoid it, but the end dropped down on its trajectory and punched his left shin. Pain erupted up his leg, but he fought it off and stood. His enemy had fled, bolting nearly naked down the trail back toward the house. Davon gave chase. Every fall of his left foot shot pain up his leg like someone was driving a nail into the bone. He grimaced and limped on until the pain cleared and he hit his stride.

The trees whipped by, gradually thinning as he neared Baron Longford’s manor. By the time Davon managed to reach the bare back lawn, the Baron had four more strides until he would reach the struggling Mr. Goodwin. Davon flung one of his sabertooth daggers, straining his shoulder with the force. End over end it flew until it hit its mark: the meaty part of the Baron’s right thigh. It sank deep.

The Baron’s leg failed him and he crashed to the grass. The brute rolled and yanked the dagger free with his right hand, a gout of water spilling out. In an instant, the massive man stood, grasping the weapon by the tip and flinging it back at his attacker.

In Davon’s mind, the trajectory and spin of the dagger came slowly enough to be discernible. Without conscious thought he snatched it out of the air by the handle, the velocity behind the throw enough to sting his skin as the hilt slapped his palm.

The Baron’s eyes shot wide, then, face red and teeth gritted, he charged, his gait as hampered by his wound. Davon redoubled his speed, sprinting directly for the behemoth. As he neared closely enough to see the Baron’s eyes, Davon feigned a throw with a dagger, pulling the Baron up short for just a moment. With a sidestep and a twirl, Davon took a gash out of Dales’s thigh with his left dagger and another to the hip with his right.

And he kept going.

Mr. Goodwin had reached his horse. Davon craned his neck to see Baron Olivanne Longford hobbling back toward the forest, water pouring down his injured legs.

“By the Flame, what was that?” a sweaty, gasping Mr. Goodwin said. The exertion seemed to have cleared some of the indisposition the rum had inflicted.

Davon mounted Ceril. “Baron Longford’s found the Primal Water. He is its servant. Now ride hard, Mr. Goodwin.”

Ceril’s healthier gait brought Davon to the Brawny Maid well before Mr. Goodwin. He pulled open the door and darted inside, heading toward the back. The Brawny Maid herself pulled him up short.

“Mr. Carver, a word,” she said.

“I’ve not a moment to lose.”

She put her hands on her hips. “If you’d listen for a moment, I could keep you from losing several precious minutes. Your friends left not ten minutes ago. That bastard Mr. Paige looked much relieved, he did, if you take my meaning.”

Her tone was trying to communicate something he didn’t understand. “Relieved?”

“Yes,” she said. “Much happier than one would expect for someone who was recently in the company of Mr. Goodwin. Mr. Killcreek seemed quite eager to get underway.”

“Did they say where they were heading?” Davon asked, finally understanding her hints.

“Of course not, but the carriage pushed south from here.”

Landon Killcreek had betrayed them. Davon turned back to the door, walking slowly. Where would he take Mr. Paige? Who would shelter the man?

“You’re welcome, Mr. Carver,” the Brawny Maid said as he walked out the door.

Mr. Goodwin and his nag trotted up, both looking floppy and ready to fall over. Davon related what the tavern keeper had told him.

“Flame and flood!” Mr. Goodwin swore. “Killcreek’s decided to look after his own interests then. Well, that is unexpected.”

Davon frowned. “I don’t believe this.”

“Believe it, Lord Carver,” Mr. Goodwin said as he dismounted. “Killcreek was the Queen’s Huntmaster before she found out he was letting certain Lords pay him money to poach on her lands. I think the call of riches may have seduced our brawny compatriot again. Mr. Paige has plenty of it to offer.”

“But if Landon were caught, the Queen would—”

“He is as good in the outdoors as you are, I suspect,” Mr. Goodwin said, wiping his brow. “And as you so skillfully demonstrated, it is possible to disappear if you are clever. The question is, where will they go?”

Davon stroked Ceril’s neck while he pondered. Justus Paige was a key link to the conspiracy, but everyone in the conspiracy, including Baron Longford, would want his mouth shut or inhaling dirt. They couldn’t kill him openly, and that was Mr. Paige’s only advantage. But if Killcreek was playing Mr. Paige, he might simply take the money and ditch the man.

“Brighton,” Mr. Goodwin said.

“Why?” Davon asked. “They’d just as soon kill him as Baron Longford.”

“Ah, but the family at Brighton doesn’t know they are exposed yet. You forget that there are only a handful of us that know Mr. Paige’s information. If they can get to Brighton, Mr. Paige may be able to procure more money and some help to disappear. Lord Brighton would certainly do anything to rid himself of the man. Mr. Killcreek might just offer the Lord a secret deal of his own.”

“To do what?”

Mr. Goodwin rolled his eyes. “Really, Lord Carver. You must get a little more cynical before your innocence kills you. Mr. Killcreek could offer to kill Mr. Paige for a tidy sum.”

Davon nodded. “We’ve got to leave before the Baron sends people after us, but that horse of yours doesn’t look steady enough.”

Mr. Goodwin looked around. “I agree. One moment.”

Without hesitation he chose the healthiest looking horse in front of the Brawny Maid, a dappled brown, and mounted it.

Davon frowned. “Mr. Goodwin, I can purchase you a horse. Get down this instant!”

Mr. Goodwin responded with a kick to the horse’s flanks, galloping south. Davon pulled himself astride Ceril. “Time to go again, my friend. I’ll find you a nice pasture before the day is out, I promise.”

Ceril whickered and they were off, passing Mr. Goodwin and leading the way south out of the thick of buildings in Longford. The road to Brighton passed along the western edge of the Royal Wood, the Elder Forest whose eastern edge he had explored when he had visited the Lady Hightower about her ledgers. The road builders kept the road at least a mile from the towering trees, fearful that the creatures inside would trouble travelers.

On the west side of the road, an open, fertile plain stretched away to the horizon, gentle hills spotted with small pockets of trees and animals. Mighty herds of longhorned bison and mammoth traversed those plains in all seasons, and in the fall, the migrations from the north swelled their numbers.

They pushed the horses hard, Ceril laboring, unused to the exercise inflicted upon him during the last few days. Davon knew Mr. Killcreek would push the hired carriage hard; the former huntmaster had a lot to lose. Hours they rode, and Davon was forced to rest the horses—and Mr. Goodwin—more than he wanted.

As evening came on, Davon wondered if they had gone in the wrong direction, but just as the sun dipped its toe behind the western horizon, they caught their first glimpse of a small black carriage stopped on the road a mile ahead of them at the bottom of a long decline. The carriage driver was resting and feeding the horses at a small traveler’s station, a small shed stocked with provender. Davon reined in his horse.

Mr. Goodwin pulled up beside him, face a grimace. “I’m not sure I can walk anymore,” he stated, “so whatever you have planned, let’s see if we can take that carriage.”

“I’m not sure that’s the right carriage,” Davon said. The people were little more than specks from their vantage point.

“Let’s take it anyway,” Mr. Goodwin suggested.

But it was the right carriage. A blob unmistakably Justus got out of the carriage, followed by the tall Mr. Killcreek, rifle in hand. They had two guards, one riding horse and one standing on the side rail. Davon thought about a quick attempt at concealment, but Killcreek’s stance looking up the hill toward them signaled that their presence was known.

“It is the right one,” Davon announced to his compatriot. “Two armed guards and Killcreek, to boot. This won’t be easy.”

Mr. Goodwin took a swig of from a waterskin that had come with his recently acquired horse. “You’re the muscle, Mr. Carver. If they push through the night, they can reach Brighton by morning, so you had better come up with a plan soon.”

There was no way to avoid a confrontation. The direct path of the road and the open country around them provided no avenues to shortcut their path or mount much of an ambush. Since Mr. Killcreek knew he was being followed, he would certainly choose to push forward through the night rather than stop and let their pursuers have a chance at them.

“Do you shoot well, Mr. Goodwin?” Davon asked.

“I’m a man of the blade, I’m afraid,” he answered. “A small blade.”

“We’ve got not choice,” Davon said. “Let’s go talk to them. Keep a least one hand up to show we’re not a threat. If shooting starts, ride toward the woods as fast as you can.”

Davon made sure his daggers were within easy reach and loosened his loaded rifle in its riding sheath. Urging Ceril forward, he clamped his knees on the horse’s sides and raised his hands into the air. Mr. Goodwin followed behind, one hand on his reins and the other partially raised.

Justus jumped back into the carriage, but Mr. Killcreek and the two carriage guards took position in the middle of the road behind the carriage, weapons in hand but lowered. The carriage driver had remounted, glancing back nervously from his perch. As they neared, Davon could make out a single wine barrel secured to the rear of the carriage.

“I’ll bet that barrel’s got money rather than wine inside,” Mr. Goodwin speculated. “Mr. Killcreek’s pay. Though if it is wine, then I reiterate my earlier advice to take the carriage.”

Mr. Killcreek took two steps forward, bringing his gun up. “That’s far enough!”

“Put the gun down, Killcreek,” Mr. Goodwin said as they both pulled their mounts to a stop. “You may be greedy, but I never pegged you for a murderer.”

He didn’t lower the gun. “Off the horses, both of you.”

“See reason, Mr. Killcreek,” Davon said. “This can still end well. Let’s go to Bellshire together. I’m sure the Queen’s reward for completing this task will be money enough, even for you.”

Mr. Killcreek sighted down the barrel. “I said off the horses!”

Davon slid down, being sure to dismount within easy reach of his rifle. After a lot of swearing, Mr. Goodwin finally alighted on the ground, wincing in pain as he tried to prod his legs into purposeful movement. Davon used the delay to survey the men before him. The driver and the carriage guards were certainly not professional men. They looked like tavern rats ready to do anything for ready coin.

“Come to your senses, Mr. Killcreek,” Davon continued. “I don’t know what Mr. Paige promised you, but it’s not worth a life on the run.”

Mr. Killcreek fired. Davon flinched back, reaching for his rifle, but the rifle moved away from him as Ceril fell, a bullet in his head. Shock paralyzed him as the mounted guard aimed and shot Mr. Goodwin’s horse in the flank. It screamed and reared before tearing away into the plains.

Davon froze. He killed Ceril!

Davon’s heart pumped anger, hot and red, up to his face and down to his fingertips. He had killed Ceril. Davon bent down toward Ceril’s corpse for his rifle, but Mr. Killcreek fired, bullet sinking into Ceril’s flesh near his hand.

“Stand down, Mr. Carver,” Mr. Killcreek said.

Davon stood up slowly, three guns trained on him. Both of Mr. Goodwin’s hands stretched above his head, but his face was not fearful. The old man’s mouth was turned down in disgust, and a twitch had settled into his right eye.

“Now, Mr. Carver, Mr. Goodwin,” Mr. Killcreek said, “I am going to ride away. I will take my fortune and Mr. Paige where he wants to go and you will never see me again. If I find you following me, I’ll kill Mr. Paige and take my fortune anyway. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

Rage seethed within Davon, begging for release. Killing Ceril would not go unpunished; he didn’t care if he got shot. The mounted guard had reloaded and kept his weapon trained on him as Mr. Killcreek and the other guard turned back toward the carriage. Davon put his arms down, and in a fluid, familiar motion reached under his coat, palm grasping the smooth hilt of the sabertooth knife.

He flung it at the mounted carriage guard who had a choice of firing his rifle or dodging the spinning dagger. He tried to do both. His shot passed high and wide, the bullet buzzing by Davon’s right ear. Davon’s knife sank into the man’s exposed ribs as he turned away, grunting as the sharpened tooth punctured his lung. He fell hard to the ground.

The rifle report turned Killcreek and the other guard around, both bringing their weapons to bear. Guessing Killcreek the better shot, Davon flung his second knife at him, forcing him into the same choice as his downed companion: a sure shot or a sure dodge. Killcreek dodged, flinging himself to the right and ruining his aim.

Davon knew the shot was coming. The remaining guard fired. Again, an instinct not his own took over and he flung himself backwards onto the belly of Ceril’s still corpse, rolling heels over head while pulling his rifle out of its sheath. Instead of coming to a crouch behind Ceril, Davon dropped prone. Then Mr. Killcreek made his mistake and fired prematurely, the bullet whizzing harmlessly overhead.

The guard was nearly done reloading his rifle. Mr. Killcreek had just started to reload his. Tactically, the guard was the right choice for his shot, but Davon didn’t care. He snapped to a crouch, pulling the rifle butt to his shoulder. Mr. Killcreek looked up and Davon put a bullet through his brain. He crumpled backwards into the weeds.

There was no time to reload. The guard pulled up his rifle and Davon prepared to jump away again. Mr. Goodwin’s knife took the guard in the neck before his finger could squeeze the trigger. He dropped to his knees and collapsed.

“Hi’yah!”

Justus Paige’s head popped out of the window briefly as the carriage sprang away, the driver whipping the horses as if a pack of sabercats nipped at their wheels.

Kneeling at Ceril’s side, Davon opened his saddlebag and retrieved his ammunition, shoving a bullet into the breech loader. He took a knee, sighting up on the carriage as it drove in a line in front of him. The bulk of the carriage concealed the driver and the horses, not that Davon would stoop to shooting the animals.

The carriage picked up speed, the dust of its passing catching the slanting beams of the evening sun. Time seemed to slow. Davon steadied his breathing and calmed his beating heart. He felt the breeze’s direction as it caressed his face. With a practiced eye he lined up his target, adjusting his aim for distance and speed.

And fired.

The bullet leapt from the barrel and into the air, a cloud of smoke blooming around the muzzle. The report of the rifle slammed into his ears, following the bullet as it sped toward the carriage. It struck true, driving into the metallic band around the right rear wheel and punching into the wood.

The wheel took two more revolutions before the damaged band broke free and the spokes shredded, spitting splinters as the weight of carriage drove down upon it. The wheel collapsed in a flurry of wood, and the carriage, at speed, listed right and then dropped to its side.

Flailing, the driver sailed out of his seat, landing hard and tumbling on the ground. The carriage tongue broke, and the terrified horses bolted down the road dragging the reins and the remains of the tongue behind them. Twice the carriage tumbled, cracking and popping, flinging shards of wood and wheel in every direction before settling in a sagging heap in the ditch. Dust rose around the wreck.

Mr. Goodwin stared at Davon like he had never seen him before. “You know, Lord Carver, I do believe I have underestimated you.”

Davon shoved another bullet into the gun and collected his knives and carving bag from Ceril’s saddlebags. Poor Ceril! How dare they! With firm purpose, he marched toward the ruined carriage, Mr. Goodwin following as fast as he could. The driver stood from where he had fallen in the grass, staggering toward the empty fields. Davon dropped him with a single shot to the back and reloaded.

Mr. Goodwin cleaned his knife and resheathed it. “Now remember, Mr. Carver, we want Justus Paige alive…if he is still alive.”

“I know.”

“Good. Remember that I’ve just as much cause to kill him as you, so when it comes time, we have to take turns.”

Ceril dead. The fire refused to die. The only thing worse he could think of was Arianne being drowned as a traitor for a crime she did not commit. For that reason only would he restrain himself.

Pathetic groaning emanated from the bowels of the overturned carriage. Its passenger had survived. With a savage pull, Davon ripped the carriage door off and peered inside. Mr. Paige’s head and face had taken the brunt of the accident, blood running from a gash to his forehead and a gushing from a crooked nose.

“Leave me alone,” he moaned piteously.

Davon reached in and grabbed his feet, hauling him out and standing him up. Mr. Goodwin had pried open the barrel still lashed to the back of the carriage, money and coins spilling out onto the road.

“My head!” Mr. Paige groaned. “My nose!”

“Rub some dirt in it,” Davon growled, scanning for the horses. They had all fled. Up on the hill, a single rider attracted his notice. He wore some kind of uniform. Davon pulled up his rifle and the man turned and galloped behind the crest of the hill. Baron Longford’s men had caught them.

“We make for the woods,” Davon said, retrieving the rest of his ammunition from Ceril. “Now.”

Mr. Paige, a mess of smeared dust and blood, wiped his eyes clear to stare into the dark shadows of the Royal Wood. “We’ll die in there!”

“Maybe,” Davon said, pointing the rifle at him. “But if we stay here, we’ll be dead for sure. Get moving.”

“What about the money?” Mr. Goodwin lamented, stuffing a handful into his jacket pocket.

“Spread it out over the road,” Davon instructed. “Maybe it will keep Longford’s thugs busy for a while.”

Mr. Paige, one hand pinching his nose and the other rubbing his head, stumbled into the grass between them and the forest. Mr. Goodwin kicked the money about and trundled after them. Dragonflies and plump molly gnats swarmed them, the dust from the wreck clearing as they distanced themselves from the road. Davon kept an eye on the hill. With a pudgy, injured Mr. Paige and an old Mr. Goodwin, their chances of escape were slim at best.

He chanced one last look at the motionless Ceril, loss fueling his rage. To have such a friend as Ceril end in such a cruel fashion! He thirsted for a fight, half hoping that their pursuers caught them so he could take down as many as possible.

He bit back his violent feelings, letting sadness trickle in to replace it. Capturing Justus Paige had cost him dearly, but Arianne was worth the price. He would not fail her now.

Chapter 30

Uticus, Earl of Longford, peered through the crack in one of the wooden benches from where he waited concealed underneath the seating of the Queen’s Main Hall. The hollow space under the benches reeked of old dust and an oily film that slicked the stone floor. Uticus had no idea that such a space under the benches even existed until Melchor Raines had told him. And how did a Creetisian know about it anyway? Uticus had never given any thought as to what lie under the gallery seating on the few occasions he attended court as an observer.

The triangle-shaped crack provided a convenient view of the hall, and, more importantly, enough space for the muzzle of a rifle. Thanks to the sympathetic Creetisian’s information, Uticus had the opportunity to gain an honest reputation and save the life of the Queen. It would be a feat that would dwarf the incident at Harrickshire and elevate him into a realm of popularity unrivaled by any of his peers. The name of Longford would shine, perhaps brightly enough to reach the throne.

Somehow, the helpful Melchor Raines knew that his credit for Harrickshire wasn’t completely deserved, that his title of hero was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. How Melchor knew, he would not divulge, nor would he confirm who else knew it. Had the effeminate Creetisian hidden somewhere in the trees that day when that clerk—well, Baron Davon Carver—had shot the assassins down with such deadly skill?

No matter. Today Uticus, Earl of Longford, would prove his quality, and he had a Creetisian to thank for this opportunity to earn glory and renown.

After Melchor’s hints at the Day of Burning Ball, the Creetisian Ambassador’s attaché had cornered him in the Twoberry Gentleman’s Club and talked to him at length and at speed. Uticus could sense his nervousness, and what Mr. Raines had revealed shocked him.

Horace Clout, the ridiculous Creetisian Ambassador whom everyone hated, had orders from his parliament to assassinate the Queen. At first Uticus couldn’t take Mr. Raines seriously. The notion was absurd. The Creetisians were a poor, starving lot with barely a gun to share between them all. A brazen act of assassination would bring the wrath of Bittermarch down upon them.

But as Melchor continued his reasoning, the picture clarified. The Creetisians were still outraged that nothing had been done, either in apology or compensation, for the butchery at Rontag. The Queen had not accepted responsibility for the act and had rejected all evidences brought before her. As time wore on, the event had faded to the point that few in Bittermarch even thought about it.

But across the border, Melchor informed him, the matter was far from settled. The Creetisians, apparently, had roiled like boiling oil over the incident, and after Ambassador Clout had sent his last missive to the Creetisian Parliament explaining Queen Filippa’s dismissiveness and inaction, the Parliament had sent one last offer, one last request for remuneration. Failing that, the Ambassador was to kill the Queen or return home in disgrace.

According to Melchor Raines, the blustery ambassador was not a man to be gainsaid or ignored. The Queen had disrespected him. The Queen had dishonored him. If she did not accept Creetis’s final terms, he would avenge the people of Rontag and his own wounded pride.

Melchor had done the right thing, Uticus surmised. No one at court would take a mere attaché seriously, and if Melchor went public with his concerns, his life might be endangered. So the Creetisian had confided in him, the Earl of Longford, son of one of the most powerful families in the nation. And Mr. Raines was forthright with his reasons for choosing him. He said that he knew Uticus had a secret, and thus had insurance that he wouldn’t betray him.

Uticus wiped the sweat from his brow. The space beneath the seats sweltered and stank. When the lords and ladies above him shifted, the benches creaked and moaned in distracting protest. He kept his gaze pegged to the crack. The Ambassador’s name had just been called and he needed to stay focused. According to Mr. Raines, the Ambassador’s plan was to present the offer. If the Queen refused it, he would pretend he needed to retrieve a letter from his coat. Instead, he would pull a pistol.

Uticus smiled. He would drop the ambassador before he could even take aim. Hero of Harrickshire would be replaced with Hero of Bellshire. His family’s honor would soar. His own reputation would swell. And the fickle heart of Arianne Hightower would at last revolve around his. Best of all, he could leave behind that twinge of shame he felt any time someone called him a hero.

Horace Clout finally strode into view before the throne. Queen Filippa appeared in ill humor, dressed in gray and staring at the Ambassador so severely that Uticus thought he might wilt. Melchor Raines flitted up behind Horace with his light-footed gait. He spared just a tiny glance toward the crack where Uticus waited, and the Earl swallowed.

This was it.

His rifle—his heirloom—was loaded and had been waiting under the bleachers where the resourceful Melchor had stashed it for him. The early morning hour of the conference meant that the Earl had to retire early and without drink the night before. He had hardly slept, but as the Ambassador launched into his tirade against the Queen and against Bellshire in general, all the tired fog in his brain burned away.

Uticus brought up the gun and placed the muzzle edge quietly on the crack. Few sat in the seats above him, but he couldn’t be too careful. Horace Clout raged and riled like an angry sabercat while the Queen watched him, utterly bored, from her throne. Uticus could understand the Ambassador’s frustration. The massacre at Rontag appeared to be the deepest concern of Horace’s life, while the Queen acted like he was talking about crop rotation.

Would Horace Clout really resort to killing her? Uticus lowered his gun. A nagging thought in his head buzzed around and landed on his consciousness like a fly on meat at the market. Killing the Queen meant war. Killing the Queen meant the Ambassador would find himself suffering in a dungeon before being drowned. Killing the Queen meant certain defeat and death for his countrymen. Why risk it?

Horace began shouting, face reddening and finger stabbing at the Queen as if to prod her off her throne or poke her into action. Spittle frothed from his mouth. His entire frame shook, his well-fed and plumped parts shaking in fury.

Uticus brought the gun back up.

It was as Melchor had said. The Ambassador was half out of his wits. He felt cheated. He wanted revenge. He ended his long stream of fervent accusations with a final, “What say you?” shot at the Queen like a murderous strike of lightning.

The Queen barely shifted before saying, “I will not grant your petition for this farce you have perpetrated, Ambassador.”

Finger on the trigger, Uticus took aim. The distance was less than thirty yards, and the Ambassador was an ample target, but the slime at Uticus’s feet and the cramped vision of the hole complicated the shot. Would Horace Clout really do it?

The Ambassador stood rooted, the red of his face draining in disappointment, face slackening. Slowly, the Ambassador reached inside his coat, grasped something in his pocket and pulled it. Uticus saw the cylindrical brown shape emerging from the coat. Uticus sighted down the barrel. A shot to the head would do. He squeezed the trigger.

The bullet hit the Ambassador squarely in the skull just above the temple and he dropped. Screaming and oaths tore through the Main Hall. Uticus pulled in his rifle and made his way toward an opening as high as his waist that led to a cluttered supply closet and then out into the palace proper. The benches above him squeaked and squealed wildly as their occupants stood and fled.

With the rifle in hand, he passed into a hallway in the servant’s quarters, face flush with his success and a grin creeping up the corners of his mouth. The Queen was saved. The Ambassador’s revenge had fallen as impotently as his threats. The name of Longford would rise in honor. One day, a Longford would sit on the throne of the monarch he had just rescued.

The shocked sounds of scurrying and low whispers thickened as he neared the doors to the Main Hall. The guards had entered, leaving the outer door unprotected. Uticus strode inside, finding a tableau of people spread around Horace Clout’s body, his head in a pool of blood. The Queen stood facing the doors, face turned down in a scowl.

“Uticus Longford!” the Queen exclaimed. “What do you mean by coming in here with your rifle?”

“I shot the assassin,” he said. “I was informed of his plot and stopped him before he could do you harm.”

Everyone was staring at him now. Something was wrong.

“Do me harm?” the Queen asked.

Melchor Raines strode at him, powdered face livid, tears pooling in his eyes. “Murderer!” he screamed, and then, “I demand justice.”

Uticus kept his face even. Mr. Raines had informed him that he would need to react in this way to belie suspicion that he had played the informant to the Ambassador’s schemes. In a placating gesture, Uticus laid the weapon on the floor and raised his hands into the air.

“I assure you, Mr. Raines, that I only did what was necessary to protect the Queen. The Ambassador had a pistol and was pulling it to exact revenge upon her Grace.”

Mr. Raines really did appear upset and kept on his forward track, trembling with his pretended rage. “A pistol? It was a simple courier cylinder carrying an official document of grievance! This is murder! This will be war!”

Uticus stared around the approaching man, his stomach sinking. There next to the Ambassador’s lifeless hand was the cylinder, a polished wooden container with a black cap on the end. From his vantage point beneath the benches, it had all the appearance of a pistol.

His mind raced to his conversations with Melchor Raines, to the assertions and information the Creetisian had given him. Creetis coming to war against Bellshire was foolhardy. What would it take to get a nation of starving people with a fraction of Bellshire’s wealth and firepower to go to war?

An unprovoked killing of their Ambassador in open court.

Mr. Raines had tricked him. But Mr. Raines could be interrogated, made to confess. The Lord High Sheriff would break his bones and flog the truth out of his scheming skin. Uticus opened his mouth to explain, to raise the alarm and point out the duplicitous mastermind of the crime.

But nothing would come out. He looked down at the long silver dagger sliding into his chest. He looked up at the chilling blue eyes of Melchor Raines.

The assassin stepped forward, put his face close, and whispered, “Well done, Hero of Harrickshire.”

And Uticus knew no more.

Queen Filippa sought refuge in her drawing room as evening slowly smothered the room in darkness. She had sent her servants and guards away and hadn’t bothered to order the lighting of any candles or lamps. The darkness suited her, practically blinding her weak eyes, helping her stay inside of her mind. Not twenty-four hours ago she had thought that she had wrested control of the plots plaguing her kingdom from her enemies’ hands, and with one bizarre action Uticus Longford had undone it all.

Uticus Longford!

She could scarce believe it. The man, she knew, was no plotter. He hadn’t the genius of leadership like his father, nor the cunning of someone like Horace Clout. But Horace Clout lay in the morgue with a hole in his head. He clearly hadn’t been the mastermind behind Creetis’s plot. It had to be someone in parliament pulling strings. Horace’s agent, Melchor Raines, was a member of The Fist, no doubt pushing Creetis’s plot along, but was Horace’s death a part of that plot or just a random act of misguided heroism?

The former, she believed. Someone had exercised leverage over Uticus, but what that leverage might be she hadn’t decided. Her best reasoning concluded that someone wanted to force a war with Creetis, a war Creetis would lose. Bellshire’s military outnumbered and outclassed them to the point that any sane Creetisian General would know that an attack would destroy them, regardless of the provocation. Perhaps one of her own nobles had decided to force a war, but to what end? Creetis had nothing Bittermarch wanted.

A soft knock on the door prompted her to lift her head and her eyes. A servant poked his head in.

“Lord Ember here to see you, Your Grace.”

“Let him come,” she said. “And get some light, please.”

Filippa tried to rise, but failed. She had sat too long in one place and the muscles in her back and legs rebelled against movement. Two more tries produced sufficient momentum to propel her upward, though she had to plant the Arrow Asp walking stick firmly on the floor to keep from tumbling over. She needed dinner and an uninterrupted night’s rest. Wine might be required tonight, something old and red and rich.

Two servants bearing a lantern and three candles preceded Lord Ember, her old friend bending at the waist. She signaled for him to sit near her so she could hear him; he was a soft spoken man and her ears seemed to want a holiday, too.

They sat and exchanged pleasantries until the servants stoked the fire and left. Lord Ember’s face betrayed the worry she had felt all day long. The House of Lords and the House of Light would be busy preparing for war when the sun rose.

“I thank you for your visit, Lord Ember,” she said. “I hope you are well despite the unfortunate deeds of the day.”

“As well as can be expected, Your Grace,” he replied. “Though you look fearfully tired.”

“I am afraid and I am weary,” she confessed. “I’d hoped never to see such days as these. I would have rather left war-making to my successor.”

He nodded. “Understandable, though I am gratified that someone as experienced and intelligent as you are is still around to lead us.”

She wanted to laugh, but only a wheezing cough came out. “There are many more qualified for war than I am. I’ve never had much fondness for military strategy, and my powers of discernment have failed to root out the headwaters of this strange plot against us.”

“It will come,” he said with his friendly, reassuring smile. That smile had always cheered her. It had been there since her husband had died and had helped her through many seasons of distress. She liked Lord Ember for that. He saw his calling as one to uplift, and he genuinely tried to do it.

She sat up, leaning forward on her cane, trying to get a good look at him. Something wasn’t quite right. “Is this a visit of consolation and commiseration, or do you have some other matter for me to consider?”

“I’m afraid I bring strange tidings,” he admitted, face fully giving over to the worry she had sensed in him earlier. “I am not sure what to make of it. At first I couldn’t be certain if my eyes were deceiving me. It came on so gradually. But over the last week I couldn’t deny it.”

“What, Lord Ember?” she asked.

“The Eternal Flame is shrinking.”

Shrinking? Odd tidings indeed. Her brow creased.

“You mean the tongues of flame don’t reach as high? The light isn’t as bright?”

“Well, both, really. It would be like building a fire with ten sticks of wood, and once it was lit and going, removing one stick at a time. It’s like someone or something is robbing the Eternal Flame of its light.”

“How is that possible?” Filippa asked, stomach clenching. Could this be related to the plot? It couldn’t be a coincidence that all of these horrible things were happing at once.

Lord Ember shrugged his shoulders. “There is no precedent for this. From the time of Joris Pulsipher there are no records or legends that report any diminishing of the Eternal Flame. It is as if something is slowly draining the life force from it.”

“Do we need to set a guard? Move it?”

“I can’t imagine how a different location would make a difference,” he said, folding his hands in his lap. “I have already doubled the guard to ensure no one goes near it. It remains elevated high above the floor. No one besides me has passed prayers into it for at least two weeks, and I have forbidden anyone from doing so.”

Filippa’s sluggish mind struggled with this news. The Eternal Flame was the heart of Bellshire’s identity. That it should dwindle and die would deal a blow to the cohesion of her country. If the Flame wasn’t Eternal, then what was it? What were they?

“I should not have burdened you with this now,” Lord Ember apologized. “You have enough on your mind, I am sure.”

“No,” she disagreed. “This is just another thread in a mystery. I need all the information I can get. Please let me know if there are further changes. Any piece of information, no matter how small, might be the key to understanding what is happening to us.”

Lord Ember bowed and left and the Queen struggled back to her feet. She needed her bed now. And the wine.

Chapter 31

The wood had called to Davon again, a cast off branch of an Elder Pine. He whittled at in unconsciously, even though it was the most fragile creation he had attempted—a delicate stalk of Columbine flowers. These would go to the cross Mr. Goodwin, who huddled in the fold of an Elder Oak unable to sleep.

The dead of night in an Elder Forest filled the senses. With the swallowing dark close about them, Davon’s sense of smell and hearing reached out farther than his eyes could have seen in the wood. The familiar din of night in the forest felt like a second home to him. The soft scrape and tremble of leaves. The sweet smell of rot. The scrabble of beetles against the hard bark. The primal call of the Emperor Loons, haunting and otherworldly. All friends to him, soothing and easily ignored.

To Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Paige, the Royal Wood was a den of terror.

Perhaps they had the right of it. Davon realized he had rarely felt this comfortable at night in the wild. Perhaps the cowardly company with whom he shared a cold camp boosted his confidence by virtue of comparison.

Somewhere in the dark to the west a group of at least ten men searched for them, men intent on sending Mr. Paige and anyone connected to him to their deaths. Add to this sabercats, dire wolves, and terror birds, and their precarious circumstances certainly warranted the hunted and haunted looks of his companions.

After fleeing the wrecked carriage, they had raced into the forest—if the halting pace of Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Paige could be called racing. He had sent the two reluctant men ahead, waiting near the forest edge to see who was coming down the road after them. Like a herd, the posse swarmed over the hill and raced to the carriage. As he had hoped, the unsavory lot stopped to stuff their pockets with the scattered money from the barrel.

This distraction bought time. It also brought the concealing dark closer. A three day journey on foot through the forest would bring them to Hightower and help. With his two enfeebled companions, he feared the journey might stretch much longer.

Mr. Goodwin was old. Mr. Paige was an injured voluptuary, and Davon figured that if he counted the steps the corpulent man had taken in the last ten years, the distance probably wouldn’t add up to a mile. Just getting to the forest had nearly killed Mr. Paige, and only the promise of a bullet to his head motivated him to keep hoofing it onward.

A soft rustling to the south broke into the night. Mr. Paige sat bolt upright. “What was that?”

Davon stopped carving for a moment. “That was a sloth adjusting its position ever so slightly on a tree branch about ten yards from here.”

“Will it eat us?”

Davon sighed. Justus had asked this question three times. “No. Sloths eat plants and they are probably the only creatures in the wood that you could outstrip in a race. Now keep quiet or you’ll attract more than just animals, Mr. Paige.”

“Like what?” he whimpered.

“Such as the men intent on murdering us all. Keep still.”

Davon continued his blind carving, feeling the delicate edge of the downward bending Columbine bell with its flaring petals. The sure, supple strokes of the blade emptied his mind, allowing him to focus. Arianne kept finding her way into his thoughts, setting his heart to hammering. He knew now the difference between Emile’s flattery and genuine affection. How he longed to see the Lady of Hightower again, to find her safe and warm and smiling in her drawing room at Hightower.

Nearly four days had passed since he had left her side. To think of her in a dungeon or in a callous court or in danger horrified him. Beneath the ancient trees and with coarse company, he found that he missed her. And in the dark, the rough bark of the tree against his back, he realized he couldn’t bear the thought of her in any man’s embrace but his. But his dignity and honor would not let him sully her name by connecting it with his. The two contrary desires strove within him, wearying his mind.

He set the knife back in its bag. The carving was complete. With careful fingers, he traced its outline, marveling at the smooth wood running along the tip of his finger. Even a master could not cut a shape so finely with a tool as crude as his knife.

Mr. Goodwin stirred and stumbled through the darkness, his shuffling, sore feet working up racket in the dried leaves on the ground. He cursed as he approached. The scant beams of moonlight breaking through the canopy of leaves was hardly enough illumination for his old eyes.

Davon spoke, voice low. “Are you well, Mr. Goodwin?”

“Of course not! My knees feel like a big, stupid blacksmith has been hammering at them with Justus Paige’s head. I won’t even mention what’s plaguing my backside. I noticed you stopped your insufferable carving. What did you make?”

Davon handed it to him. Mr. Goodwin held it up at various angles, but settled for exploring it with his fingers as Davon had done.

Mr. Goodwin grumbled about the dark. “What is it? It feels like a plant.”

“It is a Columbine flower. It’s yours.”

Mr. Goodwin stood silent for a while, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried a wistful note. “How did you know?”

“Know what, Mr. Goodwin?”

“That girl I told Justus Paige about. The last flower I purchased from her was a white Columbine. I keep it pressed in a book in my jacket. She really was a lovely girl.”

“Then I hope the carving reminds you of her,” Davon said. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Mr. Goodwin grunted, stifling some emotion. “Is this the gift the Eternal Flame gave you? To carve?”

Davon brushed the wood shavings off of his legs. “It is. It is an odd gift, to be sure.”

“And a fairly useless one,” Mr. Goodwin added. “Though I thank you, just the same.”

“And what is your gift?” Davon asked.

“It’s a curse, really. Don’t laugh too heartily at my expense, but my gift is apparently long life.”

“It is a good gift.”

Mr. Goodwin didn’t reply. Justus Paige had finally fallen asleep, but to Davon’s chagrin, he snored like a short-faced bear after gorging itself for hibernation.

Mr. Goodwin snorted. “I believe that fiend over there knows more about this plot than he let on in our little session under the Brawny Maid.”

Davon nodded. “My thought, as well. He exists to grant favors and exert leverage. He wouldn’t be content with simply funneling money to and from important people without discovering more that he could use to his advantage. If nobles are involved, that knowledge could fetch a high price…or save him from execution.”

A slight change in the light brought Davon to his feet. His eyes could barely perceive the slight difference in illumination, but a flickering orange hue tinged the broad leaves just enough. Someone had lit a fire just to the southeast.

“What is it?” Mr. Goodwin asked.

“A fire. Not far. We must stay very quiet now. We may need to move.”

Davon grabbed his rifle and ammunition bag. The only advantage they had in their flight from the posse on their heels was stealth and ease of movement through the more tangled avenues of the forest. Their pursuers had horses. While they couldn’t ride them at speed through the trackless wood, their mounts spared them the rigors of the chase. The rigors of the chase were not sparing Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Paige. Fortunately, it appeared that not one of their pursuers had enough skill to track a mammoth through a field of corn.

The direction of the faint firelight indicated that the posse had nearly flanked them. The cold had apparently gotten the better of their need for stealth. If he could remove the advantage of their horses, they stood a much greater chance of escaping the Royal Wood alive. He would wait an hour or two until they slept or were lulled into a sense of security and then see what he could do.

He whispered the plan to Mr. Goodwin, who nodded in agreement, and then adjusted the corpse-like Mr. Paige until his snoring was extinguished. Before long, Mr. Goodwin’s exhaustion finally dulled his discomfort enough to let him sleep, the Columbine carving affixed in the buttonhole of his lapel. Davon woke him a couple hours later before he left, indicating he and Mr. Paige should be at the ready to move.

The illumination he had sensed earlier had weakened during the last half-hour—they no longer tended the fire. Rifle in hand and ammunition pouch at his hip, he stole into the dark, amazed at how well he could see. Even then, a silent approach would require every skill he’d ever mastered tracking prey in the forests around Frostbourne. Dry sticks and crisp brown leaves spread out around him like alarm bells begging for a careless foot to ring them. Of all the skills of the hunter, patience was the hardest to master, and he needed it now. Slow. Steady.

The fire and the men encamped around it waited a scant half mile away. At his cautious pace he started to worry that dawn might overtake him. He risked increasing his pace, paying the price in noise. As he neared the camp, the smell of wood smoke strengthened, and he again slowed to the pace of a sloth.

By the time he got close enough to see it, the fire had faded to brightly glowing coals and thin tendrils of smoke. And then he observed what he had hoped—the main body of men had camped twenty yards from where they had staked up the horses. He crept forward. He could see no guard, but if they had one lick of sense among them someone would be on watch, perhaps behind the trunk of a tree or hidden in the underbrush.

A waft of mint filled his nose and he stopped still. It was Pale Mint, a white ground cover that grew at the edge of the permafrost in the north. He would bring it home after some of his excursions and boil it to fill the house with the pleasant smell, a smell that had no place in the warmer climes of a Bittermarchian forest. Had the posse brought some? It seemed unlikely.

He pushed the oddity out of his mind and focused back on the horses. If he could lift the stakes out of the ground, an unexpected gunshot in the night would send the mounts bolting every which way. He could easily escape in the confusion. Rather than press on through the wood, he could take Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Paige, double back to the road, and make for Brighton. They might even find one of the scattered horses and put it to use.

He crouched. There had to be a guard. He would wait and watch a little while longer for him to reveal himself. The odor of Pale Mint again teased his nose. Where was it coming from?

A sharp point jabbed into the nape of his neck. “Stay still.” The barely audible voice was that of a woman, strangely accented. “Hand your rifle back slowly.” He hesitated and the point shifted, a sharp edge sliding along the side of his neck. It felt jagged. “Now, brown man.”

He lifted the rifle and handed it back, someone grabbing it. Whoever it was, she was quiet. The spear tip lifted from his neck.

“Now turn,” she instructed him, “slowly and quietly or we will all die.”

Davon complied, twisting and standing to face the strangers in the darkness. Two women stood on the wide root of the tree near where he had waited, and the smell of mint emanated from them both. North People. The Aua’Catan. Ice miners in the northernmost extents of the Ice Fire Mountains brought stories about the elusive Aua’Catan to Bittermarch, though sightings of the strange, tribal folk were rare.

The women before him were tall, almost as tall as he was, and in the dark he couldn’t tell the two of them apart. Snow white hair flowed down around slender shoulders. They were clad in soft hides, wearing long breeches that hugged their lithe forms. Their leather shirts were open two inches down the middle of their chests, crisscrossed with leather ties. Ice blue eyes regarded him warily, their quartz spears at the ready.

“Now, Brown Man,” one of them said, “we see you have some skill. Come quietly into the fold of the tree with us if you value your life.”

Davon thought of bolting, but if the two mysterious Aua’Catan had wanted him killed, they would have done so already. He was dangerously close to the camp; starting a racket would bring ten armed men down upon them.

He stepped onto the wide root that allowed the two women and their leather boots to tread so quietly. They pulled him into a large fold of the tree, forcing him in between them and standing shoulder to shoulder.

“Now, hold very still,” the one to his right instructed. “You smell of blood and sweat, which will attract them. Our scent will mask yours.”

Davon shifted uncomfortably. “Attract what?”

“The birds, Brown Man. Wait.”

The two Aua’Catan women stood as silently and still as rocks, and even in close quarters, Davon couldn’t so much as hear them breathe. What he could hear just minutes later was a scraping and fluttering coming closer. The terror birds preferred the deep forests of the south, and in all his excursions in Frostbourne he had never crossed one. He wondered how the women had known they would come their direction.

By the racket the birds were making, he guessed that four of the enormous, bipedal animals were passing nearby. From hunter lore he knew the terror birds could stand taller than a man and had hooked beaks for ripping flesh. Their taloned feet walked slowly in a predatory stalk just as he had but moments earlier, but the horses’ sense of smell alerted them to their danger. Nervous whinnies and stamping broke into the night, and at that instant the terror birds shot forward with a long, shrill scream that froze Davon’s heart.

Terror, indeed.

The murderous hunting calls echoed like screams of wrath from the blackest of hearts, rousing the somnolent woods with the shrieks of horses and curses of men. Davon imagined a fresh puddle of urine at Mr. Paige’s feet. His captors kept their stoic vigil; he had to fight his beating heart. Loose horses ran in every direction, hooves pounding through the night, while some of their companions wailed their last. Gunshots rang out. Men howled in agony and others joined the horses in retreat into the forested blackness.

And they waited. Wet, sloppy sounds of meat and gore pulled from bone and belly were their only companions for nearly an hour. At length, the birds finally moved off, and the women ordered him out. Campfire gone, only the scant moonlight provided illumination.

One of the women dug packs out of an adjacent fold of the tree, fumbling inside until she produced a small chunk of fungus that glowed blue, casting enough light to walk by. Davon had never seen its like.

She brought the glowing mass toward him and the other woman. “Read him, Ki’Anla. Quickly.”

Ki’Anla lowered her spear and walked forward, standing toe to toe with him. In the blue light he could see a tattoo on her cheek and more along her arms. Her eyes drilled into his, and then she closed them, bringing up her hand. The thumb and two adjacent fingers stretched long, and the other two bent down. Her palm bore the mark of a leaf, not a tattoo, but a scar like the flames on his palms.

Expunging the breath from her chest with a prolonged exhale, she turned the palm toward her face and touched her forehead, and then reversed it, placing it on his chest over the heart. The sharp smell of Pale Mint flooded him as her face nearly touched his. He breathed out and she breathed in as if sucking in the air from his lungs. For a moment her face registered nothing, and then she smiled, eyes flicking open. She stepped back.

Ki’Anla turned her eyes to the woman behind him. “It is as I told you, Ta. His heart is good. There is love and honor in his wind.”

“What is his war?” Ta’Anla asked.

“Loneliness,” Ki’Anla responded.

“Please,” Davon said, stepping forward. “I—”

Ki’Anla’s spear point dropped to his heart and he raised his hands. The woman’s mouth dropped as did her spear. She darted forward and took his hand, examining his palm.

“Come, Ta. Bring the light.”

“What is it, Ki? We must press on. The birds may return for more carrion.”

“Look. The Brown Man is Flametouched.”

With both women in front of him gawking at his palms, he knew the reason he couldn’t tell them apart in the dark—he couldn’t tell them apart in the light. Every last detail of their appearance was the same, down to the length of hair and the placement of their blue ink tattoos. A length of strange characters ran scandalously down the center of their chests and abdomens.

They turned their gaze upon him. One of them, Ta, he thought, spoke. “We captured the sentry of the lot sleeping around the fire. Ki’s reading of him did not go so well as yours. Take us to your companions, Brown Man.”

“My name is Davon,” he said.

The other grabbed his arm. “A very dull name. Let’s go.”

Apparently, his Flametouched status did not help them trust him. They lowered their spears in his direction and prodded him on without further talk. The blue light provided just enough illumination to negotiate the forest directly at his feet, but no more. He wondered where to acquire some.

Mr. Paige’s sobs directed them toward their camp, quickly followed by a terrified intake of breath. “A ghost! A spirit!” he exclaimed.

“It’s me,” Davon said. “Be calm, Mr. Paige.”

Mr. Goodwin stepped out from behind the concealment of the tree. “What in the dreadful name of everything horrible did you do, Lord Carver? I have never heard such an awful—”

And he saw them and his mouth fell.

Mr. Paige stuck his head around the trunk next, puffy eyes shooting wide. He shrunk back.

“Savages!”

Chapter 32

By the weak light of the blue moss, their mysterious captors marched them away from scene of the terror bird attack and deeper into the forest, calling for a halt just before dawn. Davon’s eyelids begged to close and his limbs hung heavy. The frantic ride to Longford and lack of sleep pushed him to the brink of exhaustion. Mr. Paige and Mr. Goodwin trudged along as if every step were in sticky mud.

Ki’Anla led them forward, carrying his rifle in one hand and a spear in the other, while Ta’Anla brought up the rear of their little party. They led them north and farther from civilization, the opposite of what Davon had hoped. He wanted to get back to the road, get to Brighton, and procure some horses. If he could get the gun back from Ki, he could likely scare the two women off. But in his exhaustion, the risk was too high.

It took little discernment to see the ease and familiarity with which the women handled their spears. They walked with the confidence of predators, heads high, bodies muscled and ready to act at the slightest provocation. Their feet unconsciously avoided the ensnaring branches and rocks, while Mr. Paige’s seemed determined to find every one. Besides their spears, each woman carried a bone knife at her hip, daggers not unlike the ones underneath his coat.

He supposed he could attack them, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Scare them off was all he wanted to do, but if he needed to fight his way back to save Arianne, then he might change his mind. But not now. Sleep was his enemy, and one he wished to surrender to immediately. They halted next to a deep forest pool, water bubbling out of an outcropping of mossy rocks. The sky paled in a clearing of the canopy, a clear day aborning.

“Take your rest, Brown Man,” Ta said.

“Where are you taking us?” Davon asked. “We are on an urgent errand and cannot delay.”

Ki grinned. “We may let you go, once we are sure you won’t get killed. Sleep, Brown Man.”

Davon thought the appellation hardly fair. Their olive skin was just as tanned as his, though less weathered. The two women, clearly twin sisters, stood by the pool and talked in low tones. Their meticulous efforts to look identical astounded him and he wondered at their purpose. They packed their backpacks the same. Their hide clothing was tailored the same down to the rough stitch. It even seemed their hide jerkins had a tear in the collar at the same place. Once the sun was up, he would search for more details. As it was, Ki’s handling of his rifle was his only method of identifying the difference between the two.

He lay on the ground, head on a branch, and sleep took him immediately. Dreams of his encounter with the sabercat near Frostbourne played through his mind, though in the dream he saw the event through the eyes of the animal, staring at himself through the browning strands of grass. A pathetic man stood behind that tree, rifle to his shoulder, a man who had lost his strength and courage. As the sabercat, he crouched, haunches low, ready to run the miserable figure down.

Water splashed on his face. “Up, Brown Man! Eat and get your strength.” One of the sisters walked away from him.

Davon pushed himself up, mind still mired in sleep. The strong but pleasant scent of mint wafted through the clearing. But to Davon’s shock, the North People had multiplied. The woman who woke him was Ta’Anla, he surmised, as Ki, still holding his rifle, was speaking to an older man near the edge of the pool where a variety of foods waited on a lengthy strip of unrolled leather. The Aua’Catan numbered at least ten now, mostly men standing post around the pool.

Like the women, the men wore jerkin-like vests, but without the ties to hold them together in the middle. The men were all bald, possessing the same ice-blue eyes as Ki and Ta. Spears, bows, and knives were in hand or in sheaths, and they regarded their captives with blank expressions. Save for the man with whom Ki conversed, all were younger than Davon was or about the same age. Like Ki and Ta, they walked and watched like hunters; escape by intimidation had become impossible.

Ta’Anla roused Davon’s two companions, both groaning at the unwanted pull from slumber. Davon helped them to their feet, both dismayed at the addition of new members to their party. Mr. Paige mumbled “dirty savages” under his breath and shrank against a tree trunk as if scared one of them might stare him to death.

Mr. Goodwin followed Davon toward the food. “What do they want with us?” the old man asked. “What are they doing in Bittermarch?”

Davon shook his head. “I cannot fathom why they would be so far south. They don’t seem disposed to be friendly, I’m afraid.”

Dried apples, jerky, and a broad nut Davon didn’t recognize beckoned to his empty belly, and he sampled from each one. The meaty nut tasted sweet, and he wolfed down several, the two sisters looking on. Ki had given the rifle to the older man, so Davon could no longer tell which sister was which.

One spoke. “Do not eat too many of those, Brown Man, or you will not sleep tonight.”

Davon stood. “I beg of you to let us go on our way. We must get to Bellshire on urgent business. If you want the gun, then take it as payment for our release.”

The older man frowned and stepped toward him. “I am no thief and want nothing you possess.” He held out the rifle and Davon retrieved it. “Ki, did you read this man?”

“Yes. There is no dishonor in him. His name is Davon. He is Flametouched, as is the old man.”

Now that he knew who Ki was, Davon stared at the two women trying to find some way to distinguish them.

The North Man grinned, wrinkling two tattoos at the edge of his mouth and one between his eyes. “It is easy to tell them apart, Davon. Ki is the pretty one and Ta the funny one. I am Ju’Jal. They are my daughters.” He turned toward them. “Ki, read the other two. Davon, explain to me what business you have in this place.”

“This is the Queen’s land,” Davon replied. “I might ask you the same.”

Ju’Jal stared at him, eyes hard. “Some places cannot belong to anyone, Davon. What do you do here?”

“There is some conspiracy against Bellshire. The man Justus Paige—the one with the wounded head—holds the secrets to expose it. The men who want those secrets buried want him dead before we get him back to Bellshire. We fled here under duress. Will you let us go?”

“We’ll see,” he answered.

Ki stepped to Mr. Goodwin, who scratched his unkempt sideburns, clearing out detritus that had collected there during his repose. As she had done with him the night before, Ki touched her forehead with two fingers and then placed them over Mr. Goodwin’s heart, standing nose to nose with him.

After a moment she stepped back, face concerned.

“Well?” Ju’Jal prompted.

“He is as bitter as the Wasting Wind, but his cause is just.”

“His war?” Ju’Jal asked.

“Anger. He fights it with drink.”

“The other one.”

Justus Paige’s eyes shot wide, and he skirted away from Ki as she approached. Two of the sturdy Aua’Catan men grabbed his arms and held him in place. Justus whimpered at her approach.

“Keep away!”

But the hands on his arms held fast, and Ki repeated her ritual.

Her face turned to disgust, and she stepped back and spit in his face.

“This man is poison! Vile poison!”

“His war?” Ju’Jal prompted calmly.

“Greed. He has lost. It rules his heart. Let me kill him.”

“No!” Davon interjected. “He deserves death, but we need him so we may find others that deserve the same fate and free those who may be falsely accused.”

Ju’Jal nodded. “Come away, Ki. I am convinced that Davon and his companion are part of a worthy cause, and we will escort them to the forest edge unharmed. First, they must be fed, bathed, and scented as befits the hospitality of our people.”

Davon closed his eyes in relief. “I thank you, Ju’Jal. Are you a hunting party?”

“No. The hunting is poor here unless you seek the dens of predators or enjoy the meat of the sloth. Our business is our own.”

Davon nodded in gratitude. He knelt by the pool, shoveling water into his face.

One of the women stepped forward. “All the way in, Brown Man.” Planting her foot on his rump, she pushed him in. The pool was deeper than he was tall, and it was cold. He pushed back up to the surface, his coat and boots dragging him down. He surfaced just in time to hear the laughter die down, the twin who had kicked him in smiling at him mischievously.

“I am sorry, Brown Man,” she said. “But you stink all over.”

After thrashing around for a few moments he found a place shallow enough to stand. He removed his coat, boots, and knives and threw them on the shore at the woman’s feet. Her eyes went wide.

“Ta! Ju’Jal!” she said. “Come see!”

So that’s Ki, the pretty one.

Davon watched as she removed the knives from his discarded belt, holding them up to admire them. He had killed the sabercat from which he extracted the teeth shortly after his marriage to Emile. It was a young male that had tracked him and Ceril for nearly two miles. He had sharpened the fangs, hardened them with resins that seeped into the pores, and then sharpened them again. He used the softened hide of the sabercat to wrap the hilt, capping the pommel with smoothed domes of obsidian rock.

Ki, Ta, and Ju’Jal admired his work, and while they spoke Davon finally found what he had been searching for: both Ki and Ta sported a spiral tattoo emanating from their navels. Ki’s circled left and Ta’s circled right.

“Brown Man!” Ta called. “Where did you get these? Did you buy them from an Aua’Catan?”

“I fashioned them almost three years ago after I took a sabercat in a hunt.”

“Did you kill it with your weapon?” Ki asked, a hint of disdain staining her tone.

“With my rifle, yes.”

“This is good craft,” Ju’Jal said. “Who taught you?”

“I taught myself as a boy,” Davon said, hauling himself out.

“I will trade my blue moss for the both of them,” Ki offered. “I saw your eyes on it. It is very handy in the dark.”

“No, thank you.”

“Just one of the knives, then,” she said.

“No. The daggers have great value for me.”

“But—”

“That will do, Ki,” Ju’Jal said. “Scent him, and Ta, get the other two in. We need to leave soon.”

Ki looked disappointed about the daggers. “Remove your shirt, Brown Man.”

“What?”

She bent down, rummaging through her pack. “Remove your shirt. You must be scented.”

“I don’t see that—”

“Hush, Brown Man!” she cautioned, rising with what appeared to be a small gourd. “It would not be wise to offend my people, seeing that you are outnumbered. The scenting of the Pale Mint makes the wearer invisible to the nose of predators. It is customary to wear it before any journey or any hunt. Besides, it would help you not smell like the backside of a mammoth.”

He could suffer one more indignity if it would get them out of the woods without a spear in their backs. He undid the buttons of his shirt and removed it while Ki opened the gourd, dipping her fingers in the pale salve.

When she looked up, she dropped the container.

“Ju’Jal!” she yelled, stepping back, face wide with shock. Her tone silenced everyone, eyes of the warriors turning toward them, postures tensing.

“What is it now, Ki?” he asked, turning around. Ki pointed to the three scars from the sabercat attack running down his chest.

Ju’Jal’s brows furrowed and he stepped forward, inspecting the marks. “How did you receive these wounds?”

“I was hunting a sabercat. My weapon misfired. The sabercat knocked me down and then scratched my chest as you see here.”

“Was it a female?” Ju’Jal inquired.

“Yes.”

“And why did she not finish you? Did you kill her with your knives? Scare her off?”

Davon’s mind raced. These Aua’Catan seemed amazed or maybe even worried. It was just a wound. “No. She watched me for a moment, roared to the wind, and left. It was a frightening ordeal and I am lucky to have survived it.”

Ki turned to her father. “Is he Khodo Khim?”

Ju’Jal threw her a meaningful look and then turned back to Davon. “I will send men to escort your two companions to a place of your choosing. You will come with us to Jun’Kal.”

“To where? I need to go with my companions! They are defenseless, as you see.”

“You come with us, willingly or by the spear,” Ju’Jal said. His face had lost the carefree friendliness it had possessed just minutes before. “My sons will deliver your companions to safety.”

His sons? This wasn’t a patrol or a band of warriors. This was family—albeit a family with an apparent aptitude for fighting. Davon weighed his options. He couldn’t have Justus Paige and Mr. Goodwin wander into Brighton without his help; the Lord and Lady Brighton were implicated in the scheme. With any luck, the Aua’Catan’s business with him would be short or he could escape them in the night. Hightower would have to do.

“I will agree to go with you if you deliver Mr. Paige and Mr. Goodwin to Hightower to the east.”

Ju’Jal nodded his assent, and the tension in the clearing melted away. “Scent him, Ki. And Ta, finish with these two. Let’s break camp.”

Ki returned to him, retrieving her scenting gourd. “Arms up, Brown Man.” While the appellation was the same, the tone was different—quieter, more reverent. After dipping her fingers in the viscous substance, she applied it to the center of his chest and back, finishing with his underarms.

“What is Khodo Kim?” he asked. “And where is this Jun’Kal you are taking me to?”

Ki replaced the gourd in her pack. “Jun’Kal is the home of the Aua’Catan, the last stronghold of our people. The history of the Khodo Khim is lost to you?”

Davon retrieved his shirt, pulling it on. He had to admit that the mint smell was an improvement. “I have never heard the name.”

“There are four Primal Forces…”

“Yes,” Davon said. “Fire, Water, Air, and Earth. That I know.”

“Don’t interrupt,” Ki scolded. “The Primal Forces created the Khodo, a blending of all four, in the form of a great beast. It is the fifth Primal Force, a child of the Primes. As with the other Forces, the Khodo may choose one to embody its force. You call the chosen of the Primal Flame—or the Eternal Flame, as you call it—Lord Ember. The chosen of the Khodo is Khodo Khim.”

“It was just an average female sabercat that scratched these scars into my chest. Hardly a great beast.”

“The Khodo may appear as she wishes, Brown Man.”

Davon shook his head. This was a waste of time. He needed to get back to Arianne, defend her if the courts had charged her. He gathered his bag and his gun. Ta was dragging Mr. Goodwin out of the pool, Mr. Paige already having rolled himself over the edge, leaves sticking to his soft, wet flesh.

“Even if I were this Khodo Khim, what good would it do for your people?”

Ki crouched, repacking her belongings. “The Khodo Khim can find Primal Forces. It can move any of them, as well. It was the ancient murderer Creetis who sought to destroy the Primal Forces. The Khodo Khim at the time hid them before Creetis murdered her.”

Davon had only heard that Creetis had banished the worship of the Primal Forces when he united the Northern Tribes long ago. He had actually sought to destroy them? Was destroying them even possible?

“But if only the Khodo Khim could find and move the Primal Forces, how did the Eternal Flame come to be in Joris Pulsipher’s cooking pot?”

Ki smirked. “Figure it out, Brown Man.”

Davon saw where she was going. “You’re saying that Joris Pulsipher was Khodo Khim?”

She shook her head. “No. Joris Pulsipher didn’t pull the Eternal Flame through the bitter winter mountains or across the Cloud River.”

“The Bull?”

“Your head is a little frozen, Brown Man, but I see a thawing in your eyes.”

“So you’re saying this Khodo Khim found the Primal Fire and then arranged for Joris to find it? But a bull is, well, an animal, not a man.”

“And so is the Khodo. No more questions.”

Davon shook his head as Ki wandered off to help her sister scent his two shivering companions. He had never been a student of history. The years he should have spent in school he spent trying to save his estate from destitution. The great bull that had pulled the sacred flame to Bittermarch was a national symbol. He knew of no other lore that would suggest that it had been anything other than a docile beast that had chewed straw in a pasture for the rest of its existence.

Mr. Goodwin, scented and bathed, shuffled over looking like a drowned rat. The water had plastered his bushy sideburns to his face. “I don’t like this, Davon. What do these savages want with you?”

“I don’t know, but listen carefully. They have agreed to see you safely to Hightower. It will take about three days for you to arrive. When you do, Lady Hightower may be there or she may be imprisoned.”

“Imprisoned?” he asked, brows furrowing.

“Yes. Her clerks falsely implicated her in this scheme that Mr. Paige is involved in. In either case, at Hightower you should find a Mr. Saunders. He knows me. He is an old soldier and he can advise you best on how to safely convey Mr. Paige to Bellshire and the Lord High Sheriff. Do not delay. When the Aua’Catan are done with me, I will make for Hightower and then Bellshire as quickly as I can.”

Mr. Goodwin nodded. “Very well, though you will owe me a bottle of rum for having to babysit Mr. Paige.”

Davon shook Mr. Goodwin’s hand. “Done. Feel free to administer whatever justice you see fit to get him to talk.”

The old man grinned. “You know I wouldn’t spare that filthy man a moment of pain. I just hope when they drown him they let me crank the cage down into the water.”

Davon nodded and the party split in two. Ju’Jal, his two daughters, and two of his sons took charge of him, while the rest shepherded Mr. Paige and Mr. Goodwin away from the clearing, heading east.

“Which way, Ki?” Davon asked, throwing his rifle over his shoulder.

“North out of the forest and into the mountains. And I am Ta.”

“No, you are Ki.”

Her eyebrows raised before she turned and led the way toward the primitive heart of the forest.

Chapter 33

Davon’s anxiety grew at every setting of the sun on the long journey northward. For six days they marched north at a blistering pace, keeping to the back country wildlands. The evening before they had passed Windgate, the northernmost town of Bittermarch—a place more lonely and forsaken than Frostbourne.

Windgate supported the only industry possible in the high plains: ice mining. The place was a hive of rogues and a nest of squalor, and his Aua’Catan captors steered clear of the city proper and its many clusters of rotting shacks where the itinerant workers passed their evenings. Davon’s nose twitched in disgust at the smells carried to him on the wind, odors of decay, tar, and alcohol that mixed with strands of gray smoke issuing from coal braziers.

The unforgiving rocky foothills of the northern edge of the Ice Fire Mountains provided plenty of places to scrabble by unseen, though the terrain sported little foliage other than sparse clumps of hearty junipers that had survived the brutal Wasting Wind in winter time. The hard ground and arid summer climate forced the grass to search out low bowls and shady cracks to find purchase for their roots.

That morning they stopped briefly by a gurgling brook issuing from a steep canyon ahead of them. The red granite peaks of the Ice Fire Mountains gashed into the sky, though this far north a permanent cap of ice and snow clung to their steep declines. The shape of the soaring rock was rough-hewn, like a great ax had cut down at angles, creating near vertical slopes and irregular fissures that gave the impression of a work just beginning.

Within the steep canyons and along any forgiving slope, fir trees grew in close communion one with another, roots straining into the creeks that trickled down from what water the sun could liberate from the glacial fields. A chill wind blew down the canyon and into Davon’s face, bringing with it the clean breath of pristine air that had always calmed him, invigorated his muscles, and cleared his mind. The raw, feral vista confirmed that they had left civilization far behind them, but the pleasant scene couldn’t calm his heart.

Arianne. He felt like he had abandoned her, that he should have tried harder to slip away and return to her side. He had no idea what the Aua’Catan wanted with him, or why it mattered so much whether he was Khodo Khim or not. Arianne Hightower needed his help now, and he got farther from her with every step.

Ki walked over to him, and leaned on her spear. Davon had nearly accustomed himself to their form fitting leathers and scanty jerkins. Her ice blue eyes regarded him for a moment.

“I see that you are losing the war today, Brown Man,” she said.

“How do you mean? What war?”

“Remember the reading I gave you?” she prompted.

“Yes.”

“You war is loneliness,” she said. “You are losing today.”

Davon looked away. He didn’t think she had the right of it. The war was a need to help Arianne escape false accusation and imprisonment. Though if he were honest with himself, he missed the gentle Lady Hightower a great deal.

“Why do people always ask you what the war of others is?”

“It is my gift,” she said.

“From Primal Air. That’s the leaf mark on your palms.” He had reasoned this out earlier.

“Yes.”

“So it is a discernment of people’s character?”

She shifted her weight, and Davon tried to ignore the shapes her body made when she did so. Such scandalous clothing.

“I sense what a person values and I see their war. The Aua’Catan believe that everyone has a war. It is necessary.”

“Why?” Davon asked.

“Everyone is given a war so that they may struggle, so they can conquer or be conquered. Even if one is weak in the world, he may be mighty in his heart. Without the war, there could be no strength, no conviction, no honor.”

Davon nodded. An interesting concept. “And what strength would a victory against loneliness give me? What conviction?”

Ki smiled. “Love, Brown Man. A love that fills. A love that is given on the one hand but restored on the other.” She paused for a moment. “I do have a question for you. What is your gift from the Primal Fire? Is it something to do with the carving you do every night? I’ve never seen anyone who can do it so quickly.”

He ran his fingers through his hair and looked away for a moment. Had she, too, sensed that he had made something for her and her sister? The wood had called to him the first night they encamped inside the Royal Wood after his capture.

“Yes,” he replied. “I see shapes in the wood and the gift helps me carve them. And I know who they are for.”

She nodded as if this were unsurprising. “The Primal Air has gifted several people in our village with skills at crafting, everything from bones to boats to leather.”

“My carvings come alive.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Really? Now that is a new thing, Brown Man. Do you have something for me?”

She does know. “Yes. And your sister.”

“Now?”

He opened his bag. “Yes.”

Her smile widened. “Ta! Come. The Brown Man has a gift for us!”

Ta, never very far from her sister, walked over, a bemused look on her face. “Is it one of his carvings? I saw him working on them.”

Ki nodded. Davon reached into his bag and pulled them out—a pair of identical snow finches. While not painted white as he would have liked to have done, they were intricate and life-like down to the individual striations on the feathers.

They reached for them, but Davon pulled them back. “Wait. I want you to command them to come to you.”

“What?” Ta asked, face perplexed.

“He says his carvings are alive,” Ki explained.

Davon extended his hands, one bird on top of each. “Extend your palms. Now, send your thoughts to the bird, command it to come to you.”

Ki got the hang of it first, her bird bursting to life and hopping from Davon’s hand to hers. Ta’s followed close after. As the sabercat carving had done for Elaine, these gifts brought wonderment and joy to the twins’ faces, and before long they had the birds flying in low circles around the camp and perching on their shoulders.

“Thank you, Brown Man,” Ki called back distractedly as she and her sisters provided demonstrations for the rest of their family.

“Perhaps we should bond him,” Ta said.

Ki giggled in response. “Maybe we should.”

Davon had no idea what they meant and didn’t feel inclined to inquire further.

Ju’Jal, grinning ear to ear, strode over. “That is an interesting gift from the Primal Fire. Quite a delight for my daughters. I thank you. They can be a rather grim pair, and it warms me to see them smile. But I do come to tell you something you may not wish to hear. We are near my home. We will see it before evening.”

“That is a relief,” Davon said, heart easing at the news. “How long will you keep me?”

“Not long, I think,” Ju’Jal answered vaguely. “But the entrance to Jun’Kal is hidden, a secret place we found during the days of that demon Creetis and his purges. You are not Aua’Catan and will be the first outsider we have brought to Jun’Kal in ages. I must ask you to go blindfolded.”

“If it will bring me closer to my release, then I will agree.”

“Thank you,” Ju’Jal said. “I mean you no dishonor.”

“None taken. Lead on.”

Ju’Jal beckoned to his daughter, Ki, and assigned her the task of tying a soft piece of well worked hide over his eyes, plunging him into darkness.

She placed the end of her spear in his hand. “Hold to this. I’ll try to keep you upright.”

The arrangement kept the pace slow as the terrain roughened, Davon stumbling on unseen rocks and rolling his feet on roots and fallen branches.

“Try not to find every one, Brown Man,” Ki admonished.

Without his sight, Davon absorbed the sounds around him. They crossed a shallow, gurgling creek twice, slippery rocks nearly sending him into the bitterly cold glacial water. As they penetrated deeper into the trees, the shadows brought a new chill but also an explosion of bird song. The scent of fir was so strong it stung his sensitive nose.

The air continued to cool as they ascended, his hike smoother as they stuck to a switchbacking trail that continued steeply upward. They stopped to eat, Ki placing food in his hand, unwilling to risk removing his blindfold. He wanted to rip it off, and not just for his own safety. He longed to see what views their hike afforded, the explorer within him hungry for a feast of new sights.

After the meal, his stumbling journey took him over a talus field that twisted his ankle more than once, past waterfalls that misted his face, and up steep inclines that required him to scrabble on three limbs while holding to Ki’s spear. The temperature dipped as the sun fell, and became colder still as they passed through an opening that robbed the sun of its strength completely. A breeze carried the cold of winter with it, stealing through his coat to bump his skin.

“We will take the blindfold off now,” Ki informed him. “I hope you are not afraid of high places.”

Davon blinked as the leather fell away from his eyes. Even though the light was weak, it took a moment to adjust his eyes to his environment. Behind him a wall of blue ice rose into the air, a small wedge shaped crack providing them entrance to a cavern that comfortably fit them all. In front of him a red granite cliff shot up fifty feet, the wall of ice curving to meet the wall of stone at the top. The ice had the appearance of a frozen waterfall.

Near the top of the high ceiling a cave entrance waited, a crack twice as high as a man and twice as wide. The Aua’Catan had chiseled hand and footholds into the granite that led up to the crack, though even with those helps, the climb seemed treacherous. As Davon watched, one of Ju’Jal’s sons started his ascent, a climb clearly familiar to him as he confidently worked his way up.

So self-assured in their skill were they that they did not wait for the first person to clear before more joined to climb. Davon went after Ki, followed by Ta and Ju’Jal.

“Always look up,” Ki cautioned him, though looking up only afforded him a view of her backside. Despite the chill, they still hadn’t layered on any more clothing.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked.

“We are children of the North,” Ki answered. “We are a bit heartier than you southlanders.”

The rough granite provided plenty of purchase for his fingers, though the narrow slots were not suited to the thick toe of his bulky boots. He found himself balancing on the narrow tips as he pushed himself up. He had enough slips that Ta backed down, probably fearing an errant boot might find her face.

Ki helped pull him up and into the cave. While dark, a soft light leaked into the cave from just around a bend and provided enough illumination to traverse it comfortably. The entire cavern was little more than a crack in a granite wall, narrowing enough to force them to walk sideways for a short distance. At the end it widened, opening to the beautiful pearl pinks and purple blues of an evening sky.

Jun’Kal stretched before him, taking his breath for a moment. They stood on a broad shelf overlooking a forested bowl nestled at the base of the ice-capped daggers of the Ice Fire Mountains. A blue lake the color of the Aua’Catan’s eyes dominated the center of the bowl, fed by melting ice. And then he saw the source of the glowing blue moss; it ringed the shore of the lake, glowing weakly in the evening light. At night it would shine. He made a note to grab some before he left.

Slender arms of the lake shot into the forest, and huts formed of bones draped with furs lined the shores and hid amid the slender pines. While not an Elder Wood, the thin trunks of the fir trees shot high into the air and swayed in an evening breeze warmer that Davon would have expected.

The shelf in front of them dropped nearly two hundred feet to the valley floor where a large wooden lodge backed against the cliff edge. The long building was formed by leaning logs against a center beam and packing the spaces between the timber with daub. The Aua’Catan had cleared the wood in a wide circle in front of the building, a deep fire pit in the center big enough to host a bonfire. Totems of bone and wood surrounded the area, and well-worn paths snaked away from this gathering place to create various avenues in the woods.

White haired women and bald men milled about, and families had gathered near their huts. The smoke from several fires blanketed the forest with haze, tendrils drifting out of the wood to hover above the water.

“What do you think, Brown Man,” Ki asked, leaning on her spear. “Do you miss your cobbled streets and houses so big one could get lost in them?”

Davon regarded her, finding her eyes teasing. “It is a beautiful place,” he commented truthfully. The primitive simplicity of the scene spoke to his heart. “Though a warm meal and a warm bed do sound appealing at the end of a long journey.”

“Come,” Ki beckoned. “While not your Bellshire, you will find that Jun’Kal is not without its comforts.”

Their party left, walking along the shelf as it descended to a rocky talus field where a path had been cleared among the rock. After this, they switchbacked through the woods until they emerged at the clearing in front of the lodge.

Ju’Jal called to Ki and Ta. “I go to speak with the A’Kor and the T’Mak. Prepare him. My sons, keep the people from him.”

Ta sauntered over, a grin on her face. “What my father and Ki have likely neglected to tell you is that we kill outsiders. Amusing how we left that detail out, isn’t it?”

Her tone was teasing, but her sister nodded in agreement. “Yes. But don’t fear, Brown Man. If you are Khodo Khim, you will be afforded your place here.”

“How will they know if I am or not?” he asked, feeling nervous.

“It is simple,” Ki answered. “You will go to the Seeing Wall. All Tamal u’Khan do.”

“Tamal u’Khan?”

“One chosen to represent the Primal Force. Like your Lord Ember. If you truly have been chosen by the Primal Beast and are Khodo Khim, you will be welcome here, as Lord Ember would be, if he cared to come.”

“And if I’m not?”

Ta fielded this question, leaning in close to his ear. “Then you will freeze to death at the Seeing Wall.”

I should have tried harder to escape, he thought.

People gathered around the clearing, bald boys and men, white haired women and girls. While curiosity and wonder at the stranger played on their lips, a suspicious hostility lingered in their eyes. More than one of the men had his eye on Davon’s rifle and he gripped it tightly. Ju’Jal’s sons surrounded him, motioning for the gawkers to stay back.

“Have you discovered any of the other Primal Forces besides Air?” Davon asked, keeping an eye on the crowd.

“No,” Ki responded. “Only Fire and Air are known to us. We seek the others.”

A man emerged from the lodge, tall and shirtless. A multitude of necklaces hung about his neck, each strung with bone carvings of runes, people, and animals. He was older, crow’s feet fanning away from the corners of his eyes, but his frame still held power. His ice blue eyes burned with anger as he regarded Davon, a single obsidian blade clutched in his hand.

Ju’Jal walked at his side, speaking animatedly, but whatever he said did not dissipate the fury in the man’s eyes. Behind him came a woman, also of older mien. She, too, was weighed down with many of the same kinds of necklaces. Like all the women, she wore a jerkin, but a white fur stole hung about her shoulders, as did a leather thong with two pouches on each end dangling about.

Ki leaned in. “The man is A’Kor, what you might call a King or a War Leader. The woman is our T’Mak, a Queen or Priestess. I caution you to be very calm. The A’Kor is an angry man and does not brook weakness. Stand firm.”

The A’Kor was taller than he first appeared, even taller than Davon himself. Davon steeled himself and met the indignant gaze of the approaching A’Kor without flinching. The bone trinkets tinkled against each other as they swayed from the motion of the A’Kor’s determined stride. Davon tried not to focus on the wicked looking dagger gripped in his palm.

Without fear or hesitation, the A’Kor stood toe to toe with Davon, eyes bearing down as if to yank out his soul and hold it up for inspection.

“You read this foreigner?” the A’Kor said, directing his question to Ki but keeping his eyes on Davon.

“I did. He is a man of honor.”

“Are you sure?” the A’Kor said, eyes pegged to Davon’s. “Is your judgment clouded, perhaps, by the gifts your father has told me of?”

“I read him before I knew of his gifts.”

The A’Kor retreated a step. “Show me, Spear Sisters, that I may believe.”

The two women produced the carvings from their backpacks, and let them fly, much to the astonishment of the onlookers.

Davon relaxed for a moment as the A’Kor’s dour face briefly shared in the wonderment. But without waiting for Ta and Ki to finish their demonstration, he stepped forward and with a quick slice of his dagger ripped Davon’s shirt from the collar to his belt. Instinctively, Davon dropped his rifle and pulled his sabercat knives.

Ju’Jal interposed himself between the two men who stared a silent challenge at one another. “He only wishes to see the mark, Davon,” Ju’Jal soothed.

“Who gave him the daggers?” the A’Kor hissed. “A trade for the carvings, perhaps?”

“He fashioned them,” Ki answered.

“Lies!” A’Kor spat. “The Bittermarchians and Creetisians care nothing for wood or sacred bone. They prefer their metal and their rifles.”

“I made them after a hunt,” Davon asserted. “It is a craft I learned as a youth.” He spun the daggers, pointing them hilt first at the A’Kor. “You can have them, if it pleases you.”

The A’Kor kept his eyes on him, but returned his own obsidian dagger to his belt. “Keep your daggers,” he said, “and show me the mark.”

Davon twirled his daggers and resheathed them, his dexterous movements eliciting appreciative nods from the crowd. Ki winked at him, a bare grin on her lips. Davon opened his ruined shirt. The T’Mak joined the A’Kor, inspecting the scars.

“Tell them, Davon, how you came by the scars,” Ju’Jal prompted.

Under the enthralled gaze of the Aua’Catan, Davon recounted the tale of his misadventure while hunting the sabercat. Everyone nearby kept craning their necks to get a look at his chest.

When Davon finished, the A’Kor frowned more deeply than before.

“I cannot believe that Khodo would return and not choose one of the Snow Born to be her servant. The Kai will take this man to the Seeing Wall tomorrow. We will let the ice have its way with this outlander and see then if Khodo would choose such a man to be her Tamal u’Khan.

“Ju’Jal, remove his weapons from him and place him under guard tonight. Your family has custody of him until morning. If you take pity on him and he escapes, one of your children will be held as a death debt until he is either killed or captured. Do you understand?

“Yes, A’Kor,” Ju’Jal said.

“Then remove him. Light the Pahk fire!”

The A’Kor and T’Mak walked back toward the lodge while a fire was lit in the large pit in the center of the clearing. Davon shook his head, eying the crack in the canyon wall above the lodge, the one he had passed through to enter the primitive valley. It was hard to see with the deepening of evening, but he had half a mind to find out if any of the Aua’Catan warriors could catch him if he made a break for it. Judging by their long legs and defined musculature, he calculated they could run him down with ease.

Ju’Jal collected his rifle and put out his hands for the daggers. “I mean no disrespect, Davon. I am sorry the A’Kor has seen fit to treat you as a prisoner. I did not foresee his anger. He has no love for outsiders, but I thought that the possibility of finding Khodo Khim would sway him to show more hospitality.”

Davon placed his daggers in Ju’Jal’s hand. “I’ll want these back.”

“And you shall have them.”

“Come, Brown Man,” Ki said. “Our family lodgings are not far.”

The family encircled him to keep the throng from him, leading the way out of the gathering place—the Pahk, Ki explained—and out onto a winding pathway through the trees. Traveling to the lodgings of Ju’Jal took them halfway around the lake where they found a series of five huts made from draping hides over a conglomeration of wood and bone tied and bent into a tight frame. The huts bunched around a small clearing—the family Pahk—and Ju’Jal ordered his sons to start a fire.

A log with a top and bottom shaved flat served as a bench, and Davon sat down, Ta and Ki flanking him. Ta reached up and pulled at his hair.

“It is so odd to see a man with hair,” she said, giving it a tug as if to prove its authenticity.

“And on his face, too!” Ki said, rubbing his beard.

“Please, ladies, I—”

They laughed. “Ladies!” Ki exclaimed. “We are not your painted ladies with their frilly, useless dresses.”

I’ve noticed. “You’ve seen them, then?”

“From a distance,” Ta said, “though I do wonder how they keep their clothes out of the fire.”

Ki nodded. “And who is your painted lady, Brown Man? Or are you poor and love a woman who cannot pay to make her face into another?”

“I have no Lady,” he said. “Now if you would—”

“You lie,” Ki said. “You forget that I took your breath into me. You breathe her in and out with every rise and fall of your chest.”

“I have no commitment with anyone,” Davon amended.

“You have not bonded her?” Ta asked.

Davon had suspicions about what that meant. “We are not married, nor are we engaged to be so.”

The fire started to lick the branches, casting a healthy orange glow on the faces of his two companions, their eyes eager and absorbing.

“Tell us of these rituals, Brown Man,” Ki prompted.

Davon exhaled. He had nothing better to do. While he explained the intricacies of courtship, engagement, and marriage, their expressions evolved from interested, to surprised, to horrified.

“And so, if you wanted to marry this woman you love, you would ask permission of the father unless you feel he will object, in which case you—what was the word? Lope?”

“Elope,” Davon said. “Though it is generally frowned upon.”

Ta and Ki exchanged a look and then burst out laughing.

“We are sorry to mock you,” Ki said, “but it is such a terrible mess. You bring your woman here. Then you can just bond her and be done.”

“What does that mean?” Davon asked, afraid of what she might say.

“Bondings happen on the first snowfall,” Ki explained. “Those who wish to share a tent together do so on that night and they are bonded. Parents have no say in the matter.”

Davon had to admit that the simplicity of it was appealing given his present circumstances, but it did lack that air of celebration and ritual that would memorialize it.

“Are either of you bonded?” Davon asked.

Ta frowned. “No. We are Spear Sisters. That means that whatever man wants to bond with one of us must bond with both of us. And we will not bond with a man until he can tell us apart.”

“I see,” Davon said. Odd, indeed. He decided not to bring up that he knew how to sort them out. “But I must ask you, the A’Kor mentioned that I am to go to the Seeing Wall with the Kai. What does any of that mean?”

Ki stood, extending her hands toward the nascent fire. “Whenever a Primal Force chooses someone to be a Tamal u’Khan they are taken to the Seeing Wall where they are tested. We do not know what happens. Only my father, who is the Tamal u’Khan of Primal Air, has undergone it in our lifetime. The Kai and A’Kor will take you there.”

“Kai?”

“There is one Kai for each of the Primal Forces. Only my father actually has the right to represent a Primal Force, but until the others are found or are within our grasp, three others stand in place as Kai until there are true Tamal u’Khan to represent Fire, Water, and Earth. If you are truly Khodo Khim, then you will be the Tamal u’Khan over the Primal Beast.”

“And the A’Kor will have to accept you,” Ta added.

Davon’s mind swam with all the new terms, finding he didn’t want to learn them. He wanted to get up and leave immediately, get back to Arianne, and punish those who wanted to hurt her. He itched to do it.

Ki returned and sat at his side as the fire grew full enough to wash its heat over them, casting its orange blush on the branches all around them. A warm exhaustion pulled at his tired mind and eyelids as the heat grew.

Two of Ju’Jal’s sons approached with a spit punched through the carcass of several large rabbits. In minutes, a savory smell called to his famished nostrils. The meat hissed, grease dripping into the fire, the smell watering his mouth. Hunger from the long march gnawed at him. His two companions played with their bird carvings, sending them diving at their brothers and laughing at the result of their pranks.

Footsteps behind them turned them all around. A grave-faced A’Kor, two men, and an older woman plied the trail to Ju’Jal’s huts.

“Where’s Ju’Jal?” the A’Kor asked of one of the brothers.

“I am here,” Ju’Jal answered, emerging from his tent.

“Get the outsider up,” the A’Kor said. “We go to the Seeing Wall now.”

“Now?” Ju’Jal returned in surprise.

“As I said. We cannot risk the contamination of this outsider a moment longer. I and the rest of the Kai agree on this point. We go. He will face his destiny or his doom.”

Chapter 34

After ten days of grueling travel, Miss Ironhorn announced that they would at last see Frostbourne before the sun set. The fine black carriage commissioned on the Queen’s farthing carried Arianne and Missa, Emile and Orianna, across a bumpy road through open fields of grass covered hills. The brooding sky and stiff wind matched the mood of the women that bounced along in silence. Arianne kept her gaze pegged to the outdoors. While warm in temperature, the northwestern reaches of the Tahbor’s duchy felt cold. When they crossed the Ebb River, Emile pointed out the road that led south to the city of Tahbor and promptly burst into tears as it reminded her of her now ex-fiancée.

Arianne couldn’t bring herself to comfort the young woman. Emile had tortured them for ten days, and neither Arianne nor the lady’s maids had a kind thought in their heads for the embittered, opportunistic woman. For the first three days she had cried uncontrollably, wailing about how the Earl of Tahbor would never want her again and how her life was ruined. The fourth and fifth days she cursed Davon with all manner of vulgar language that she could conjure. It was all Arianne could do not to reach out and slap the woman. Orianna clearly felt the same. Days six through eight Emile plotted out her future course. She had, quite humbly, admitted that her chances of being a duke’s wife were now slim, so she relegated herself to naming off the likely candidates among the Marquesses.

This animated frenzy of hopeful prognostications died on day nine when Miss Ironhorn settled into an irritable depression that had persisted since then. She was quite convinced now that no man of consequence would ever want her and she would have to go rooting around in the dirt after the sons of Barons and Knights. The only relief for Arianne was that Emile’s unremitting self-absorption had spared her any need to remark or offer opinions on anything. That Emile Ironhorn thought that Arianne hated Davon as much as she did was plainly evident, but everyone else in the carriage knew the opposite was true, the three of them sharing furtive looks to lend their miserable confinement some levity.

The road took them north that morning, the fragrant spruce boughs of the Windhill Forest finally relieving the bleak monotony of the grassy plains. The four mounted carriage guards pulled in close; the northern woods were known for their packs of dire wolves. As the afternoon wore on, the iron walls of gray covering the sun finally broke into ragged shreds of clouds, the afternoon light burning their feathered edges. Emile, pale and silent, wiped her eyes and sat up as the sharp scent of the trees filled the carriage, blown in on a vigorous breeze.

“How I hate that smell,” she said. “That stench pervades Frostbourne. Those trees surround the house. Davon refused to cut them down. That shall be first thing I do when we get there. I’ll have those trees chopped down just to spite him so that if the Queen ever does reinstate him—which I doubt—he will come back to find those nasty trees of his just piles to be burned! I shall swing the ax myself if it comes to it.” She reached out and took Arianne’s hand. “And I shall let you have a swing at one yourself, for Lord Cornton’s sake.”

Arianne snatched her hand away. “You insult my honor if you think that I would stoop to such petty schemes of revenge.”

“He killed your husband!”

“Defending your honor, Miss Ironhorn,” Arianne returned.

“His defense was unnecessary,” Emile said haughtily.

“Yes it was,” Arianne agreed. Unnecessary and pointless. “But it was done, and done for you. Did you ever thank him for it?”

“Thank Lord Carver?”

“Yes,” Arianne said. “Thank him for defending your honor.”

Emile looked away. “Of course I did.”

“The Baron wrote and apologized to me not long afterward.”

“You see!” Emile exclaimed, thinking she had won a point. “Even he realized his mistake. The brute.”

“Yes,” Arianne said. “I daresay by then he had quite realized his mistake.” She shot a knowing grin at Missa and Orianna, who stifled their smiles.

The road curved and sloped more, snaking around hills and twisting between stands of beautiful blue spruce as they wound closer toward Frostbourne. A stubborn mammoth held them up for several minutes, standing still in the middle of the road. Its curved tusks were discolored and spotted with moss. Arianne hung out the window to get a good look at it. She’d never seen one of the beasts so close, its powerful presence and humorless eyes intimidated and delighted her. The men shot in the air to no avail, and it tromped a leg down hard upon the road with a trumpeting challenge. The horses whickered nervously and backed the carriage away.

“How I hate those things,” Emile grumped. “If it charges, it will be the doom of us all.”

The woolly beast finally moved off, and the driver whipped the horses into a quick pace; no doubt the woods proved dangerous after dark. Just before sunset they pulled through the gate of Frostbourne manor, a stiff evening wind scraping the branches of the massive firs across the wooden shingles of the rustic home. The servants, quite unprepared for their arrival, bolted about, a thin, proper man standing on the porch barking orders.

“That is Mr. Simmons,” Emile informed them. “I hired him as steward to replace Mr. Saunders. How I hated that man.”

The carriage stopped, and a footman stepped forward to help them debark. The wind whipped their dresses and their hair about as if offering a rough greeting. Arianne smiled. The place was wild and tempestuous, it’s unrefined nature appealing in its own way. Wolves howled at the close of day, dogs braying in return from kennels somewhere behind the house. The edifice itself was clean and made of patchwork stone, sturdy and colorful, a hedge of tiny purple flowers encircling its base. Servants scrambled to light lanterns hanging from strong wooden beams that supported the roof of the porch.

Emile clutched her hat as she stepped down onto the drive. “How I hate this wind.”

Mr. Simmons stepped forward. “We were unaware of your return, Lady Carver. We are quite unprepared for you this evening, though we should have a good supper for you in an hour.”

“It’s Miss Ironhorn again, Mr. Simmons,” Emile said acidly.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Later, Mr. Simmons. Let us get out of this wind!”

Orianna suddenly gasped, a realization dawning on her face. “They don’t know!”

“Don’t know what, Ori?” Emile asked.

“That Baron Carver is alive!” Orianna exclaimed, face beaming. “That you’re divorced!”

“I’m sure they hardly care,” Emile grumped.

Arianne grinned at Emile’s disingenuous statement. During her two day diatribe about Davon, she repeatedly mentioned how infuriating it was that everyone at Frostbourne worshiped their Lord.

“Mr. Simmons,” Arianne said, “please send word to the staff and the town that Davon Carver lives. The Queen has stripped him of his title and his estate, but has expressed to me that she may restore them in the future. Also inform them that he and Miss Ironhorn are divorced and that she is returning to Ironhorn.”

“But of course, Miss…”

“I am Lady Arianne Hightower.”

His eyes widened and he stood a little straighter. “Yes, Milady. I will do it by and by.”

“Thank you.”

Emile’s eyes shot daggers at her, but Arianne hardly cared. Orianna was fit to burst and Missa smiled along with her. They stepped in out of the wind, their shoes scuffling along the thick wooden planks that comprised the floor. The door squeaked shut and Missa and Orianna began the work of collecting hats and shawls.

Arianne grinned as she noticed that the house’s decorations evidenced the divide of its Lord and Lady. The rustic and rough clashed with the fashionable and delicate. An exquisite white vase sat atop a beaten wooden stand that probably had once held pots in the kitchen. Simple wooden frames bordering pastoral scenes mixed with painted views of cities in curved, gilded ones. The furniture had largely been replaced to match Emile’s current tastes, but an old leather chair still lurked in a corner here and there.

Mr. Simmons approached. “We are preparing rooms for you and your Lady’s Maid, Lady Hightower,” he said. “Please give us a few moments. I apologize for the delay.”

“Take your time, Mr. Simmons,” she answered. “I’d like to look about.”

“There’s little to see,” Emile said. “This manor was hardly big enough for just Davon and his servants. We could hardly have guests without them feeling cramped. Come, Ori. Let’s get to my room and out of this dress. And my hair is just a fright.”

The two ascended a dark wooden stair to the second level, and Missa breathed a sigh of relief. Arianne turned to her Lady’s Maid and raised her eyebrows. Emile. What a miserable woman. She must have been truly desperate to fake being interested in Davon Carver. And an amazing actress to boot. And Davon must have been out of his wits.

Mr. Simmons left them to their own devices and they wandered about the bottom floor. The drawing room was clearly all Emile’s and hardly looked like it was a part of the same house. It had a large window looking out to the front of the manor, one of the offending spruce trees half concealing a view of the drive.

Arianne had to admit that the room felt the most familiar to her. She was used to the more refined styles that Emile favored, though the country manor appealed to her in the same way the Elder Wood had in Harrickshire. Something about raw, earthy nature spoke to her. It felt honest.

Still, she wondered how she would fare if she were to be taken so far away from society and its urban comforts. Would she be content if Davon brought her into his rural home as he had Emile? It would take some getting used to, but if Davon were near, she thought she could be very happy, indeed.

“Pleasant thoughts, Milady?” Missa asked, a smile on her lips. They both studied a board that displayed the teeth of a sabercat.

“This place fits him, doesn’t it?” Arianne said.

“By him, I suppose you mean Baron Carver?”

“Of course, Missa. Who else?”

“I suppose it does,” Missa answered. “It speaks to both his strength and his loneliness.”

Arianne regarded her Lady’s Maid. She was always a quiet girl, but she suspected the silence only made space for observation. “Has Orianna said anything of her master or her feelings on learning that he was alive?”

“Yes, of course,” Missa nodded. “She has nothing but respect for the man. Nothing but joy in her heart at his return.”

“But what of faking his own death?” Arianne pressed.

Missa frowned. “She doesn’t blame him.”

“And this troubles you?”

“I can hardly make sense of it, Lady Hightower. Though,” and she dropped her voice to a whisper, “after that carriage ride, I have a better idea of what his life was before. I still can’t think it well done. How could he give up everything to her when it was she that wronged him so terribly? How could he leave Frostbourne after he had worked so hard for it?”

“I have wondered the same,” Arianne concurred. “But one question bothers me more.”

“And what is that, Milady?”

“How can a man who has suffered as much horror and shame and disappointment as Baron Carver act with such natural compassion rather than bitterness and revenge? The way he cared for me in Bellshire…” She couldn’t speak, emotion welling up and choking off her voice. She put her hand to her mouth and tried to clear her throat.

Missa squeezed her arm sympathetically. “He was peculiarly ardent in his ministrations, Lady Hightower. I believe he holds you in high regard. Well, now that he is divorced we can only hope he can find someone who can return his affections properly.”

“I wish that as well,” Arianne said, ignoring Missa’s knowing look.

Orianna found them a short while later. “Miss Ironhorn is busy packing for her departure and she asked me to let you know that we shall have supper soon. Let me show you to where you’ll be staying, Lady Hightower. The only room worthy of such an illustrious guest as yourself is Baron Carver’s room where he kept to himself during the, um, difficulties. I hope that this does not make you uncomfortable.”

She was thrilled. “Not in the least, I assure you.”

Orianna led them upstairs to the second level, the lanterns casting a happy yellow glow along the hall. She turned right down a hallway lined with more framed specimens from Davon’s adventures in the wild—pressed flowers, enormous leaves from Elder Oaks, and more teeth and bones from creatures vicious and tame. They reached an intersecting hall and turned left. As they passed an aging door, Orianna suddenly moved from the center of the hallway to scrape along the right wall as if afraid something might jump out.

Arianne stopped. “Are we quite safe, Orianna?”

She turned, red blooming on her cheeks. “I am sorry, Milady. Old habit. That door, well, it is the room where Davon’s father, Asper Carver, took his own life while Davon watched. Some of the servants say it is haunted. It’s silly. Baron Carver expressly prohibited anyone from entering that room. He never went in it himself. From the stories in town, not a soul has been inside since the funeral. Not that anyone would want to go in.”

So that is where Davon’s trial of life began, Arianne mused, wondering what witnessing such an act might do to a young man. She remembered the Queen telling her that most boys would have crumbled under the weight of such a burden. Mother dead. Father dead. Estate indebted. How had he carried on? Where had the mettle come from?

“Come,” Orianna prodded. “We’re almost there.”

As she passed the door, Arianna let her fingers trail along the discolored iron lock with its gaping keyhole. A cold draft wafted from beneath the door like a spectral hand reaching out to touch her. The skin on her legs goosebumped. As the frigid feeling faded, the idea wormed its way into her head.

She wanted to see inside.

She wanted to know what Davon saw, know what it felt like. If he had shut the door and never reentered, then the pain of memory was locked inside, locked away so he wouldn’t have to face it again.

Orianna opened the door to Davon’s old room at the far end of the hall. It was clean and modestly appointed. A fire burned in a hearth nearly bereft of old ash. The room had lain dormant for some time. A darkly stained wood made up the bed frame, appointments, and the trim, but the room was plastered white and was more genteel than Arianne had expected. None of the walls held any of the collected flora and fauna found in the rest of the house, excepting Emile’s drawing room. Delicate white drapes swooped to the floor, pleasant paintings of people and buildings lining the wall. Delicately tooled boxes and glass figurines sat atop the fireplace mantle and on decorative shelves.

“Is this the way Baron Carver kept the room?” Arianne asked.

“Yes, Milady,” Orianna said. “Doesn’t seem much like him, does it?”

“My thought exactly.”

“Lady Hightower, if I may be so bold,” Orianna said, fidgeting nervously with her hands, “I think he kept it this way as an invitation to the Lady of the house, if you take my meaning.”

Arianne cast a meaningful glance at the door and Missa shut it.

“I know I have no right to pry, Orianna,” Arianne said, “but were things very miserable here?”

Tears welled in Orianna’s eyes, and she looked away for a moment. “There wasn’t yelling and fighting. It was just the cold torture of her neglect and cruelty that stung him. Never have I seen a man try so hard to win a woman over, and she treated every attempt with poisonous contempt. I, well, all of us were relieved when he stopped trying. We thought perhaps that he would move on, but I could see that it ate at him day after day. He took to long excursions in the outdoors. She took to dreaming of big cities and high society.”

She wiped her eyes before continuing. “We were attending a party at the Tahbors when word came that Baron Carver had died. I nearly fainted. She had to stifle a giggle. I have hated her ever since. I have been searching for other employment for some time, but without success. I am trapped with her, for the time being.”

Arianne nodded and took her hand. Orianna loved the Baron, too. “I am sorry. I will help you. I am well connected in Bellshire and will find you an escape.”

“Thank you, Milady.”

Dinner came and went in the company of jovial servants. Emile took her dinner alone upstairs, for which Arianne was grateful. Reports of singing and dancing in the town trickled in, all of Frostbourne celebrating the news of Baron Carver’s return to the world of the living, though Arianne had to think that some of the throaty cheers were for the departure of one Emile Ironhorn.

By the time she had cleared her plate of the stewed venison and hard bread, the weariness of the journey finally overtook the excitement of exploring Frostbourne. Orianna took leave to prepare her mistress for bed, and Arianne and Missa followed suit. Orianna came to collect Missa after she had combed out Arianne’s hair and trimmed the lamps, and the two lady’s maids left her to herself.

Outside, the wolves still howled into the night, always answered by the brusque braying of the huntmaster’s dogs. A chill was settling in, the banked fire losing its vigor. Arianne pulled her legs to her chest and started missing Davon, wondering where he was and what had called him away with such urgency.

No more fretting! she reminded herself. She had spent most of the carriage ride prognosticating about Davon’s whereabouts. If only he would come to Frostbourne while she was there. She wanted nothing more than to lavish him with attention while Emile gawked in horror. While Frostbourne was remote, if Baron Carver wanted her to leave Hightower and follow him to his lonely and wild estate, she would do it. She would go with him into the woods and hills and have him show her every view that inspired him. She might even take up shooting.

A sigh escaped her lips. Thoughts such as those had to be kept in check for now. She reached back and unclasped the rose pendant and willed the vines of her bracelet to pull apart. A small table with a drawer sat at the side of the bed, and she pulled it open, dropping her jewelry inside. As she went to shut it, she saw it: a heavy iron key lying on the bottom of the drawer.

Rust had nibbled away at it, mottling the metal. She carefully extracted the key, its rough and rusted exterior staining her hands. At first she thought it might be the key to her own room, but its disuse and size put her off that conclusion. Somehow, she knew what it was for. It called to her, a ghostly invitation spurring her desire to know what waited behind the long shut door.

But she had to wait. She extinguished the lamp at her bedside and pulled the blankets up around herself as the temperature plummeted. Only the flicker of a solitary candle and the lonely howling of distant dire wolves kept her company. The sliver of light beneath her door flickered and faded, and the rise and fall of the servants’ voices slowed and then fell silent. Finally, Frostbourne had laid itself to rest.

Arianne rose from her bed, wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, though it did little against the chill. She grabbed the key and the candle. As silently as she could, she pulled open her door and stole into the hallway. The wood of the floor chilled her bare feet, but she didn’t want to waste time on stockings.

The floorboards creaked wildly in spots, and she paused to listen, fearful someone would wake to investigate. But the house remained still, and in moments she stood in front of the door, the icy air breathing underneath the crack to numb her toes.

The key slid into the lock with ease, and she twisted it. It hardly rotated. Gritting her teeth, she turned it harder. Nothing but a slight squeal. Frustrated, she was about to abandon her design when a thought struck her. She lifted the candle from its sconce and tilted it, letting the greasy liquid wax gather in the bowl. Before it could harden, she poured it in the keyhole and thrust in the key, twisting it back and forth.

Her hand was a mess of rust, but with one determined turn the lock gave one mighty wail and clicked open. To her, the sound was like a scream reverberating through the house, yelling for everyone to awake. She paused to listen. The house remained quiet.

She filled her lungs, a musty, dusty smell leaking out of the small crack in the door. Gathering her courage, she pushed it open—just enough so she could fit through—while the balky hinges popped and whined in protest. Candle first she went, feet collecting the thick dust on the floor. Once inside, the taste of dust filled her mouth, and she suppressed a sneeze threatening to escape from her tingling nose. Wild shadows danced in the abandoned study, candle flickering in a persistent draft.

For some reason, this room was colder than the rest of the house, and she shivered. Holding the candle aloft, she squinted, peering into the darkness. And then she saw it. Her hand shot to her mouth to stifle a scream she knew would bring everyone in the house running to a room Davon never wanted anyone to see.

Chapter 35

Arianne’s heart pounded, threatening to explode or quit beating entirely. She sucked in breath until she could steady herself from the shock. The Baron Asper Carver had not been removed from the room and interred as she had naturally expected. Arianne stood three paces in front of his corpse, wondering if she were positioned at the very spot where young Davon had watched his father take his own life.

Clothes and bones lumped about the chair, all shrouded in dust, everything a uniform gray. A pistol and the bones that once helped pull its trigger sat to the right of the chair on the floor, finger still on the trigger. The skull had fallen backwards onto the desk, lying on its side. A cracked hole in the crown showed where the bullet had punched through.

The draft she felt on her feet blew in from a crack in the window. Tattered drapes had collapsed to the sill. She approached more closely. The rusted ball that hadn’t had the power to punch through the window after punching through the Baron’s head had rusted almost to powder on the side of the sill.

So the servants had it wrong. Davon Carver had watched his father die, but in his horror he had not had the body removed. He had locked the door tight and never gone back in. Was it in anger? In sadness? Was he simply too callow at that tender age to deal with such a morbid tragedy? And why had he never remedied the situation in his older years when Frostbourne had regained its prosperity and he achieved manhood? What had passed between father and son before the fatal moment?

Too many questions. Two open liquor bottles sat next to skull on the desk. Perhaps they served as agents to dull the pain and judgment of the man who had ruined his own estate and lost his wife in the process.

As she scanned the desk, she noticed a letter trapped beneath one of the bottles. The wax seal had long since crumbled, but the bottle had kept the paper folded shut. Dust added to the filth on her hands as she extracted it from the bottle’s entrapment and blew the dust off. The writing was faint, but the addressee still legible: Edgermoore Carver.

A creak somewhere on the bottom floor brought her up short. She shouldn’t be there. Cursing her own curious nature, she scooted out of the study and into the hall, listening for any footfalls or movement. After several minutes of silence, she calmed herself and pulled the door haltingly shut, locking it fast.

With a glance over her shoulder, she padded back to her room and reignited the lantern by the bed. Her petticoat was a mess of clinging dust balls. She tried to pick them all of and throw them into the embers of the fire, but it still looked like she had gone for a stroll out in the dirt.

After cleaning the wax off the key and returning it to the nightstand drawer, she washed her hands with water from a basin. Not until she was warm in her covers did she carefully pry open the brittle parchment. Davon’s father was no penman, his hurried strokes evidencing a frenzied mind.

Cousin Edgermoore Carver,

I write to you now in the most dire of circumstances. Frostbourne has long belonged to the family of Carver. As you are no doubt aware, I have, through my carelessness, brought it to ruin.

Mistake me not. I am not writing to beg any money of you or ask for your deliverance for myself. When you read this I will have left my sorrows behind for the tranquil rest of the grave. Nor do I blame you for our estrangement over the years.

You may think that upon my death that this property will fall to my son, and that if you were to lend some assistance that it would profit you nothing but to have him take over the estate when its creditors are satisfied.

I write to offer you some incentive. I attest with this document and my very blood that Davon Carver is no Carver at all and that I do not recognize him as such. He is the product of an indiscretion of his mother and is a bastard. He has no right to Frostbourne or any inheritance other than what I or any Carver would give him out of charity.

He is, I am afraid, a boorish, stupid lad who would do no honor upon Frostbourne or the family name. Therefore, cousin, the title of Frostbourne rightfully belongs to you, my next of kin. If you see fit to use your resources to put Frostbourne’s creditors at ease, you can claim Frostbourne and its lands for yourself. If you are wiser than I have been, it may bring you good fortune and perhaps elevate the family of Carver to respectability once more.

I will instruct Davon to carry this sealed letter to you upon my death. You may decide what to do about Frostbourne and the boy then. My only wish is that Frostbourne remain in the family, and if it does, that it be possessed by one with a true right to the name, not an ignorant bastard. As for young Davon, give the indolent lout your charity or throw him to the wolves. I care not.

Farewell, Cousin. May the Flame watch over you with more vigilant eyes than it has watched over me,

Baron Asper Carver

Arianne found her hand at her mouth. Davon Carver was a bastard. He had slaved to build up an estate not rightfully his, one his father intended to strip from him. Did Davon know? Was that why he had shut the dead Baron up in his room?

That last conversation between a father and his wife’s bastard son held the key to everything Davon had become. Asper Carver considered the boy Davon an unrefined idiot. The man Davon was anything but. His hardships had changed him, but if Davon really was indolent before his death as his father had claimed, what had given the orphaned boy the iron to change and rescue the estate singlehandedly? More likely, the man simply hated Davon for the infidelity he represented and presented deceitful aspersions about the him to help his estranged cousin feel better about saving the estate.

She closed the letter and set it on her lap to think. Twice she pushed the paper toward the candle’s hungry flame and then pulled it away. If Davon did not know he was a bastard, then Arianne was content for him never to know. He would never elevate himself as the Queen wished if he knew of his disinherited status. But whatever her concerns for Davon’s feelings or the Queen’s plans, she knew that the real fear in her breast was that Davon would never think himself worthy of her if he knew. He already thought himself beneath her. Arianne wouldn’t have it.

Again the edges of the paper kissed the flames, and again she pulled it back. She had no right to burn the letter or to even have it. She had no right to have intruded upon that secret room which Davon had shut and locked away. But surely he would have known that after he faked his death, someone would eventually find the bones of his father. If everyone had thought the son dead, then the revelation of the father’s corpse would become just another odd story that would fade with time. With the son alive, the unburied father would become a scandal.

Sleep paid her little mind that night.

From that day forward, she kept the letter on her person at all times, not wanting any prying servant or theft to expose its sensitive contents. It took Emile Ironhorn two days to empty Frostbourne of all her possessions—all bought with Baron Carver’s money—and direct the servants to load them on the wagons that would accompany them south to Ironhorn.

Her waspish, temperamental behavior improved, and by the morning of the third day she bounced out of the house and into the carriage where they waited for her. Emile was ready to travel, hair curled to perfection, a parasol against her shoulder to shield her face from a bright morning sun. She wore a snow white dress with a red sash about her waist, appearing ready for a ball rather than a long slog south. They would drop her off at the Ironhorn estate and then make for Hightower, where Arianne hoped Davon would be waiting for her.

“I do apologize, Lady Hightower,” Emile said once they had all settled into the carriage. “I have been beastly of late, but with the shock of Davon’s return and the impending need to move, I just haven’t been myself. I do hope we can be sisters, now, considering the connection we share.”

Arianne was about to return some pleasantry when shouting inside the house pulled her up short.

“Driver!” Emile yelled. “Let’s go.”

With a sharp snap of the whip, the carriage jerked to a start. As they pulled through the gates and out onto the road, the ruckus behind them continued to build, though it quickly faded as they turned east and south. Emile smiled to herself, staring happily out the window.

She’s done something. Arianne craned her neck out the window on her side, the cool wind reddening her cheeks. As the trees slashed by, the gaps in the forest canopy revealed a column of smoke rising into the sky. Emile giggled.

“What have you done?” Arianne demanded.

Her full lips parted and she put her hand to her mouth. “Why, I think I may have been careless about my bedding getting too close to the fire. I was in such a rush! Oh dear, I hope nothing untoward has happened.”

Arianne reached out and slapped her. Hard. The smile disappeared and Orianna and Missa stared at Emile in shock.

“Back to Frostbourne,” Arianne yelled to the driver, leaning out the window. “Go back this instant.”

It took a moment for the carriage driver to acknowledge her request. Turning the carriage around on the wooded road proved difficult. A red welt bloomed on Emile’s fair cheek, her eyes stung and angry. Arianne stared right back, cowing the woman with the indignant fire of her own expression.

By the time they could see Frostbourne again, the smoke billowed into the air, the smell stinging Arianne’s nose. The house staff and a host of horrified townsfolk gathered at the gate, staring at the conflagration. Some wept. Orianna wept. The mighty trees that Emile hated burned with the house, the fire hissing through their branches as the sap boiled out.

Arianne stepped down from the carriage, Missa and Orianna following. Nothing could be done. The house and the grounds were a total loss. Servants jogged forward with the horses and the hunting dogs from the outbuildings, sparing them a miserable, burning death.

After a few minutes, the house crumbled. Some few of the walled stones fell inward as the roof collapsed. Haze thickened about them, seeping out to enclose the gathered crowd in its smoky embrace. Arianne shook her head and wiped her eyes, thinking of Davon.

A strident voice startled her. Orianna. “You wretched beast!”

Arianne glanced back to the carriage. Orianna had returned, yelling at her mistress through the window.

“I will not work for you another day! Not one more. I would rather starve to death in the hedgerows. You should drown for this. Drown and die!”

Arianne pulled her away and embraced the girl as she shook in grief. Inside the carriage, Emile stared forward, eyes firm with just the hint of a smirk on her face. The woman had no scruples, no conscience whatsoever, that Arianne thought she could appeal to. Davon had indeed paid a price for marrying the woman, and the price had just risen again.

More townspeople arrived at the scene, their fresh sighs of dismay adding to the mournful hush of sad voices. Slowly the towering flames diminished, ash falling like gray snow. The sheriff had arrived and began questioning the servants. Orianna broke from Arianne’s embrace and strode up to him immediately, anger plain upon her face.

It will do no good to accuse her, dear child, Arianne thought. Emile had been clever enough not to admit to anything other than an accident.

Horse hooves on the road turned everyone’s attention. A cadre of mounted officers, road weary and scruffy, rode toward the scene, gawking at the fallen manor house. To Arianne’s surprise, they wore the blue and gold of Bellshire. These were the High Sheriff’s men. Why had they come?

“We seek Lady Arianne Hightower,” the lead rider said, hushing the din.

“I am Lady Hightower,” she said, stepping forward.

The officer rode over, face severe, stopping his horse and dismounting. He unbuckled his saddlebag and dug through it, producing a sealed letter.

“Lady Arianne Hightower, you are under arrest for high treason by order of the High Sheriff of Bellshire.”

Chapter 36

Davon sucked in the clean air, trying to ignore his growling belly. He, the A’Kor, Ju’Jal, and the three other representatives of the primal forces hiked by the weak light of the luminescent blue moss, stars bright in the clear summer sky. The angular, ice-capped peaks practically glowed in the moonlight, rendering the luminescence of the moss unnecessary to Davon’s sharp eyes.

They had traveled to the far end of the lake, opposite the Pahk and the lodge on the other side, and then started their ascent up a rocky shale field that cut between two of the higher peaks. The going here was tough, though Davon fancied he possessed the greater balance and fortitude of his hiking companions, all of whom had at least twenty more years upon their heads than he did.

They stopped frequently during this part of the climb, but once they cleared the shale field and reached a grouping of trees, the A’Kor issued the unfortunate order: “Blindfold him.” For the second time that day, Davon found himself walking blind, grasping a stick Ju’Jal commandeered from the flora. And the hiking wasn’t easy. No well-defined path greeted his feet here, and they struggled upward for nearly an hour, every ascending stride bringing cooler air that bit through his coat.

Solid ground turned to a slippery, packed snow. The incline was slight, but the pace slowed to a shuffle, only increasing when a patch of rock intersected their trail. The four members of the Kai, Ju’Jal included, took turns grumbling as the air turned truly frigid and cutting. Only the A’Kor remained silent.

They walked for nearly an hour more with enough twists and turns to foil his sense of direction completely. After one last steep ascent up a snowy switchback, they stopped.

Davon heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the A’Kor addressed him. “Listen, outsider. What you will see when we uncover your eyes is one of the sacred places of the Aua’Catan. It has been holy to our people since before Creete drove away the Primal Forces and butchered our people. If you defile this place, I will kill you and write an apology to the Primal Forces in your blood. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

The A’Kor did not remove the blindfold, but grabbed his arm. “Bring the water, Ju’Jal. The rest of you wait here.”

They walked forward for several more yards when the terrain beneath his feet changed abruptly. A solid, smooth sheet of ice challenged his balance, the A’Kor and Ju’Jal slipping and sliding along with him. They walked and slid in equal measure for about thirty paces, but still they kept him blindfolded. Wherever they had arrived, it had blocked the crisp wind, but the cold here seeped rather than cut, working its way into his tired bones.

“Kneel, outsider,” A’Kor ordered, “and turn your palms up.”

Davon knelt down, ice hard beneath his knees, and turned his palms to the sky. Water splashed down on his hands, just enough to moisten them.

“Reach up with your arms,” A’Kor continued.

When Davon complied, hands grasped each of his wrists, pulling him forward and planting the flat of his palms against a sheet of vertical ice. The moisture applied to his palms instantly adhered his skin to the ice. A painful chill bled into his hands, his fingers aching and throbbing. Davon instinctively pulled back, but the frosty hold on his palms would not release. He knew he could extricate himself, but it would peel the skin off his bones.

Ju’Jal applied more water to his hands, the cold instantly freezing it into icy manacles from which he could not escape without great pain and injury. Drips trickled down his sleeves and he shivered.

“What is the meaning of this?” Davon said, getting angry. “Release me!”

Then the blindfold was removed.

Davon blinked. His anger died, discomfort temporarily forgotten. The A’Kor and Ju’Jal had frozen his hands onto a perfectly smooth sheet of ice. It rose twenty feet and joined a curling wave of blue ice that arched over his head, a mighty mass of frozen weight threatening to crush them. He knelt on a sheer pool of ice that stretched away fifty feet to either side of him, enclosed in a shallow bowl of granite. Ice had rimed pillars of the flecked red stone that stood scattered about the pool, each a mute witness to his ordeal.

But what captured his attention was in the dark block of ice before him, ice clearer than any window. Inside it danced an ethereal light, a fire of pure white. The effect mesmerized him, defeating his senses for a moment. Something else moved inside the ice, something shadowy and human, cavorting around the light as if to smother it, but scared of it at the same time. Light and dark. Opposites at war.

“What am I to do?” Davon asked in awe.

“You are to see, outsider,” the A’Kor said. “We will wait for you at the bottom of the ravine. If you should arrive with bloody hands encrusted in ice, we will know that your courage failed you and we will kill you. Let us leave him to it, Ju’Jal.”

Ju’Jal put his hand on Davon’s shoulder. “Good luck, Davon. I can offer no assistance. You must find your own will and your own way.”

Davon nodded, transfixed by the light and the shadow locked in an eternal dance, neither able to dispel or trouble the other. Long he stared at the odd waltz until finally the numbing cold and exhaustion took their toll up on him. His head sagged, a woozy, warm feeling overcoming him. He knew he would not wake from the sleep that now invited him into its bed and he forced himself awake, lifting his head.

His eyes shot wide.

His father stared back at him from the ice, sitting as he had that horrible day in his office. The bottle of liquor sat three-quarters drained, and he had undone his cravat and the first four buttons of his shirt. He was a pale man, cheeks scraped red by the strong drink. The full jowls and stringy hair gave him a mean appearance, his blurry, beady eyes staring in anger at his son. The pistol was in his hand, cocked.

“There you are, boy,” he said with a mocking asperity.

I don’t want to see this! Davon pulled away from the ice wall until the flesh screamed, threatening to tear away from the bones.

“I want you to know that you are an idiot who will amount to nothing,” Asper Carver continued. “Know now that this estate is not rightly yours to have. I just wanted you to know that so you would understand. You can thank your whoring mother for what comes next.”

The memory was as fresh as the day it had happened, played now before him in perfect simulacrum. His mind fought to reject the vision in the ice, to squelch it, but his father’s hand rose steadily, pistol barrel turning inch by inch toward his mouth. Beady eyes fixed on his son, Asper Carver slipped the barrel into his mouth. The report of the weapon and the bloody discharge would never be erased from his memory. Not ever. His father slumped back, dead, weapon settling on his lap, finger still on the trigger.

Davon yelled into the icy night, the horror bringing fire to his veins, a cloud of steam pouring from his mouth. As his yell reverberated through the frozen chamber, the image of his father was replaced by the eyes of the sabercat, the predatory gaze fixed upon him, his primal scream of agony issuing from its open maw. Again Davon pulled back, unable to escape the beast, the icy bonds holding him fast.

He dropped his head, exhausted. Was the test over? He needed food. He needed warmth.

When his gaze turned back to the icy wall, only the white fire and the dark figure remained. Davon’s heart beat weakly in his chest. The tired weight of his body slowed his thoughts, soothing him back to the woozy blanket enveloping him. He would sleep. Even if his numb hands and aching arms wouldn’t let him slip to the ground, he would simply hang there like a rag doll.

A white flash of flame burned through his eyes and blasted his mind back into focus. When he looked up at the glassy ice, another unpleasant vision burst upon him—he stood hand in hand with Emile Ironhorn in her father’s house exchanging marital vows. The sabercat, a translucent overlay on top of the scene behind it, stared at him. When he groaned at the shame of the memory, the sound seemed to issue from the beast’s mouth instead of his own. Davon turned away and closed his eyes. He might be trapped, but he didn’t have to watch. He wouldn’t fight anymore.

The cold outside numbed him to the point he no longer shivered or had an ounce of will to struggle. His breath came slowly, the water droplets from the vapor having frozen on the nascent beard beneath his nose and lips. His lips felt dry, his throat coarse from the cutting air he sucked into his lungs. He sought sleep now, sought it like a friend. He knew all too well that it wasn’t just sleep that came for him, but he could pretend.

The light flashed again, jolting him into a dull wakefulness. His sluggish heart pounded back to life. Arianne. She sat by the window sill that day in Bellshire when the Queen had asked him to check up on her. He had ministered to her, his heart nearly broken at the sight of her vibrancy brought so low. He had kissed her forehead then, something he had not planned or regretted. The translucent sabercat staring back at him seemed more at ease, as content as he was.

Dearest Arianne. This was a good memory to take to his death. He closed his eyes and wrapped himself up in thoughts of her. In his mind’s eye he bid her farewell. She would think he had abandoned her, would wonder where he had gone.

I tried, Arianne, I tried.

Another flash. He could barely lift his frost-encrusted eyelids, but when the vision opened before him, he surged off his knees and stood, a rush of rage casting off the entombing cold. They had Arianne on the Drowning Bridge, a line of soldiers surrounding the platform. The executioner stood ready to lower the cage into the water, the cage where Arianne wept with fear. Was this a vision of the future? The past? Some further trick to torment him?

Between him and Arianne stood the sabercat, its transparent form alert and ready to pounce. Davon yelled for the executioner to stop, yelled for the sabercat to move out of the way. The line between vision and reality blurred, the execution of the Lady Hightower consuming his mind. He had to stop this. He had to get to her. And in the ferocity of his desperation to save her, he pushed his hands forward.

And the ice gave way.

The sabercat pawed toward him as his footsteps carried him into the encasing ice, the frozen wall melting away in front of him and freezing behind. At last, the sabercat met him nose to nose—and then merged into him. The vision of Arianne’s impending death vanished. He tried to back away, but the ice froze around him, trapping him. He had no space to breathe, unable to open his mouth even a fraction of an inch. He was drowning in ice.

The light he had seen earlier still burned somewhere before him, a campfire of white tongues flickering cheerfully before him as before. But it grew. The cavorting dark figure had gone. Panicked, Davon could only watch as the fire bloomed outward, its glow suffusing the ice, everything burning impossibly bright, enveloping him in a maternal warmth and peace.

And something was changing. He felt his body moving, twisting and writhing in its icy cocoon. Pain erupted down his back and cut into his limbs, a stretching sensation pulling his skin. He could yell now, and he did, the sound of it more like a bestial growl than a human scream. And then the light was gone. The entombing wall exploded, blasting him backwards onto the frozen pool, shards of ice skittering with his body as he slid along the frozen pool.

For a moment he just lay on the smooth surface, feeling worn to his bones, but no longer chilled or numb. He tried to get to his feet but he didn’t feel right. His body didn’t want to work. He turned back toward the Seeing Wall, the hole of his expulsion already knitting together, filling and polishing as if he had never been inside it. The glimmer of light and the shadow had gone now, leaving the icy chamber dark, though his vision was nearly perfect.

He stirred. Had he failed the test? Was the expulsion a sign that he was not worthy or had chosen badly? Would the Aua’Catan kill him? But as he tried to get to his feet, he noticed his hand. His hand was no longer a hand, his feet no longer feet. Both were mighty paws covered in white fur. His body was that of a massive sabercat almost the size of a horse.

He yelled in shock. The guttural sound, low and beastly, shook ice and snow from the ceiling. He scrambled to his paws. The weariness nearly took him down again. He was famished, his bones and muscles still aching in exhaustion. What had happened?

Listlessly he pawed his way out of the cavern, a chill breeze ruffling his snow white fur. He could smell the Aua’Catan and their fire some distance off, and he padded toward it, heading down a slippery, steep incline that continued to sap what strength he had left. He had to get free of Jun’Kal. He had to get to Arianne. He had to figure out why he felt like some kind of beast.

He found the A’Kor and the Kai on a small outcropping of rock, huddled closely around a fire. They shot to their feet as he approached, eyes wide. Davon’s greeting came out as a roar.

“He is Khodo Khim!” Ju’Jal said in awe.

“It cannot be!” the A’Kor added, face stricken.

Davon just stared at them, hot breath steaming out his nostrils, until he could stand no more. His drained body failed him, and he fell onto the cold, packed snow.

Chapter 37

Arianne stared glumly out of the carriage window as it rolled through the streets of Bellshire in the late morning. The clouds veiled the sun in fitful bursts, a brisk wind roaring through the trees, bending them in obeisance to its power. The men and women walking the streets clung to hats and bonnets to keep the thieving gusts from snatching their headwear and tossing it to the skies.

Arianne wished to be a bird, to spread her wings and let the wind carry her effortlessly to the solitude and freedom of the Ice Fire Mountains looming in the east. If nothing else, she desperately wanted to turn north and go back toward her beloved Hightower to enjoy its green hills and pleasant flowers once more. Like a soldier going off to war, she longed for one last embrace from what she held dear before it was ripped from her, possibly forever.

A deep foreboding settled into her bones, tightening her chest and constricting her breathing. That two clerks, long faithful to the family, could perpetrate this slander upon her defied her best reasoning. But their duplicitous behavior could only mean one thing—whatever scheme her late husband had embroiled himself in was of a serious and criminal nature.

The crushing sensation in her chest continued to build the closer she came to her destination, and she forced the constricting thoughts out of her head and pulled in a lungful of air. Just as Emile Ironhorn had cried and sobbed and frothed on the way to Frostbourne, she had done much the same on the rushed journey back. Missa consoled her, as did Orianna, who had flatly refused to serve her mistress anymore. Arianne loved them both dearly for their kindness and for their hopeful confidence that everything would turn out well.

And she had to hope. The Queen was her personal friend. The accusing clerks of low rank. Her name in good standing. And if it came to the worst, Orianna assured her that one Davon Carver would battle the entire contingent of the sheriff’s best men to bring her out of imprisonment.

This thought brought a smile and a longing. She fingered the rose pendant on her neck absentmindedly. How she wished he were here. His earnest and passionate care for her in every trial she had recently faced warmed her, and she wished for a return of those wild and alive feelings that had so pleasantly plagued her before she left for Frostbourne. No garden grew in her heart now, and in her mind’s eye she was traveling into a cave, the light of the opening slowly fading behind her the deeper she went.

Arianne leaned back and pulled the shade over the window, a sudden shame upon her. How many people knew of the charges against her? What rumors ran rampant through the streets and in the assemblies of her peers? She shuddered to think of what lies and rumors greased the tongues of the idle nobility. Her tears threatened to break forth again, and she shut them down.

Missa reached out and grabbed her hand. “Nearly there, Milady. The sooner we arrive, the sooner it will be over.”

“And maybe Lord Carver will be there,” Orianna speculated.

Arianne nodded. The carriage slowed and she lifted the shade once more, hoping for some distraction in the view. As they neared the palace, it was quite clear that something was amiss. Armed men marched everywhere, an entire regiment mustering just outside the gates. The Queen’s army was on the move. Arianne wondered what could have happened to necessitate such protections.

After some trouble at the gates over proper authorization, they rumbled inside past more soldiers, rifles leaning against their shoulders and pointing high into the gusty air. As the carriage turned into the roundabout, she spotted a party waiting for her on the steps. No Davon. No Queen. Just the Lord High Sheriff, two of his soldiers, and a man with white hair and a long, wrinkled face.

Her heart sank again and she fought against the despair. At least she wasn’t headed to the dungeon or to the sheriff’s prison in town. That was some cause for cheer, though she didn’t feel it.

The driver pulled at the reins and the carriage stopped. One of the soldiers stepped forward and pulled open the door. Arianne closed her eyes, breathed in, and let the soldier help her step out. Her Lady’s Maid and Orianna debarked after her while she walked toward the stairs and the men that waited for her there.

The Lord High Sheriff, dressed formally in his black uniform of office, bowed. “Lady Hightower. It is good to see you.”

“Thank you, Lord High Sheriff,” she answered, trying to read his face and finding it difficult to tell what the man thought.

“And this,” he said, indicating the gray haired man, “is Delmont Redd. He is your lawyer.”

He bowed to her. “It is an honor to represent you, Lady Hightower. I don’t wish to alarm you, but we must begin work immediately.”

They ascended the stairs, Arianne’s face troubled. “Why so soon?”

“Your trial begins in two days,” Mr. Redd said gravely. “It is a matter of national urgency. I do not wish for you to despair, but we are at war. I suggest we say nothing more of the matter until we are alone. We will have your maids put in the servants’ quarters for now, but we cannot delay.”

Arianne felt like someone had drained the blood from her body. War? National urgency? Where was the Queen, her friend and confidant?

The Lord High Sheriff opened the palace door for her, eyes meeting hers. “I will tell the Queen you have arrived. Do not fret, Lady Hightower.”

The reassuring words did not match the gravity of his face, and Arianne clenched her hands to keep them from shaking. Being inside the familiar environs of the palace calmed her. Mr. Redd and the two soldiers accompanied her upstairs and into an office that bore her lawyer’s name. They passed inside, and Mr. Redd dismissed the two soldiers, indicating they should close the door and stand guard outside.

Once they were alone, Mr. Redd took a seat in a leather chair behind the desk, inviting her to take one of the three that sat on the opposite side. Shelves of books and parchment lined the walls, a stack towering on one side of his desk. The troubled sky passed by on the other side of a single, long window stretching up the wall behind her lawyer. He pulled a pair of round spectacles over his eyes and began searching among the documents.

“Now,” he began, “Lady Hightower. I imagine you have a lot of questions. Time requires that I be blunt. We are preparing for war with Creetis, and the act that precipitated the conflict is someone, I’m afraid, beloved by you.”

“Davon?” she asked, heart skipping a beat.

Mr. Redd’s bushy white brows dipped. “Lord Carver? Heavens, no. I meant the one who had been courting you, the Earl of Longford.”

“Uticus Longford?” she asked, surprised. How had he started a war?

“The very one. He assassinated the Creetisian Ambassador in open court.”

Arianne’s mouth fell open. “That’s impossible! The Earl is hardly a man of politics or passion. This is a mistake, surely. Is the evidence conclusive? What did he say?”

He held up his hand. “I wish I could bring you better tidings, Lady Hightower, but the fact is that after he committed the murder, he marched into the Main Hall and boasted of the act.”

Something was very wrong here. “Why? Why did he do it?”

“That we will never know. I am sorry, Lady Hightower, but the Ambassador’s attaché, Melchor Raines, took immediate vengeance upon the young Uticus Longford for his crime. I don’t wish to be indelicate, but he stabbed him through the heart right there in the Main Hall.”

Arianne paled. Uticus dead. Why would he shoot the Ambassador? It seemed too ludicrous to be true. The soldiers outside the palace made sense now. An assassination of an ambassador by an Earl would mean war. Had the Queen known this was coming?

She hardly knew what to say. “It is awful, Mr. Redd. Awful and absurd.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. The world was simply falling to pieces.

“Gather your strength, Lady Hightower,” Mr. Redd cautioned. “You have more ill news to face today, I fear. It is related, I believe, to this latest turn of events.”

She wiped her eyes and exhaled. “Say on, Mr. Redd.”

He leaned back and steepled his fingers. “As you know, your estate was paying out a sum of money to an unknown source, and you claim to have had no knowledge of these transactions.”

“I had no knowledge!”

“Yes,” he replied, leaning forward. “I have been informed that this would be your stand. Now listen for a moment, if you please. The Lord High Sheriff has investigated this matter quite thoroughly. Your clerks claim that you had full knowledge of the disbursement of these funds, and they are prepared to testify in court that you threatened their very lives if they went public with the information.”

“The scoundrels!” Her fury rose. It felt better than the deadening despair. “I was the one whose door was knocked down. A man came to my house and tried to recover those ledgers before they could come to light.”

Mr. Redd nodded. “Yes, we will try to use that to your advantage in court. But after rounding up various employees of the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company and connecting the shipments and people together, what has emerged is that the funds from the Aid Society scandal, along with the funds from your estate and others, were used to purchase weapons and supplies. All the permits were faked, but we know many of the weapons were taken north.”

“To what end, Mr. Redd?” she asked.

“There are two possibilities, both equally traitorous. One is to provide the Creetisians with arms, which would be useful to them in the coming war, though the weapons’ northerly trek would seem evidence against that theory. The second is to help start a northern rebellion against the crown. You and a number of other northern nobles have been implicated by a Mr. Paige, the handler of these funds. The Longfords themselves have been implicated, though there is no clear evidence to prove it, as yet. While work is ongoing, the only conclusive evidence of contributing funds comes from your estate. We’re trying to recover other ledgers, but we fear some of the nobles have gotten wind of your arrest and are burning their books as we speak.”

A numbness settled on Arianne, and she found Mr. Redd observing her closely above his fingers.

She folded her hands in her lap and tried to compose herself. “I swear, Mr. Redd, that I knew nothing of this. This was my husband’s affair.”

“So you claim,” he said, “and I can believe you, but I fear no one else will. The amount missing from your estate was enough that most would expect you would notice. With the testimony of the clerks, and with one particularly damning letter uncovered by the Lord High Sheriff’s men at Justus Paige’s place of business, I am afraid the case has swung against you, Lady Hightower.”

“What letter?”

Mr. Redd shuffled through the papers and handed her one. “This is but a copy of the text, you understand. The original will be presented at trial. The letter uses code names, but our experts have identified the handwriting on the original as your husband’s, and it is dated a year before his death at the hand of Lord Carver.”

He handed her the paper, and she took it tentatively, almost afraid to read its contents.

Mr. Bird,

I have been informed of the scheme in full, its risks and its rewards. I am pleased to say that my wife and I are in complete agreement with the goals of this endeavor and we are happy to contribute a sizable sum to its prosecution and success. I am aware that it will take some time to put in place, but I will be patient and await my return.

I have authorized my clerks to debit my estate the sum of one hundred fifty pounds a month to be paid to the man you indicated during our last conversation.

Regards,

Mr. Elm

Arianne wanted to crumple the paper, stomp on it, and then throw it in the fire. Lord Cornton and his stupidity! And then to imply that she had any part of it without her knowledge. She had half a mind to return to Hightower, exhume his grave, and have Davon Carver shoot him again.

She slammed the paper down on the desk, startling Mr. Redd. “I assure you with all the sincerity of my heart that I knew nothing of this scheme and had not entered into any sort of agreement with my husband or anyone else.”

He exhaled. “I understand, but I need you to consider something very carefully, Lady Hightower. As it stands now, I cannot win this case for you. If you fight the charges, you will lose, and you will be sent to the Drowning Bridge the next day.”

Her blood ran chill. “What are you suggesting?”

“I am suggesting that you admit you knew about the debits to your account, but that your husband had not informed you that it was for weapons or any scheme. That is much more plausible and will either win you your freedom or simply a removal of your rank. There are no witnesses that saw you threaten your clerks with assassination, nor any assassins who have come forward claiming your hire.”

“So you suggest I lie?” she asked, surprised.

Mr. Redd regarded her with a serious face. “To save yourself from an unjust death, yes, Lady Hightower, I do. Your life is worth the lie.”

It had all come too quickly. She stood. The office offered little space for pacing, but she did it anyway. So to survive the treachery of her husband and her clerks, she would have to act the stupid girl and tell a court she knew what she didn’t know and that her husband had hidden the truth from her. At least one part was true. But still it hurt to do it.

Dissembling to give satisfaction to her accusers rankled her. What would Davon do? Besides shoot them through the heart? What would he counsel me to do? She walked a little more, turning back and forth while Mr. Redd sat lost in thought. And where is Davon when I really need him?

“Lady Hightower,” Mr. Redd said at last. “I know this has all come rather suddenly. Take some time to think on it. I know you have your principles, and I do not wish you to go against your conscience. My office and my charge from the Queen is to see you safe, to keep you alive.”

“I understand,” she said. “I would like some time.”

He rose. “Very well. I will meet with you first thing in the morning. The Queen asked me to send you to her directly after our meeting. The two guards will escort you to her.”

Arianne sat in the drawing room, heart heavy for her friend, the Queen. While Filippa was old, her lively spirit had always defied her dying frame. The spirit, however, had sunk to the level of the body, though the monarch’s eyes still radiated intelligence and fire. The Arrow Asp walking stick supported her, its steadying presence apparently a need now despite the fully healed ankle.

They embraced, and Filippa’s wan smile pushed Arianne’s own troubles out of her mind for a moment. In all the mental scrapping for her own life and reputation, she had neglected to think of what her elderly friend faced—a nation at war and a dark, divisive conspiracy.

Filippa sat down hard on the couch. “Well, my dear Arianne, we are in the thick of a mess now. I am glad you arrived safely, though I wish you would have followed Davon’s example and perhaps faked your own death. If you aren’t careful, there won’t be any fakery to it.”

Arianne didn’t want to face that yet. She would save those ruminations for what promised to be a long, sleepless night. “Where is Lord Carver, Filippa?”

The Queen sighed. “The honest truth is that I do not know. I sent him on a mission to search out the person through whom all these illicit payments were funneled. This he did along with some other men I keep in my personal dungeon. The scoundrel they captured is Justus Paige, and after apprehending him, Davon and his companions were hunted and fled into the Royal Wood.

“Then it gets a little strange, I am afraid. The Aua’Catan captured them. One of my men and Justus Paige they released. The two barely made it to Bellshire in one piece. Davon, however, the Aua’Catan retained in their custody and dragged off to the Flame knows where.”

Arianne knew little of the North People save that they were barbaric and that the Creetisians killed them on sight. “What would they want with him?”

“To hear my man tell it, they say they were fascinated by the scars on his chest. They are a superstitious lot. Do you know of these scars?”

“I saw them on his chest when he was in the infirmary,” Arianne said. “From a sabercat, I understand.”

The Queen shook her head. “Well, I am quite cross that they carried him off. I really need that man around just now.”

“As do I.”

A smile finally crept to Filippa’s lips, and she relaxed, leaning back into the couch. “And how did you find Frostbourne?”

“There is a lot to tell, Filippa,” Arianne said, wringing her hands, “and none of it good. But I have a matter of some delicacy to bring to you immediately, if you’ll excuse me a moment.” Arianne reached into her dress and pulled out the letter she had confiscated from the study. “I have this letter from Davon’s father where he disinherits his son, claiming that he is a bastard and has no right to Frostbourne. It is extraordinary. I almost burned it, but I wanted you to see it first. Do you know about any of this?”

Filippa rose slowly, brows knitted, the Arrow Asp walking stick taking most of her weight. “I do.”

“Is it true?”

The old Queen shuffled forward. “Let me see the letter, dear.”

Arianne handed it over and the Queen read it, walking in a slow circuit around the room. “Insufferable man, that Asper Carver,” she finally said.

Then she tossed the document into the fire.

Arianne’s eyebrows shot up. “So it is a lie, then.”

Filippa turned and shook her head. The fire brightened briefly as the paper ignited, the harsh light deepening the wrinkles on the Queen’s aged face. “No, it isn’t. Davon is not the son of Asper Carver.”

“Does anyone know who his real father is?”

The Queen nodded slowly. “Yes. At least I do. I believe I am the only one besides Davon’s mother that knew for sure. Remember when we talked some months ago about how when Davon’s parents died I kept a close eye on Frostbourne? You may have thought I did so out of concern for the young Davon, but it was quite the opposite. I did so because I wanted him to be miserable, to fail and bring ruin on the Carver name and his estate.”

Arianne straightened. “What? Why?”

“Because I was an angry, hurt woman, Arianne.”

A silent horror started to build within her, a realization of what the Queen was implying. It simply couldn’t be true.

Arianne’s mouth fished for words before some finally came out. “But you’re not suggesting that he is the son of the late King Ostris?”

The Queen’s eyes were lost in a memory. “It is so, Arianne.”

“But you always said that your marriage was a happy one, that you loved each other.”

Filippa grunted. “Also true, but it was not without its mistakes and wretchedness, too. Davon’s mother was a beauty, tall and slender, and as fair as Emile Ironhorn. Asper Carver was also of fair coloring. Imagine the marital distress when Davon was born with his tan skin and dark hair, the same coloring as his father, often called King Ostris the Brown.”

“But how did you know?” Arianne asked.

Filippa meandered back to the couch and took her seat. “Ostris confessed it to me the day after the affair. He was miserable about it and had hoped that nothing would come of it. We were both older then. I was already shriveling while he was as powerful and virile as ever he was. Anyway, when news broke that she was with child, we watched carefully. When the child was darkly complexioned, we knew the truth. To her credit, Davon’s mother never confessed, but Asper Carver knew the child was not his. And no one should ever know, Arianne. I wonder, has he read this letter?”

“I cannot say.” Arianne explained the alarming circumstance of its discovery, and the room with Asper Carver’s corpse.

The Queen’s face blanched. “This is indeed a setback! If word ever got out, he would never be thought sane again!”

“It won’t. Frostbourne manor is no more.”

“Say again?” the Queen asked, eyes sharp.

“Emile Ironhorn ‘accidentally’ let her bedding wander into the fire just as we made to leave. The whole place is ashes.”

Color returned to Filippa’s face, her frown threatening to break the confines of her face. For the moment, the monarch appeared too angry to speak. She rose again, shuffling off toward the window. Out in the palace gardens, the turbulent wind thrashed the trees and bushes under Filippa’s sour gaze.

Arianne sat back and considered. Davon was the son of a King! His illegitimacy would never let him enjoy the privilege of it, however, and Arianne understood why the information could never come to light. But one question remained.

“Filippa, if you hated Davon for what he represented, how did you come to admire him?”

“It was a great lesson,” the Queen said, face still etched with anger. She sighed and returned to her couch, laying the walking stick on her lap. “I watched for failure and saw nothing but his father—his real father—in him. His tenacity. His courage. His kindness. When Davon Carver first came to court at his majority, my heart nearly broke. King Ostris was dead then. Davon is a fair likeness of him, though his mother’s slight frame subtracted from Ostris’s mighty one somewhat. I have loved him as my own son since, though from afar. He has needed no favor or protection from me during all these years. I only wish him happiness.”

Arianne smiled. Her first of the day. “As do I.”

“Good. Then stay alive, dear friend. Would you marry someone like Davon Carver?”

“If he would ask.”

“Good,” the Queen replied, leaning back into the cushions of the couch. “It is my fondest hope that he comes to his senses and drops the knee—whenever the Aua’Catan are done with him. He might be stubborn about it because of his loss of rank, but that punishment cannot last much longer—he is needed.”

Chapter 38

Melchor Raines pushed the last silver button of his coat through its hole, completing his prison guard disguise. He’d watched the sheriff’s night guard for four days to find just the right man with just the right physical build to match his. Kail Mayes was his name, and he went on duty in twenty minutes at the Black Lock Prison in the East Wall District. That is, he would have gone on duty in twenty minutes if Melchor hadn’t strangled him in his bed.

Melchor took stock of his disguise. The resemblance was just about perfect. To the corpse’s left a gutted goose-down pillow sprawled across the sheets, Melchor having pushed its stuffing up his shirt to serve as Kail’s small but noticeable gut. Fortunately, Melchor had enough growth of facial hair to mimic Mr. Mayes’s unimpressive mustache. As they were both men of strong features, in the dark, bleary hours of the night, Melchor was quite sure he could pass for the man on casual observation.

There were only two tasks for him to complete for Creetis before the impending war started, and once those were seen to fruition, he would claim his reward for his service. Agor Ghest had promised that once Bellshire was under Creetisian control, that Melchor could stretch forth his hand and pluck one of the ripe estates for his retirement. While retirement sounded dreadfully dull, the work of keeping Bellshire under control would certainly afford him many more opportunities to clench his hands around an unsuspecting throat.

And it was all falling into place nicely. One of the Queen’s closest friends was under suspicion of treachery. The prominent Longfords, the family to whom everyone looked for leadership, sank in increasing disgrace. Any day now the power hungry northern lords would find that the caches of weapons and supplies they had so underhandedly paid for and hidden were nowhere to be found. And now that Justus Paige had arrived in the Sheriff’s office, more names would be dragged through the mire of scandal and intrigue.

The long fermenting plan really couldn’t have gone much better. While the revelations contained in the ledgers from Hightower had come a bit too soon, the ensuing chaos was quite satisfying. Day by day, Bellshire frayed more and more. Still, the people did not think that Creetis posed much of a threat. Melchor couldn’t help but grin. Which northern noble would do the honorable thing and admit that their carefully hoarded weapons were likely in the hands of their enemies?

He checked Mr. Mayes’s tarnished watch. Time to go. After another check of his disguise, Melchor blew out the lantern, darkness hiding the dead man’s face, which stared up at the ceiling from his bed. Melchor stepped outside the modest apartment and into a beautiful summer night. Bellshire really was a fine city. Creete, while an efficient and functional place, possessed little variety or character, consisting of a mass of long rectangular buildings with straight lines on perfectly straight streets on a perfectly regular grid. No slums, no rich quarter, no mystery, no danger.

Bellshire, however, teemed with all manner of people, from the most dissolute of drunks to the most sober of abstainers. One could become anyone in Bellshire and blend in somewhere. After he had killed Uticus Longford in pretended vengeance for Horace Clout, Queen Filippa had him escorted from Bellshire. Melchor had simply waited for the cloak of night and sneaked back into the city. A quick throttling of a drunkard in an alley provided him with new clothes and no questions.

The guard he had just killed lived in the Bristol Market District, a definite upgrade from the hovel Melchor had inhabited as a drunk in the Crooks. It was convenient to East Gate and the Black Lock Prison where the guard whose persona he had assumed had employment standing sentry at the rear entrance of the building. It was the prison where the two clerks from Hightower were sequestered awaiting the trial of Lady Hightower. Their ham-fisted attempt to recover the ledgers had clued Baron Carver into the ledgers’ importance, and because of the Baron, the conspirators had to accelerate their plans.

But the two clerks had served their purpose. Their testimonies were recorded, but since the Queen was Lady Hightower’s special friend, Melchor suspected she would find a way to save her. Tonight he would ensure that the trial would end with Lady Hightower drowning, finishing the task Horace Clout had originally set him to: find the Queen’s successor and kill him—or her. Having the Lord High Sheriff’s executioner do the killing for him would be a masterstroke.

Queen Filippa’s choice of her widowed friend as successor was an odd one, however. Ambassador Clout and Melchor himself had prognosticated that Duke Longford or Lord Ember would be tapped to rule the nation. Lady Hightower was certainly attractive, independent, and well liked, but strong enough to take over Bittermarch? The only strange part of the document he uncovered in the vaults of the Flame Cathedral was that if she ever married, the throne would pass to her husband. What sane woman would give up her power and influence for a marriage? Bittermarchians often made little sense, however.

He continued his walk down the lane, relaxing his limbs and his gait to appear at ease in another man’s clothing. The moral pretensions of the more affluent East Gate denizens provided empty streets at the late hours of the night—decent people didn’t roam around in the dark. One might encounter a drunk merchant or a mistress sneaking home, but tonight his honed senses found no noise or movement to bring him alarm.

At precisely two minutes to midnight, he arrived at the prison wall, an eight-foot affair crowned with black iron spikes pointing to the sky. The building, windows mostly dark, sat like a mountain behind the wall, a hulking three-story edifice made entirely from brick. Narrow windows marked the cells on the top two floors, and wider windows marked the offices on the bottom. Lamps burned at the front of the entrance and the lesser-used back door.

Melchor avoided the front. A brace of guards manned the guardhouse, and while Melchor was confident in his disguise, he certainly couldn’t pass for Mr. Mayes if trapped in a conversation. The wooden back gate at the rear of the prison was only opened to allow in food and supplies for the prisoners and was as wide as two wagons. It reached as high as the walls to either side and was painted black, the spikes on top poking skyward.

The designers probably thought the menacing hardware a deterrent to anyone thinking of climbing over. What it really provided was something for someone athletic to grab onto after a jump. Melchor put his eye to a crack in the gate, finding the guard Mr. Mayes was to relieve patrolling the back yard lethargically, yawning into the night.

As the guard tracked south, Melchor chose a section of the wall next to the gate and made his jump with the assistance of a mortar crack. Each of his hands clutched a spike until the one in his right hand pulled away from the mortar used to secure it. Bits of dust and debris showered his face and stuck in his eyes. Clinging by one hand he tossed it over the wall into the soft grass of the yard rather than let it drop noisily to the cobblestones at his feet.

Blinking to clear his eyes, he grabbed the next spike over and pulled himself up, the vacated spike providing a convenient platform to lift himself up onto and then jump from. He was in.

A quick swat to his hair and uniform cleared the chunks of mortar and dust. He hurried to his post before the other guard could circle back around on his patrol route. Melchor stood diligently at attention just outside the door as if he had just arrived for his shift. When the guard did return, Melchor moved to keep the lantern light in the other man’s eyes.

The guard stopped and yawned. “About time,” he said, throwing a sleepy look at his replacement and unclipping a key ring from his belt. “The family’s all asleep in there. See you tomorrow.”

He tossed the keys up and Melchor caught them. He knew that Mr. Mayes had a deep voice, so Melchor bid the retiring guard, “Good evening” in his best Bittermarchian accent. The guard waved and left, making his way toward the front gate.

Melchor waited for him to clear the yard, leaning with his upper back against the prison wall like Mr. Mayes would do. He had to hurry before some bored guard discovered him and decided to strike up a conversation. So once the exiting guard was out of sight around the corner, Melchor turned to the door, inserted the worn iron key into the lock, and let himself in.

The interior of the prison reminded him of buildings in Creetis. Long hallways, regular doors, ascetic appointments. Nothing was frivolous or out of place, and everything was clean, especially for a prison. The white plaster walls reflected a weak moonlight coming in through the larger windows of the lower level.

Melchor turned left, unlocking a gate to the stairwell that led up to the second level where a terrified Mr. Mayes had told him the steward and clerk were sequestered. Rooms twenty-four and twenty-five. The gate door swung open without even the hint of a squeal; the High Sheriff ran a tight operation.

Once inside, Melchor shut the gate but didn’t lock it; he would need to get out quickly. Taking the steps two at a time he arrived on the second floor, finding a single lantern burning in the middle of the long corridor, cell doors on the left and right. Rooms twenty-four and twenty-five waited near the stairwell. Melchor jogged down the wooden floor, boards creaking at his passing, and retrieved the lantern from its hook.

Room twenty-four was first. Melchor unlocked it and pushed the handle, holding the lantern in front of him. The cell doors had a voice, and the creaking woke the tenant. The steward of Hightower, a Mr. Barles, sat up in his bed and shielded his eyes with his hand.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he said, voice clogged with sleep.

Melchor pulled one of his pistols from his belt and shot him clean through the heart. The report echoed through the building, muffled yells of surprise erupting down the hall. The steward collapsed onto his mattress without a groan.

Now that the alarm was raised, Melchor knew speed was essential. He turned to room twenty-five across the hall and unlocked it, kicking open the door violently. The head clerk, Mr. Cranton, was on his feet, sock cap dangling in his face. Melchor pulled his second pistol and aimed it at the man’s chest, though his victim was too blinded to see it.

“Lady Hightower sends her greetings, traitor,” Melchor growled. He aimed the pistol high and to the right of the man’s heart. This clerk would need to testify in court that Lady Hightower had, at last, sent an assassin to finish him off. He took the shot, red blooming on the long night robes of his target. The clerk screamed in agony and collapsed on his bed.

Tossing both pistols aside, Melchor jumped down the stairs three at a time. Footsteps raced down the hallway to his left as he opened the stairwell gate. Three prison officers ran toward him, a single lantern casting wild shadows against the wall.

“A gun’s been fired on the second floor!” Melchor yelled, hoping the trio would only see the uniform. “I’ll fetch the Warden.”

It worked. Melchor yanked open the exterior door and bolted into the courtyard without any opposition whatsoever. With a quick bound and a pull he was over the wall and back into the dark avenues of Bellshire.

Exhaling and straightening his coat, Melchor slowed his pace and wandered away toward the Crooks. With an assassination attempt to add to an already tall pile of damning evidence, Lady Arianne Hightower’s judge would have a much easier time bringing her trial and her life to a swift conclusion.

Only one task remained to him now. End the life of the ancient Queen. For that he would need to kill another man and commandeer another costume.

Baron Olivanne Longford waited for his brother, the Duke, in the alley by the Twoberry Gentleman’s Club. The hour was late, but at the back entrance of the club there were still plenty of people passing in and out to avoid the scandal that might erupt should they leave through the front. The gentlemen and their mistresses preferred a more clandestine exit.

Olivanne smoked a pipe, savoring the fragrant and soothing tobacco from the south, and for once he had some nerves to settle. After his encounter with Baron Carver and the tipsy Mr. Goodwin, he had felt fear. Not of the two men, of course; they were nothing. He feared because he had enjoyed the memory of whacking his wife’s latest bird against the tree and throwing it in the river.

The Voice forbade such pleasure in killing. He had thought the act stoically accomplished, but a fleeting burst of joy at seeing the annoying squawker dead rose within him whenever he thought back on the incident. Just as quickly as the joy came, it turned to anxiety; he had gone against the strictures the Voice had tried to inculcate in him, and now the punishment had come.

The Voice had instructed him to return to the beginning of his journey to enlightenment by crushing more Peacock beetles, reinforcing old lessons by forcing him to root in the dirt for hours. His last act of penance was to kill his wife, though if the Voice thought that would cost him any feeling of enjoyment or regret, it was dreadfully mistaken. He had contemplated the act so frequently that doing it came as unconsciously as sucking in pipe smoke.

Her body he had hidden away in his cave where no one would find it. Still, thanks to Baron Carver and the weak willed Justus Paige, he was now a fugitive in Bittermarch. It bothered him little. The Voice’s final lesson loomed close now. The Eternal Flame would sputter and die just like the tongues of any other fire when met with a deluge, and his deluge would be no ordinary flood. Just a quick trip back to Longford and his cave and all would be ready.

The door of the club creaked open, and the tall silhouette of his brother, Duke Melbourne Longford, stepped out, eyes searching the shadows cast by the lantern hanging by the door.

“Over here,” Olivanne prompted.

The Duke was ever the gentleman. Even when walking in a back alley under the cover of night, his posture was erect, his demeanor commanding and in control. Olivanne wondered why the Voice had not chosen his brother for its work instead. If the Duke could act so unperturbed after his oldest son precipitated a war and was stabbed to death, then surely the man had a steady grip on his emotions.

But as the Duke neared, Olivanne retracted his assessment. The face was worn, eyes haunted and hateful. The Duke wasn’t sleeping well. While his shoulders might be up and back, his spirit slumped in weariness.

The Duke stared at him for a moment before speaking. “How could you let yourself be discovered, Olivanne? The plan is in shambles! The plot is going to be exposed in open court tomorrow. Names will be named!”

“Let myself be discovered, brother?” Olivanne spat back. “It is Justus Paige that has undone this scheme. Apparently Baron Carver and Mr. Goodwin are quite persuasive.”

“And how did he escape your grasp?” the Duke demanded, tone sharp.

“The men I sent chased them into the Royal Wood and were slaughtered by beasts, terror birds by the looks of it. Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Paige escaped, though no one’s seen anything of Baron Carver since.”

Hands behind his back, the Duke paced back and forth for a few moments, and Olivanne puffed at his pipe while he waited for his brother to collect his thoughts.

“This could not have come at a worse time!” the Duke lamented. “These accusations against our family, your implication in the whole affair, and my son’s actions—they have all cast a long shadow across the house of Longford.”

Olivanne nodded. “True, but should you ride in to rescue Bellshire in its hour of need, that will certainly dispel any ill will these events might dredge up. I assume you have been more careful about your ledgers than those fools at Hightower?”

“Of course,” Duke Longford answered, “but you know as well as I that proof is hardly needed in the court of public opinion. With the names of so many northern lords rolling off of Justus Paige’s lips, it will be quite clear to anyone what is at work here. The worst of it is they think we’re arming Creetis!”

“Have you secured the weapons?” Olivanne asked. “Do you have hands to hold them?”

“I have dispatched men to gather them,” the Duke explained. “I am only glad that your man—Dales, was it?—was never caught. He knows where all of the stockpiles are.”

Olivanne grunted in agreement, biting his pipe to stifle a smile. His brother had a rude awakening in store. The stockpiles had been moved not a week ago into the hands of the very Creetisians from whom the Duke was planning to save Bittermarch. Olivanne dutifully played along, acting the conspirator with his brother and the useful Melchor Raines. All Olivanne wanted was more death to teach the Voice’s lessons on the finality and futility of life. Who ruled in Bittermarch was hardly his concern.

Olivanne removed the pipe from his mouth and tapped it out on the wall. “Will you attend Lady Hightower’s trial tomorrow?”

The Duke snorted in his high class way. “Hardly. I cannot afford to be associated with that woman, though she was dreadfully close to being my daughter-in-law. I will wait for news from a discreet distance.”

“Very wise,” Olivanne said. “I am going to leave Bellshire for a while until things are a little more friendly to our family.”

The Duke nodded. “That is best. Give my regards to the Baroness.”

Olivanne nodded and they parted ways. A quick trip to the cave near the river would return him to the mighty form of Dales. Then at last he would begin the journey he had waited for since the Voice had first found him: to carry the Primal Water to its natural enemy.

Chapter 39

Davon’s mind slipped in and out of a sleepy haze, his eyes never quite able to focus before they closed again in profound slumber. Blurs of light followed blurs of dark, like the white flame and the dark shape that had danced around it, each taking turns in his fuzzy consciousness.

The first concrete recollection he had was of being trapped, something on top and to the sides of him keeping his shivering body from moving. During his next brief sojourn of wakefulness, it was light again and he found that the confining weight on top of him was a pile of fur blankets.

Drifting into consciousness of the outside world mingled with dreams both comforting and terrifying when he drifted out again, his slumbering visions a repeat of his experience at the Seeing Wall. In those dreams, he would caress Arianne’s face, then he would watch the executioner lower her into the water, trapped in a cage and drowned in the Cloud River that ran near Bellshire.

When his eyes finally snapped open for good, he waited for a moment for his thoughts and his vision to clear. His body felt warm but sapped of its strength, like the morning he had awoken after the sabercat attack. A famished body demanded satisfaction, his stomach churning with hunger. Otherwise, he was intact, though confused about what exactly had happened to him after the Seeing Wall had pushed him out of its icy embrace.

He exhaled and stirred, pushing off the furs until he noticed his nakedness. Ki and Ta sat at the entrance to the hide-covered dwelling where someone had laid him to recover. They glanced up from little rings they were carving out of bone and smiled in unison.

“The Brown Man awakes!” Ki exclaimed.

“You must call him Khodo Khim, sister,” Ta admonished.

“I gave him of my heat so that he wouldn’t die, so I shall call him whatever I wish until he repays the debt,” Ki answered. “Go get him some food and tell father he is awake. I will give him drink and get him dressed.”

Ta put her carving down and strode out. Ki was using his carving knife and noticed him spying it. “Don’t worry, Brown Man, I will give it back. I simply wanted to try it to see if it might aid my craft.”

She put the knife back in the carving bag, crossed to a bucket near the tent flap, and dipped the ladle in it.

After kneeling at his side, she offered the ladle to him. “Drink, Brown Man. Food is coming.”

He drank it quickly and downed two more ladles-full before he was finished.

“How long is it since I returned from the Seeing Wall?” he asked.

“Two days and two nights,” she said, pulling his clothes out from under the furs at the foot of his bed. They had been cleaned and mended. “This is the start of the third day.”

She tossed him the clothes and regarded him speculatively, hands on her hips. “How do you feel?”

“Weak. And hungry. Would you mind turning around, please?”

Her eyes rolled up and she turned. “My sister and I had to warm you to keep you from dying, Brown Man. Your body holds no secrets for us.”

They had warmed him? He cleared his throat. “I thank you for the courtesy all the same, Ki.”

“I am Ta,” she lied.

“You are Ki,” he answered.

She half turned, and Davon barked a warning as he hadn’t so much as lifted his pants.

“You can tell us apart?” she exclaimed.

“Well, it is only by the design around your navel that I can do so, nothing more.”

“Very good, Brown Man,” she said. “No other man has divined that little secret yet. You are more clever than you look.”

“Well, I am sure someone observant will come along, but if you were more modestly dressed, I would be as lost as everyone else.” It was a subtle suggestion that didn’t seem to register to her Aua’Catan mind.

“So, tell me about this woman, Arianne. She’s the one you wish to bond, yes?”

“Well, she and I are, well, it is difficult to explain.”

Ki snorted. “Is she brown like you are? Like us?”

“Her skin is pale, though her hair is as black as the night.”

“And from your ramblings, you fear she is in some danger?”

“Yes. I must depart as soon as I am able. But do your people think I am Khodo Khim now?”

She turned, mouth agape. “Think you are Khodo Khim? How can you say that? You are Khodo Khim! My father, the A’Kor, and the other Kai saw you in beast form. You are the Tamal u’Khan of the Primal Beast. You have the gift!”

He was halfway up the buttons of his shirt and stopped. “Beast form?”

“Yes, ridiculous man! Beast form! Come outside. Come on!”

Davon finished the buttons on his shirt and retrieved his knife and carving bag. Outside the tent, the sun was bright, warm morning rays infusing him with a little spark. Ju’Jal’s family dwellings appeared deserted save for the two of them. Ki turned, planting her feet and folding her arms.

“Now change,” she instructed.

“Change? How?” he asked.

“How should I know?” she said, sounding a little disgusted. “You are the Khodo Khim. How did you first change?”

“I don’t remember it clearly. I pushed into the wall because I saw Arianne in danger. I was furious, desperate…”

His emotions rose at the memory, and then it happened. His body, his clothes, his carving bag, everything connected to him swirled together into a gigantic mass of a sabercat. Ki yelped and then covered her mouth in amazement before dropping her arms and smiling at him. She walked forward tentatively.

Davon tried to talk, but it came out as bestial grunts. While he still felt weak, the body he inhabited held unimaginable physical power. As Ki approached, he realized just how big he was. He looked her in the eye as she reached out and ran her fingers through the snow-white fur along his neck, face astonished.

“You are magnificent!” she said reverently, stepping back. “Now roar to the sky! Announce to the world that Khodo Khim has come!”

At first, the idea seemed strange, but something inside him was building, a thrill he had never felt before. The knowledge of what he could do and the power of the body he now possessed poured a confidence into him that could not be restrained. Sucking the clear mountain air into his massive lungs, he let loose a yell so deep and primal that it shook the very earth around their feet. Ki fell to the ground and covered her ears, the long blast reverberating through the mountain valley.

Dazed, Ki stood. “I…I have never heard anything…”

In moments, Ju’Jal and Ta ran into the clearing in front of the dwellings and joined in the amazement, approaching him cautiously. Davon calmed himself and concentrated, which returned him to his human form. Everyone relaxed.

Legs unsteady, Davon sat at one of the rough-hewn benches near the smoldering fire pit. Ju’Jal signaled Ta forward and she handed Davon a sack of bitter dried berries and a slab of cold, roasted meat.

“You had us worried on the mountain,” Ju’Jal said. “Once you collapsed and returned to human form, we couldn’t find the beating of your heart for some time. The A’Kor thought you dead.”

He probably wished me dead, Davon thought.

A question came to Davon’s mind, something that had bothered him from the moment he awoke.

“Ju’Jal, you took the test at the Seeing Wall when you became the Tamal u’Khan of Primal Air, correct?”

“Yes. I am the only one who has taken the test in over thirty years.”

“What is the dark shadow that dances around the light?”

Ju’Jal’s face wrinkled. “Shadow?”

“Yes. It danced around the light as if to block or extinguish it.”

“I saw no such thing. Only the light.”

Davon explained what he had seen, but Ju’Jal just shook his head. “That is a new thing, Khodo Khim. It is not recorded in our lore anywhere. It troubles me. I will bring your report to the Kai. I expect they will be here soon after that roar.”

Davon tore a piece of meat and devoured it. “What’s the A’Kor going to do with me now?” Not that Davon cared. One way or another, he would leave through that crack in the mountainside and make for Bellshire.

“He is in an uncomfortable position,” Ju’Jal said as more people poured into the clearing, drawn by the roar of Khodo Khim. Ju’Jal lowered his voice. “He cannot command you, but he fears that you will do the Aua’Catan harm, bring more of your people here. He already fears the influence you have had.”

Davon nodded, understanding. The A’Kor feared the corruption and discovery of his people more than any other danger. From what Davon knew, Creetis had all but eradicated the Aua’Catan, fearing their belief and worship of the Primal Forces. If Davon could reassure the A’Kor that he meant them no harm and wished them well in their way of life, perhaps he could leave Jun’Kal with his blessing.

Before long, a veritable host of Aua’Catan had arrived and watched him eat breakfast, no doubt waiting for him to transform into the beast and favor them with a mighty bellow. The food and drink fortified him. As he licked he grease from his fingers, the A’Kor strode into view, his bone carving necklaces swaying back and forth around his neck with his vigorous stride.

“Khodo Khim,” he said, though Davon could see it cost him pain to apply that appellation to an outsider, “I have come to ask you what you intend to do, serve yourself or the needs of this people?”

“Neither,” he said. “The people of my nation are in grave peril from traitors. It is them I serve.”

Ki stepped forward. “And the woman he wishes to bond is in grave danger, as well.”

The A’Kor waved her off. “Be that as it may. He is now bound to the Aua’Catan people. We have need of the Khodo Khim!”

Davon stared up at the A’Kor, finding his plaintive note odd. “What need do you have?”

“As Khodo Khim, you can find the Primal Forces. You can bring them here to our people.”

“To what end?” Davon asked.

“We are not strong. While your people are content to ignore us, those of Creetis hunt and destroy us when they can. We have seen them in great numbers in the mountains of late and fear they may have come to destroy us and our sacred home.”

“Creetisians in the mountains?” Davon asked, perplexed. “Here in the north? Are you sure?”

“I have seen them,” Ki said. “In numbers. They first came in the autumn last year. Even more came this spring.”

Davon stood. “What are they doing?”

Ki shrugged. “I do not know. What I saw were small groups based in larger encampments to the east. Scouting, perhaps.”

Davon paced for a moment. Why would the Creetisians bother with the mountains? It was nearly impossible to get an army through them. They had always amassed in the south when they wanted to do a little saber rattling. Still, a camp and some scouts hardly seemed evidence of a serious threat, though it was curious.

“A’Kor,” Davon said. “I must go. But when this is over, I promise I will return and help you when I am sure my country and my people are safe.”

“And that his woman is safe,” Ki added helpfully. “Ta and I will go with him to ensure he keeps his promise.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Davon said. “I am a man of my word and will return if I am able.”

“We go,” Ta said. “There is no argument. We can either accompany you or follow you.”

“You must understand that I will go as fast as I can. I will ride. I will run. I will not stop.”

“And we will follow,” Ta and Ki said together.

The A’Kor didn’t seem happy, but he had no power and knew it. “Then go and be done quickly,” he finally said. “And do not forget our need.”

Arianne rubbed the back of her neck, muscles wrenching into knots and radiating a dull, pounding ache into the back of her skull. Sitting for two days in court watching a fountain of lies and speculation about her involvement in dark conspiracies had marched her through a gauntlet of sharp and bitter emotions. To have her character and reputation bullied and beaten filled her with indignation; sitting helplessly by during the beating turned that indignation into exhaustion and despair.

Mr. Redd, her dutiful lawyer, argued and grandstanded until even she grew weary of it, and now, as she sat waiting for the last witness, she knew the trial had long since ended. Even she could see that the critical evidence against her had no convincing refutation anyone could offer. Her husband and his treasonous affairs had killed her just as surely as Davon Carver had killed him.

As her case deteriorated, she felt more and more abandoned. Her parents refused to attend, probably not wishing to be sullied by their daughter’s downfall. They had, at least, let Elaine visit her after the first day. The young girl sobbed in her arms, more than once expressing her wish that Baron Carver would come. Arianne shared that wish, but didn’t vocalize it, and the more scared she became, the more angry she was with the man. How dare he abandon her in this hour of need! She knew these thoughts weren’t fair, but they came anyway.

The Queen had come yesterday evening and condoled with her, and the monarch’s tears of sympathy truly shook Arianne to the core. She had never seen the Queen cry; she might expect a stone to cry first. And if Filippa was crying, then Arianne knew her situation was dire, indeed. The Queen could not override the judgment of the court for capital crimes, and nothing, it seemed, but some unseen providence could provide an escape now.

Mr. Gutke, the head prosecutor, rose from his seat and approached the bench. He was a hale, youthful man with a powerful voice—one Arianne was sick to death of. “We would like to call Mr. Edward Cranton, former Head Clerk to the Hightower Estate. We ask for special consideration of this witness as he was recently wounded in an assassination attempt.”

Arianne had heard the ill news just before the first day of the trial. When she learned that the man would testify in person, her heart had sunk. She knew how his testimony would play out—Lady Hightower arrives in town one day, and the next an assassin tries to kill off her steward and her clerk.

“It looks bad,” Mr. Redd had said, “but there is no evidence to connect you to the assassin.”

Still, her steward was dead, and besides herself, there would be few that would want either of them dead. Baron Carver was likely one of them, but she doubted that he was involved; if he had pulled the trigger, her clerk would be dead, too. Whoever the assassin was, and whatever his motives, he had ended sloppily without finishing the job.

Even so, Mr. Redd said it wouldn’t have mattered, factually, if the two were alive or dead. Their testimony had been recorded some time ago. “The attack only muddied the water a bit,” he prevaricated when she asked what such an event would do to her chances of winning the trial. She knew very well that the assassination attempt would clear the water in the mind of the judge.

The bailiff lead Mr. Cranton in from a side room, the screeching of the dark wooden door cutting through the murmuring and paper shuffling of the courtroom. The dismal interior where the drama played out consisted of dark wood paneling running all the way up to the high ceiling. Windows sat atop the wall, running all the way around the octagonal room. Judge Pinkerton sat behind a large, raised desk, evidence laid about him. A single stand sat directly in front of him where witnesses stood or sat to deliver their testimony.

Whether an act or not, Mr. Cranton made a great deal of piteous moaning as he ascended the three steps to the witness stand. His coat was off and his arm in a sling, a slight stain of red blushing the white linen that covered his wound.

Mr. Redd leaned in. “A fine piece of showmanship,” he whispered. “He is trying to gain the sympathy of the judge and seem vulnerable.”

While her lawyer might enjoy a cold analysis of tactics, she was furious. Mr. Redd had warned her not to look angry and sullen as it would only prejudice the judge against her, but with her case as good as lost, it hardly seemed to matter now. She would scowl all she wanted. If she had a chance she thought she might just see how well Mr. Cranton’s head would fare against the thick book of law hulking on the table next to her left elbow.

After introductions, Mr. Gutke launched into a line of questioning about how the late Lord Cornton of Hightower had indicated that a certain amount of funds be disbursed to one Justus Paige of Longford on a monthly basis, and how upon his death the Lady of Hightower had asked that the payments continue. Arianne knew her face had turned blood red, and she wanted to scream, “liar!” until the hall rang with it.

He continued with the confrontation at Hightower during Davon’s visit, fabricating an entire narrative about how she strictly ordered them to destroy the ledgers and tell no one or she would kill them. He claimed that he and the steward had hired a man to recover them, but that Davon Carver had killed him, thinking him a robber. At that point she felt it best to lean back and stop listening, choosing instead to come up with a list of angry, cutting phrases to level at one absent Davon Carver should he have the decency to show up before they marched her off to the Drowning Bridge.

“And relate to us the events of four nights ago, if you please, Mr. Cranton,” Mr. Gutke prompted.

Mr. Cranton leaned back, wincing. “I was in the protective custody of the sheriff at Black Lock prison. Four nights ago I was dead asleep in my chambers when a shot rang out, startling me from sleep. I couldn’t know at the time that…”

Mr. Cranton stopped, emotion welling up in his voice. Arianne wondered if it was sincere.

He continued. “I couldn’t know at the time that the horrible assassin had killed my colleague and longtime friend, Mr. Barles.”

“Please continue,” Mr. Gutke said after allowing several moments for Mr. Cranton collect himself.

“I stood from my bed when my chamber door was thrown open.”

“And who did you see?”

“I could see nothing,” Mr. Cranton explained. “A lantern shone in my face and my eyes were blinded. The man at the door said, ‘Lady Hightower sends her regards,’ and then he shot me and left me for dead. I heard him run away.”

Murmuring erupted among the spectators, whispers of conjecture and outrage blooming about Arianne as she sat staring daggers at Mr. Cranton’s profile. He was genuinely scared, she decided. He might be part of the scheme, but he probably thought his position in it so low that he would attract no dangerous notice.

The judge banged the gavel for order. “Proceed, Mr. Gutke.”

“Very well. Mr. Cranton, do you believe that Lady Hightower sent the man to kill you?”

Mr. Redd raised his hand. “Objection. What the witness believes is not relevant. I remind the court that we are after facts, not opinions.”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

Mr. Gutke turned to face Mr. Redd. “Very well. I surrender the witness for cross examination.”

Mr. Redd stood, pacing back and forth in front of the witness for several long moments, Mr. Cranton’s head following him back and forth as if on a swivel. The judge opened his mouth, but Mr. Redd dove in before the magistrate could admonish him for his obviously calculated delay.

“Mr. Cranton, you testified that Lady Hightower threatened you and Mr. Barles, telling you to destroy the ledgers and threatening you with death, is that correct?”

“That is correct,” Mr. Cranton confirmed.

“And that you then hired a man to retrieve them.”

“Yes.”

Mr. Redd nodded. “And was this man a part of the sheriff’s office in Longford?”

“No, Sir.”

“And why did you not seek out the sheriff to deal with these allegations, instead hiring a Mr. Aberforth, a well-known drunk and ruffian?”

Little rivulets of sweat dripped down Mr. Cranton’s forehead, his skin blanching. For the first time in the entire trial, Arianne felt a glimmer of hope.

“We, well, we were afraid that the sheriff would not take our plea seriously as the matter dealt with the Lady and landholder of the town! By the time we had formulated our plan, it was well after dark, and Mr. Aberforth was ready and willing to do the job. We bade him quite strictly not to hurt anyone.”

Mr. Redd nodded. “And how much did you pay for his service?”

“Five pounds.”

The crowd murmured again and Mr. Redd let it play. “So little? For a matter of such importance? Or were you merely playing the part of a good clerk and saving a little money?”

“Honestly,” Mr. Cranton answered, “we had no idea why the ledgers were so important at this point. We were merely transferring money. When the Lady became violent and threatening, we knew that saving the ledgers would help us prove our case, but we had no notion of it ever being involved in some treasonous plot!”

“I see,” Mr. Redd said. “And could you explain why Lady Arianne Hightower didn’t just burnt the ledgers herself? Why would she entrust them to David Harper—or Baron Carver, as we know now?”

“Objection!” Mr. Gutke popped in. “Mr. Cranton cannot speak to what Lady Arianne’s motives were. We shall have to await her testimony for that.”

“Sustained.”

“Very well,” Mr. Redd said. “Then I will ask you this: before the incident with the ledgers, had Lady Hightower ever threatened you or anyone else with violence to your knowledge?”

“Irrelevant!” Mr. Gutke interrupted.

“Overruled,” the judge said. “It speaks to the Lady’s character. Answer the question.”

The pale Mr. Cranton chewed on this question for some time, screwing up his face into a great mask of concentration. “Not that I can recall,” he finally said.

“Did she ever maltreat or abuse you while under her employ?”

“No.”

“And did you ever question Lord Cornton of Hightower or the Lady Arianne Hightower about the prodigious amount of money being funneled away from their estate?”

“No.”

Mr. Redd stopped his pacing and turned his head toward Mr. Cranton. “Never once?”

“I did not. It was not my place to question.”

“And would you personally hire the courier to take the money to Longford?”

“Customarily, yes, though Mr. Barles would do it when I could not.”

Silence hung in the air, Mr. Redd gradually approaching the witness stand, his eyes boring into Mr. Cranton’s.

“Now, Mr. Cranton, be very careful about how you answer this next question. What if I were to tell you that the personal finances of your household had been looked over and that it was found that you had been socking away a little extra money from an unknown source. What would you say then?”

Mr. Cranton sweat rivers now, his skin paling to a corpse-like hue, sickly and gray. His slack mouth twitched up and down in search of something to say. Arianne watched carefully as Mr. Gutke was yelling ‘objection’ and screaming at the judge to censure Mr. Redd, who calmly watched the stunned witness.

“Do not answer the question,” Mr. Gutke instructed his charge.

The judge pounded the gavel until silence fell. “Mr. Redd, do you have evidence concerning Mr. Cranton’s finances that you wish to present to the court?”

“Just the witness’s terrified demeanor,” he said. “I am through with him.”

Mr. Gutke’s face boiled red, but he held his tongue.

The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Do you have any further witnesses to call, Mr. Gutke?”

“Just one, your honor. I would like to call Lady Arianne Hightower to the stand.”

Chapter 40

Davon rested his rifle on his knees, Ki and Ta squatting next to him behind a red granite boulder. A canyon breeze carried the frigid breath of the high ice of the mountain passes, chilling their skin as it blew past them. In front of them, a column of Creetisian soldiers snaked along the creek, heading in the direction of Windgate.

Davon and his companions had left Jun’Kal after the midday meal. By that time much of his strength had returned, though he still felt a little wobbly in the knees and light in the head. Scaling down the granite cliff proved even more challenging than scaling up it, though the two sisters had the knack of it and used mockery as a tool to inspire him to quicker efforts.

They had traversed the slope of the mountain down a steep, winding trail that cut confusing turns through trickling sluices and behind outcroppings of granite that ice and snow had cracked and dragged off the mountain. The vigorous breeze whistled through the needles of dense spruce that provided excellent concealment from every direction.

As they had neared the swollen creek that flowed toward Windgate, the sound of marching feet and grumbling men pulled them up short. Ta had ordered he and Ki to stay there while she sneaked ahead. She had returned with the dire news.

“The Creetisians march west along the creek. Single file. Only about a third of them are armed, but we can’t go south without crossing that line.”

After her report, she had guided them forward to the granite boulder where they now waited, which afforded them a good view of the men walking by about fifty feet below them. Davon peeked around the boulder, watching as the emaciated soldiers in baggy, yellowing white uniforms trudged by. They wore black belts and black boots, and from Davon’s vantage point they looked like a row of children who had put on their parents’ clothes. Reports of hard times in Creetis had not been exaggerated. These men were hungry.

But their presence signaled both relief and grave danger. Ki and Ta now knew that the Creetisians had not discovered Jun’Kal or amassed an army to exterminate the Aua’Catan. Unfortunately, they had found some way to pass through what once were thought impassable mountains and attack Bellshire from the north where no one would expect it.

Davon cursed the delay. How long was the column? They were well into afternoon now, and he had wanted to get south of Windgate before the day was out. Creetisians obstructed their passage while increasing the urgency of their mission. Had anyone from Windgate been able to escape to take news to Bellshire?

“I see the anger in your eyes, Brown Man,” Ki said, “but we cannot move. We must wait for a break in their march. Above all, we cannot have the Creetisians scouring this part of the mountain. If they found Jun’Kal, it would be the end of our people.”

Davon slumped down, leaning against the lumpy boulder. Curse the luck. Ki and Ta bracketed him, pulling out their own pouches and carvings that he had seen them working on earlier. He pulled out his own carving bag, setting to work on something for Arianne. He’d found the wood by the communal fire in the Pahk, a straight round stick. But what he was shown to carve he didn’t quite understand. In the wood he saw an array of rings with grooves on the inside and outside.

He set the blade to the wood, knife flicking furiously and precisely, his companions just staring in amazement. For Davon, skill had nothing to do with it; his hands not his own. After an hour he realized that the objects he had crafted looked a lot like what the sisters worked on, only he used wood instead of bone. On each ring he carved he created a flat space on one edge. Using the tip of his knife he carved a rune on this space, a symbol whose significance he did not know.

There were five rings in total, and he had completed two when Ki stopped him. “Do you even know what you are making?”

“No,” he said.

“They are for your woman, are they not?”

“Yes. How would you know that?”

She and Ta looked at each other and smiled. “They are for a woman. You will give them to her. They are for her hair. Did you notice some of the women wearing them in Jun’Kal?”

Davon thought back. He had seen rings in the hair of a few of the women once he thought about it. “Yes, I did. They are for decoration?”

They smiled knowingly at each other again. “Mostly.”

“Why don’t either of you wear them?”

They shrugged in unison, though Davon suspected they were simply avoiding answering him for some mischievous purpose of their own.

Ki examined the one he was working on. “You are doing quite well. Continue.”

There was something he was missing, but as he set his knife to his third ring, he realized the sound of marching and talking had faded. Ta had noticed it too, and she slunk around the edge of the boulder, returning a couple of minutes later.

“There is a gap in the line,” she reported. “There is another column coming up about a mile back. If we are careful, we can pass in the space between. It would be safer to wait until dark, I think.”

“We go now,” Davon said.

They stowed their carving materials, Ta leading them out, keeping to the trees and behind boulders as much as possible. Once they reached creek, Davon found a wide trail.

“Where does this go?” he whispered.

“It leads back into the ice mines,” Ki said. “Now we need to run to get distance from the column behind us. We only have to follow this path for about a mile before we will turn onto a separate trail to the south.”

The worn dirt path and the gurgling stream at its side made for quick and silent running, but as they turned an abrupt corner, they found three Creetisian soldiers milling about by the creek. Their shirts they had cast aside as they bathed, their malnourished ribs poking out against the skin. Stubbly faces stretched wide with surprise at an armed man and two Aua’Catan women. The Creetisians had one weapon between them cast aside on the ground, and one went for it.

Ki and Ta didn’t hesitate, spears sailing through the air. The first two had barely opened their mouths to yell when the glassy spearheads punched through their chests. They fell without a scream. Davon reversed his rifle, bludgeoning the remaining Creetisian over the head just as the soldier brought his rifle up. The sisters retrieved their spears.

“We can’t leave these bodies here,” Ta pointed out.

“We have little time to move them,” Ki reminded her. Footsteps at their rear already sounded alarmingly close.

Davon grabbed his victim by the hands. “Let’s put them under the branches of that spruce. It’s the best we can do.”

Ki and Ta lifted one while Davon took care of the other two. Only a close examination would reveal their presence, and Davon hoped it would do. Ki grabbed the Creetisian rifle and ammunition pouch.

“You will show me how to shoot, Brown Man,” Ki said as they jogged away.

“Father and the A’Kor won’t like it,” Ta admonished.

“That hasn’t stopped us before,” Ki observed. Ta didn’t argue.

They sprinted now, evening shadows deepening in the canyon. With guns and spears at the ready, they crossed the creek where it widened out, a place Davon remembered from the sound when he was blindfolded.

“Now we move off the path,” Ta said, and they dove into what appeared to be an impossibly dense thicket of spruce. Once they had pushed past the first branches, a serpentine corridor between the trees revealed itself. They traversed the dim pathway quickly as it rose up a slight incline on the other side of the canyon before turning west along a level track that led them out of the canyon proper and into the foothills beyond.

Davon’s senses were alive, and he hoped against hope that they were past any danger. He would brook no more delays. They kept to a deep gully as the foliage thinned on the wind blasted slopes of the hills. The evening light outside the canyon still possessed enough strength to cast warm shadows and bead sweat on their skin as they turned south. To the west, smoke from numerous fires rose into the sky, creating a haze that clung to the land around them.

Davon held them up. “I need to see what happened at Windgate so I can report it. It should be visible just over this rise.”

His companions nodded and followed him up the hill, the thick-bladed grass swishing at their pant legs and concealing rocks that tripped them up. As they approached the crest, they dropped to their bellies and crawled to the top.

The buildings of Windgate were still standing, but instead of rough and tumble ice miners, a host of Creetisians filled the town and spilled out onto the arid plain beyond. Soldiers milled about tents pitched in precise, orderly rows, though the fires were scarce for an army of its size. There wasn’t much to burn out on the plain.

But of most alarm was a line of wagons along the road. As the men filed out of the canyon and through the town, soldiers on the wagons would issue a weapon to those of their fellows not fortunate enough to already possess one.

Davon clenched his jaw. Whoever had paid into the Aid Society fund or made payments to Justus Paige and Baron Longford had put rifles into the bony hands of their enemies. Davon wondered why anyone would support such a traitorous scheme.

They reversed down the hill and took refreshment to give them strength for a long hike south. Davon paced distractedly, trying to put his thoughts together. Why would Lord Cornton of Hightower have joined in with such a plot? Why empower the Creetisians to make war against the northern duchies of Bittermarch when he and his lands would be likely victims of the war? The warmer climes of the southern duchies would be a much more plausible target for the starving Creetisians.

Ki put her hand on his arm. “We should move. We will travel well into the night to get away from this horde. It is fortunate that they have no horses.”

“I think they ate them all,” Davon said, and not in jest. “But you are right. If we can get south of the main army, we will escape. They must have scouts and lookouts on the road, so we will need to stay in the wild for a day or two. If we can’t find horses after that, I will attempt to turn into a beast again and run it. If I am forced to leave you behind, meet me at Hightower.”

The sisters nodded and they jogged away into the deepening shadows of twilight.

Arianne had dressed as Mr. Redd had instructed, accentuating her femininity with her long dark tresses floating about her shoulders and wearing a brightly colored gown. It was the same gown she wore that had attracted a compliment from Davon, and she half hoped it might attract the man himself to finally show his brown face during the trial.

Mr. Redd assured her that her wardrobe and appearance would build sympathy with the judge, but the judge’s deep set eyes bore no boyish twinkle of admiration or attraction to give her hope. His pudgy, aged face regarded her as if he was completely unimpressed, a man who had tired of beautiful faces and shapely forms. Even so, Mr. Redd informed her that by nature, people trusted and valued physical beauty, regardless of the character of the mind and soul.

The second part of Mr. Redd’s advice she would not countenance; she would not act like a naive, innocent girl who was too stupid to even understand what her husband or clerks were up to while she sat in the drawing room embroidering cushions and gossiping with her lady’s maids. If stupidity was to be leveled at her, it would be a stupidity of neglect, not intellect. A silly girl she was not, and she wouldn’t stoop to dissembling.

She had given testimony for two hours under a withering barrage from Mr. Gutke, questions clearly designed to trip her up and cause her to contradict herself. She had little difficulty with these as there was nothing to conceal. Mr. Redd congratulated her during a brief break, but even after two hours’ worth of denials and adamant assertions of her innocence, Mr. Gutke had apparently not exhausted his available lines of questioning.

Arianne rubbed her neck. The mental exertion had steadily taken its toll, her headache building to a roar. “How much longer can he go on?” she asked Mr. Redd.

“He must be close now,” he assured her. “I can’t imagine he has much left that he can bring against you.”

Judge Pinkerton banged his gavel, and Arianne made her way to the witness stand again, trying to appear as comfortable and at ease as possible. The invisible blacksmith hammering at the back of her skull didn’t help.

Mr. Gutke approached the stand, his strong nose and long face regarding her like a problematic nut he needed to crack. This man believed she was guilty, and throughout all of his questioning, she could see him searching for that one last opening that would force out all of her supposed traitorous secrets. As yet, he had not brought out the letter written in her husband’s hand. Mr. Redd warned her he would end with it for dramatic effect.

Mr. Gutke rubbed his chin, dull eyes absorbing her every reaction. “Lady Hightower, I wish to return to the events surrounding the ledgers of your estate. Why was Baron Carver, then acting under the name David Harper, sent to your estate in the first place?”

“In the wake of the Aid Society scandal, the Queen wished him to examine my ledgers for irregularities. At least, that is what she told me when she informed me of his impending visit.”

“Now, you claim that he informed you of the problems in the ledgers and offered to take them back to Bellshire, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you deny his request?” he probed.

“I felt the more prudent course would be to hire an armed guard and travel together, sparing both of us the danger.”

There was that barely perceptible sliver of a grin forming on Mr. Gutke’s face, the same one that appeared every time he thought he had a question that would break her.

“And, Lady Hightower, did you know at this time that David Harper was indeed Baron Carver in disguise?”

She blinked. Unexpected indeed. Mr. Gutke smiled smugly, no doubt thinking he had put her off balance now. He had, just a little. She collected herself. “I did.”

The audience gasped at this revelation, though Arianne couldn’t fathom why it should matter.

He approached the witness stand, face brightened by his small victory. “And this was the same man who murdered your husband, correct?”

“No, it—”

“No?” Mr. Gutke exploded. “It is a matter of history and public record. How can you deny it?”

“It was a sanctioned duel,” she said evenly, “accepted by both parties and properly witnessed and registered. That is not murder, Mr. Gutke.”

His eye twitched just a little. A point scored. “But Lady Hightower, this man killed your husband! Are you going to claim that you didn’t wish to see him in any danger? He robbed you of your Lord. Anger and a desire for revenge are perfectly natural. Isn’t it true that you didn’t wish him leaving with the ledgers because you didn’t want them leaving your control before you could destroy them?”

I didn’t wish him to leave because I cared for him, even then.

While furious at Davon’s absence, somehow her regard for him fortified her. “Mr. Gutke, I will inform you that the manor house at Hightower has ten fireplaces. Had I any incriminating evidence, or were I the criminal you think I am, I certainly would have availed myself of any one of them long before Baron Carver arrived at my door and been done with this business. I need no man’s help to toss a book into a fire.”

His thin-lipped smile disappeared and he tromped to the evidence desk by Judge Pinkerton, retrieving the letter and returning to thrust it into her face.

“Lady Hightower,” he said, voice harsh, “is this your husband’s handwriting.”

“It could be,” she answered. Mr. Redd had instructed her to respond in this fashion to the inevitable question.

“Could be?” Mr. Gutke said. “Is it or is it not?”

“Mr. Gutke, I am perfectly sincere in my response. From what I remember, it is like it, but there may be two hundred other gentlemen who write after the same fashion. His name does not adorn the parchment, so I cannot say with any certainty.”

He stripped the letter from her with a swipe of his hand. “Your honor, I will read this letter. Be aware that our experts attest that the handwriting matches that of Lord Cornton and was written using fake names.”

Mr. Gutke read the letter, inserting a great deal of drama and emphasizing “my wife and I are in complete agreement” with a healthy dash of relish.

He finished and turned toward her. “What do you make of that, Lady Hightower?”

She shrugged. “It is a letter I never saw until Mr. Redd showed it to me. It concerns an investment I was not aware of, and was written by a man who may or may not have been my husband. I am afraid it is a complete mystery to me and I can offer no insight.”

“It is written in your husband’s hand!”

“Objection!” Mr. Redd thundered. “We only know that it closely matches her husband’s hand, and, as no one witnessed anyone write it, it could be a forgery.”

“Sustained,” Judge Pinkerton said, and Arianne’s hope leapt within her. Mr. Gutke was angry and defeated, and something about the judge’s demeanor had changed, his bored eyes regarding her with some emotion. Respect?

“Do you have any further witnesses, Mr. Gutke?” the judge asked.

“No.”

“Do you wish to call anyone to the stand, Mr. Redd?”

Arianne turned to regard her defender. Only Davon Carver remained on the list of people both sides had agreed to examine publicly, and as he had quite disappeared, there was nothing else to be done.

“No, your honor.”

Judge Pinkerton rose and everyone followed suit. “Very well. I shall retire to my chambers and return with the verdict within the hour.”

He left and Arianne returned to Mr. Redd. They both took some satisfaction in the scowls of Mr. Gutke and his associates.

Mr. Redd beamed at her. “If only all my clients were as composed and in control as you, though your innocence certainly lends you strength.”

She smiled. “Thank you. What do you think of our chances?”

“You have won the day, Lady Hightower. I am sure of it,” he said, returning his notes and documents to his satchel. “There is simply too much reasonable doubt to convict you. And,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “you can tell that Mr. Gutke knows it, too.”

Judge Pinkerton returned a half an hour later, and immediately upon seeing him her heart fell clanging into the pit of her stomach. His entire countenance had changed. As the late afternoon light fell upon him, he appeared as pallid and sweaty as the wounded Mr. Cranton had earlier that day. As he sat and perused a document, Arianne could detect a slight trembling of his hands.

She turned to Mr. Redd, whose gaze was also fixed worriedly on the judge. Arianne caught Mr. Redd’s eyes and he shrugged. It seemed that Judge Pinkerton had suddenly taken ill.

“Let the accused come forward,” he said, voice resigned.

Arianne rose and approached the witness stand, heart hammering and hands clammy. Judge Pinkerton’s eyes took her in, and she saw pity there, and fear. Why where his hands shaking?

“It is the decision of this court that Lady Arianne Hightower is guilty of treason. As Bittermarch is on a war footing, there will be no appeals and no delays. The sentence of drowning will be carried out tomorrow at noon. Court is adjourned. Remand her into custody.”

Arianne couldn’t breathe. Judge Pinkerton abandoned his chair and practically fled to his chambers while gasps of outrage and cheers of victory commingled in the spacious hall. Before she could think, the Lord High Sheriff was at her side.

“I am sorry, Lady Hightower,” he said, face hard. “Come with me.”

Chapter 41

Melchor Raines could hardly miss witnessing the fruits of his handiwork. Disguised as a day laborer from the fields, he was grateful for the wide brimmed hat that kept the harsh sun from beating down on his face. Lady Hightower’s vigorous defense of herself in court had nearly spoiled everything, but when a family is threatened with a grisly, slow death, a judge’s mind can be changed.

And it wasn’t a threat. Melchor was ready to carry out the violence in the event the judge proved stubborn, but he bet that good old Pinkerton was no stranger to bribes and had no doubt twisted justice to fit someone else’s means many times before. Sentencing one of the Queen’s favorites to death, however, required a bit more persuasion than money could provide.

A jostling, anxious crowd squeezed in around him. He had waited through the night to guarantee a good vantage point, and he wasn’t the only one that had braved the dark for that purpose. The avenues leading to the Drowning Bridge had burgeoned with spectators well before dawn, and the City Watch came with them, shoving them back to the side and quelling arguments and occasional fistfights over the best spots.

Melchor pulled his pocket watch out of his beaten leather jacket, careful to conceal the golden accessory that had no place in the pocket of the farmhand he was pretending to be. It had belonged to the late Horace Clout, though Melchor’s reasons for acquiring the timepiece were far from the sentimental. His money was running low, and he couldn’t risk meeting with his other Creetisian contacts at such a critical juncture in their plan. Baron Longford was ready. Melchor himself was ready. And the Creetisian troops sneaking through the mountains in the north were ready to march south with almost no resistance as the bulk of Bittermarch’s army had been committed to the south.

Today, the heir to the throne would die. Tonight the monarch of Bittermarch and Lord Ember would follow suit. The first shots of the war would be fired in the south to complete the diversion before the week was out, and Bellshire would be ripe for the plucking by their forces from the north.

The distant sound of horses quieted the crowd, necks craning down the road in search of the execution party. A full fifteen minutes passed before Melchor could see it. The hooded executioner rode at the front, horse as black as his uniform. Two lines of blue uniformed soldiers followed, rifles on their shoulders. In the middle of them walked the Lady Hightower, pale as birch and clutching a pendant around her neck.

Such a waste of a beautiful woman. He would want a bride when he settled down on some estate in newly conquered Bittermarch, and if that wife looked like the Lady Hightower, he would forgive a great deal of other character defects. Far from somber, dull attire, she wore a fetching red dress as if heading to a ball. Her midnight hair was curled and bounding around her shoulders with each step toward her doom. Some poor maid had gone to a lot of effort for hair that would be matted to her head in death in scant minutes.

While her dress and her beauty showed fire, her eyes were extinguished and haunted. How cruel it must have been to have the victory in court snatched from her just when the decision seemed hers. Melchor shook his head. Could such a woman have led Bittermarch? He thought not, though her composure at her trial had earned his respect. A waste of a good woman indeed, but it couldn’t be helped.

Behind the execution party came a carriage that would convey any friends and relations of hers that wished to support her during her last moments of life. The coach and four was expensive, and Melchor knew it likely carried Queen Filippa herself. He had bet that Lady Hightower’s parents—conspirators in a plot whose first casualty would be their daughter—would absent themselves from the proceedings.

Foot over foot and wheel-turn by wheel-turn they came toward the awful bridge and its mechanism of death. The bridge the Bittermarchians had constructed for meting out capital punishment was wide enough for bleachers on one side and a pulley attached to a cage on the other. The short cage forced the condemned to kneel while the executioner swung a heavy arm over the river and used a crank to lower the cage down into the depths of Cloud River. There it remained for ten minutes and then was hauled up.

Loved ones were not allowed to retrieve the body of traitors, forced to watch as the executioner retrieved the body, weighted it with chains, and consigned it to the river. The Creetisians preferred hangings, but Melchor thought the drownings more horrifying in their way. The suffering of the prisoner was completely left to the imagination of the crowd, though it did spare them the memorable scenes of jerking bodies and twitching feet common with a good hanging.

Even the little children seemed to hush as the procession arrived and the executioner dismounted. Somewhere, a summer bird not quite aware of the dire proceedings belted out a cheery tune that floated over the rushing, hungry water.

The executioner took Lady Hightower’s arm. He was gentle. There was respect there, and Melchor wondered if the hooded man was the Lord High Sheriff himself, the officer’s obvious absence from the crowd and the anonymous executioner’s gut suggesting the two were one and the same.

A footman helped the Queen from the carriage, and two young women and Arianne’s sister came after. Elaine Hale would be an uncommon beauty, too, once womanhood fully took hold, though Melchor preferred the darker complexion of her older sister. Miss Hale clutched a carving in her arms as a child would a beloved doll someone had threatened to take away, though Melchor couldn’t make out what it was.

All of the ladies wept, and under the weight of their tears Arianne’s resolve broke, her own emotion bursting forth. Her bosom heaved as panic and sorrow tortured her breathing. The milky white cheeks turned red to match eyes burned with sleepless worry. There were more tears from some of the nobles on the bleachers, though others looked on with cold, stoic faces; some believed that the verdict passed by Judge Pinkerton was just.

Finally, the executioner led her away. Her friends followed, standing near the platform where Lady Hightower ascended the three steps and knelt in the rusty, iron cage. After a quick squeeze to the lady’s arm, the executioner closed the heavy door, affixing a massive lock and pulling at it to show the crowd that it was indeed secured.

Lady Hightower had recovered her composure, though tears still fell as strained hands gripped the slats of the cage, draining her fingers of blood. Her eyes remained fixed on her friends, her sister in particular, as the executioner walked to the edge of the platform and spoke. And when the words came, Melchor knew for sure that the Lord High Sheriff hid beneath the black hood.

“By order of the court, Lady Arianne Hightower is condemned to die by drowning for committing high treason against the Crown, the Kingdom, and the people of Bittermarch.”

The executioner grasped the pulley and started to crank, the whining screech of the rusty wheels grating Melchor’s ears and silencing the cheery bird. The heavy cage and its wretched occupant slowly rose into the air, and once it was high enough to clear the bridge rail, the executioner locked the pulley in place and reached for an iron rod about ten feet long. He placed it on the beam from which the cage dangled, preparing to swing it out over the river, the swift, deep water patiently awaiting its victim.

But something was wrong. From where he was, Melchor could just make out the muted screams coming from some disturbance far back down the line of people toward the center of town. The executioner prepared to use the rod to shove the cage outward when the distant tumult crescendoed, shouts and cries of terror rolling toward them like an ill wind.

The crowd of people split, pulling back as something massive shot down the avenue. Bestial barking reverberated against the buildings and shook the air. Melchor couldn’t quite fathom what it was at first. Then, like a cannon shot, a mass of white fur streaked toward the bridge, something too big to be moving that fast. The ceremonial guards unlimbered their guns, fumbling for their ammunition pouches. But it was too late.

A sabercat as tall as a horse and as white as snow blasted into the space between the stands and the contraption of death. It drove its mighty head and shoulders into the clumped mass of soldiers, sending them and their guns scattering like leaves in a gale.

Instinctively, Melchor took an involuntary step back. He had hunted sabercat in Creetis, but nothing approaching the size of this monstrosity had ever been reported, even in the most wild and exaggerated of hunters’ tales. Its jaws dripped with the froth of its exertion, green eyes accusatory, angry, and oddly intelligent. Three streaks of black fur ran vertically down its chest.

With a fierce look at the executioner, who now pointed the rod at the beast, the sabercat sucked in a lungful of breath and let loose a long roar with such visceral presence that the executioner stumbled backward off the platform and onto the bridge. Melchor joined the rest of the crowd in covering his ears, the sound so deep and rumbling that it drove some to their knees. Birds shot from nearby branches, and some in the crowd turned and ran in terror.

Unchallenged, the sabercat reared up, placing its forepaws on the platform. With a precise movement it bent its head and slipped its hooked fangs into the slats of Lady Hightower’s cage. She shrank back, eyes wide. Cage secure, the animal pulled back and bounded away, the pulley handle whizzing in circles until the rope snapped out, trailing behind the fleeing beast. The bewildered crowd stood stunned, necks craned down the avenue.

But Melchor fixed his gaze on Queen Filippa, whose exultant, tear-streaked face matched those of the three women who moments before had sunk into mourning. Had the old monarch known this would happen? No, he concluded. She was just as amazed as everyone else who milled about at a loss for what to say. Several moments of stunned silence passed before the crowd found its voice again.

The Lord High Sheriff, who had unmasked himself, came to the Queen Filippa’s side, rubbing his dirt stained back. They exchanged words for a moment, and Melchor could guess the contents of the conversation:

“Shall I tell my men to give chase, Your Grace?”

“Of course not.”

Arianne cowered in terror, hanging on to the slats of her cage to minimize the violent jostling and bumping caused by the beast’s swift, powerful gait. They fairly flew out of Bellshire, streaking north down the road so fast that Arianne felt dizzy. A handful of times she had brought a horse to a full gallop, but this was surely as fast as she had ever gone.

From her awkward position staring up at the mighty fangs, she could see little of what passed. So stretched and raw were her emotions that she felt she could do little more than fight to keep from fainting under the strain of the past week. To have exoneration stripped from her, to have marched to her death, to now find herself torn from execution by a giant beast taxed the powers that maintained her sanity.

The enormous sabercat ran until the shadows started to stretch, what she figured was the better part of two hours. She could tell the beast was laboring now, its breath hot and damp through the slats. Finally, it slowed as they reached a bridge spanning a shallow stream. Treading softly, it picked its way down the bank and into the water, sheltering in the shadows of the bridge planks. The cool air and calmer motion refreshed her, and she rejoiced when the gigantic predator finally put her down on a sandy bank.

For a nearly a minute it lapped at the water before returning and placing one paw on the cage and hooking its massive tusks on the door. With a mighty toss of its head, the rusty metal whined and then ripped away. This was no ordinary animal, Arianne concluded. Its movements and actions came from intelligent purpose. It was frightening, all the same.

And then the beast was Davon.

Her eyes shot wide, heart pounding. He smiled sadly at her, his mouth surrounded by an awful, scruffy beard. He set his rifle aside and extended his hand.

“I am so sorry, Lady Hightower,” he said. “I have failed you. And I was nearly too late.”

She could hardly speak, and she felt like she was staring at a row of emotions in a shop window and trying to choose one. Her cramped body ached, every inch feeling bruised and battered. She grabbed his hand, and with a gentle pull from him and a push from her protesting legs, she stood. He helped her step the rest of the way out her cage before enfolding her in her arms.

She cried, trying to drain the reservoir of terror that had flooded her heart.

“Where have you been?” she sobbed. “I needed you.”

“Please forgive me, Lady Hightower,” he said. “Forgive me. I came as quickly as I could. I should have tried harder.”

She pulled away from him for a moment, finding his eyes wet, as well. Any anger for him that she had kept bottled up had fled, and she buried her head in his chest again and exhaled, closing her eyes and relishing feeling safe for the first time in days.

“You know, Davon,” she said, “you could have, perhaps, stopped an hour or so ago just to let me know that the ferocious animal was indeed you and not some hungry beast dragging me off to a distant cave to clean my bones.”

“I would have, Lady Hightower—”

“Arianne.”

“But—”

“It is my name. I would like to hear it from your lips.”

“Arianne, I was afraid that if I changed to my present form, I wouldn’t be able to change back. I don’t quite have the knack of controlling it yet.”

“Is it another gift of the Eternal Flame?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” he answered. “It is a long tale, but there is much to tell, for both of us, I think.”

“Yes.” She smiled, feeling her legs and her heart finally steadying. She stepped back and pulled at the beard on his chin. “Going back to your old disguise, Davon?”

He stared at her as if he hadn’t heard word she had said, almost as if he was seeing her for the first time. He held her eyes with his, gaze intense but affectionate.

“Davon?” she asked, wondering where his mind was wandering off to.

His right hand went around her waist, pulling her back toward him, his left hand sinking into the curls of her hair. And then he kissed her. Warmth flooded into her, sweet and enticing, and she sunk into him and wouldn’t let him stop until she was sure he understood that she wanted more than a polite demonstration of affection.

When it ended and he pulled away, she could feel her face beaming, and even his more reserved countenance couldn’t hide its satisfaction. From death to life in a matter of hours—the contrast was stark and intoxicating.

“That was awfully forward, Davon Carver,” she said, her tone anything but disappointed.

“Yes,” he stammered. “Well, these long days without you have forced me to admit that I love you. I felt a sudden need to let you know.”

“I enjoyed how you did it, though I believe you went in reverse of the normal order of things. I believe one is to say it first, like so: I love you, Davon Carver. And then comes the kiss, like this.”

The second kiss was a good deal more practiced than the first and all the more enjoyable for it. It was hard to stop. How could she have ever married Lord Cornton? Now that she knew what love was, she could never imagine marrying for any other purpose than to show it.

“I do warn you, Baron Carver, that I am a convicted criminal and you will sully your reputation by consorting with me. I am a traitor by judgment of the law and one Judge Pinkerton.”

While she said this in jest, his face screwed up into an angry mask. “I will clear your name, Lady Hightower. What was done to you was wrong and unconscionable! I won’t rest until your honor and your rank are restored and those responsible punished in the most severe manner. I won’t have—”

She kissed him to stop his flood of righteous anger. “First things first, Davon. Where can we go?”

“Things are more dire than you know,” he explained, grasping her shoulders. “I must return to Bellshire and the Queen immediately. There is a Creetisian army bearing down on us from the north. You and I are just outside of the Libbon Township, but I cannot risk hiding you in the comfortable accommodations there, as you will likely be recognized. There are not far from here a couple of acquaintances of mine that will keep you safe out in the wild while I return to Bellshire and the Queen.”

She frowned. “I don’t wish to be parted from you, Davon. I would rather go into danger with you. I don’t feel quite safe anywhere else. Every time you leave I—”

And then he kissed her. “We must bear with separation and peril for a while longer, Arianne. Once Bellshire is safe and our good names restored, then we will never be parted, I promise.”

She nodded, though her mind and heart still rebelled at the thought of seeing him go again.

“Davon,” she said, “I hate to tell you that Frostbourne manor is no more. Emile burned it down out of revenge.”

He smiled wistfully and stroked a strand of her hair. “It is of no consequence, dearest Arianne,” he said. “There are things there that are best burned, and it would be nice to start over.”

Arianne nodded and knew what he meant. When a new manor rose in Frostbourne, it would be free of painful associations and the bones of dead men.

Davon took her hand and led her away along the tall, bending grass of the shore, the pleasant gurgling of the creek accompanying them as they trekked deeper into the trackless countryside. He asked her to relate what had happened to her during his absence, and she obliged him while they walked.

And as civilization faded behind them, a quiet satisfaction built within her. Before her waited hills and clumps of trees completely unfamiliar to her, but she had no sense of being lost. With Davon at her side and the soft evening coming on, she felt comfortable and at home with herself and the world. The horrors of her trial and execution seemed but a faded memory in fields flooded by afternoon sunshine.

Before she had the chance to ask Davon about his adventures, he led her away from the creek and around the base of a low, wooded hill. They circled around to the far side and walked into a loose clump of mature oak with thick trunks and wide, sheltering branches. She had just started to smell the wood smoke when they reached a modest rise and looked down into a small depression where two exotic, white-haired women turned a freshly skinned rabbit on a spit.

When she saw them, she knew immediately that they were North People, the mysterious Aua’Catan. They must have been the ones the Queen had told her about that had absconded with Davon.

They heard their approach and both stood with identical poses, and the closer they came, Arianne saw that more than their poses were identical—and that they had dressed in the most scandalous tight fitting pants and revealing jerkins. And that they were very pretty. She felt a stab of jealousy. So these were Davon’s new acquaintances?

“Is this the woman, Brown Man?” one of them asked.

“Yes. Ki, Ta, this is Lady Arianne Hightower. Lady Hightower, this is Ki and this one is Ta, though it can be difficult to tell them apart. They are Spear Sisters of the Aua’Catan.”

Arianne opened her mouth to offer a greeting, but Ki and Ta circled around her as if she were some sort of statute. “But Brown Man,” Ta said, “she is beautiful. And Ki, look at her hair! It is as dark as a moonless night!”

Arianne stood stock still while the two strangers rubbed her hair between their fingers as if to determine its authenticity. They repeated the same routine with her dress before turning their attention to the jewelry Davon hard carved for her. Davon just leaned on his gun and smiled an irritating smile through the whole ordeal.

The one Arianne thought was Ki lifted the pendant at her neck. “Did the Brown Man carve this for you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Does it do anything?” Ta followed.

Arianne opened and closed it and they smiled appreciatively. She then demonstrated the blooming flower bracelet to their delight.

Davon squeezed her arm. “I’ll tend to the rabbit while you three get to know each other.” He winked at her while the strangers continued to give her a thorough inspection.

“He carved birds for us,” Ki said, giving Arianne a demonstration of the exquisite snow finches. They gashed through the air and landed on their owners’ shoulders. When they reached up to retrieve them, the birds returned to motionless forms just as Elaine’s sabercats would.

“So, Ki and Ta,” Arianne asked, “why do you travel with Davon?”

“Because we want to,” one of them answered. Arianne was confused again as to which was which. “He is Khodo Khim, after all, and he told us of your peril and the plight of your nation, so we decided to render assistance. To help the Khodo Khim is an honor.”

“Khodo Khim?” Arianne asked.

Both of their faces turned sour with disgust. “Brown Man! You have not told your woman that you are Khodo Khim?”

Davon rose and walked over. “Well, not exactly. I haven’t had time to relate my side of the tale. But let’s talk over our meal. I must away soon.”

“Already?” Arianne asked. She didn’t want him to leave yet. She’d barely gotten him back. “Shouldn’t you take your rest this evening and get your strength?”

He returned to her and took her hands. “I wish I could, but if I don’t act soon we will lose the northern duchies with hardly a fight. I will return tomorrow or the day following. Ki and Ta will take good care of you.”

She nodded, a feeling of sadness entering her heart. Did he really have to go?

Ki and Ta watched them closely. “Don’t worry, Lady Hightower,” one of them said. “He loves you and breathes you with every breath. He will return so that you may be bonded. He even made you hair rings. Be sure to leave them here when you go, Brown Man.”

Arianne wondered what they meant. “Bonded? Hair rings?”

“Yes,” the other twin replied. “We’ll explain after he leaves. But the two of them should be bonded, Ki. It is plain. Can you imagine the little dark-haired babies they will have?”

Arianne blushed and Davon cleared his throat. “Well, let’s carve this rabbit, and I’ll tell you about what I’ve been up to.”

Chapter 42

Night had darkened the windows of the drawing room where Queen Filippa sat rubbing her strained, scratchy eyes. A day reading military reports through a magnifying glass had reduced her eyes to irritated children whining at her to stop. And she had to stop. The information before her was three days old and only told of a ragged Creetisian army in the warm fields far to the south, and the fighting had surely begun by now. Before long, the first casualty reports would trickle in and she would get angry. Until then, she could pretend that the incensed Creetisians had come to their senses and retreated back to their miserable hovel of a country.

Her war adviser, General Cutler, perused the same documents with her. He was barrel chested and late in years, his dark hair shot through with so much gray that the black seemed ready surrender. But unlike other men of his age and station, General Cutler was strong and fit, and his vitality reminded her of her late husband. His small eyes made quick work of the documents, and the Queen was impressed with his posture and fortitude; the man had sat with a back as straight as a board the entire day.

He turned toward her. “Your Grace, there is little more to be gleaned today. The days ahead will be more frantic and tragic, and it would be best to keep your strength up.”

“Thank you, General,” she replied. “I believe you are right.” She had sat in one of a hundred positions trying to let all her back muscles take a turn at aching. It had worked, but now they all were as cross as her eyes and complaining in unison.

The door opened and a servant in white livery entered bearing two glasses of brandy as she had ordered. He strode over with as good a posture as the general, placing the glasses in front of them with a practiced precision.

He straightened. “Will that be all, Your Grace?”

“Yes, that is all,” she answered.

He was halfway across the room when it hit her. Her gift from the Eternal Flame woke her weary mind, infusing her with insight as it had done many times before.

She let her Arrow Asp cane fall to the floor.

“Hold a moment if you would,” she said just as he was about to reach for the door handle. There was a flinch of the shoulders, barely perceptible, as she called for him to stop. He turned, face aloof. It was obvious now who he was, though he was quite good at disguises.

“Is the kitchen still open?” she asked innocently.

His shoulders relaxed just a fraction. “I believe so, Your Grace. Do you wish to make a request?”

He was behind the couch at the far end of the room. She tapped her finger to her lips until her sneaky little Arrow Asp could slither beneath the furniture to her right, darting under a chair and another couch before approaching the position she intended. Just like a real servant would, Melchor Raines stood stock still awaiting the pleasure of his Queen. And with such a nice still stance, the Arrow Asp’s formidable fangs had no trouble sinking into the heel of the impostor.

Melchor Raines yelped, face wincing in pain, and he leaned on the couch to support himself. Eyes bulging, he stared down at the snake latched onto his heel, face sweaty. The venom worked quickly. With a groan, he lifted a foot to crush the serpent, but his balance failed him. He grasped the back of the couch to keep from falling, face as white as his shirt.

“Stay perfectly still, Mr. Raines. The snake has only injected a little poison,” the Queen warned the Creetisian assassin. “General, help him to a seat if you will. You are familiar with Melchor Raines, are you not, General?”

General Cutler nodded and stood, face alarmed. Melchor’s eyes focused and unfocused, his balance ever more unsteady. The General grabbed him by the arm, and placed him on the couch across from the Queen. The snake’s fangs had punctured deeply into his foot, the snake’s body now coiled about its victim’s ankle.

“Now, Mr. Raines,” the Queen said evenly. “At my command the snake will release the full force of its venom. You will die within minutes, watching your leg turn as black as ash. As it is, you will be sick for a week. I was bitten by an adolescent Arrow Asp when I was young. It was hiding in a bed of flowers where I was picking daisies and it latched onto my forearm. The poison turned my arm purple and black. I’m lucky I still have it.”

Sweat poured off of Melchor’s face, the flesh around his eyes darkening. “I have nothing to say.”

The Queen picked up the brandy Melchor had delivered. “I don’t suppose I should drink this unless I want to end up like you. What poison did you use?”

Mr. Raines kept to his word, clenching his jaw shut. She knew his stomach roiled and tossed like the Bitter Sea. Some poor servant would find a rather unpleasant mess to clean up if the man couldn’t keep his stomach.

“Well,” the Queen said, “my old bones hardly have the strength to beat any information out of you. But do me a courtesy and tell me how you convinced the young Uticus Longford to shoot your ambassador. Yes, I reasoned it out eventually. It really was a masterstroke on your part.”

His lips slid into a sinister grin, pallid skin and darkening eyes turning his face into a portrait of horrifying cruelty. “Why, every young man’s dream, to be a hero. It’s an especially potent persuasion for those who feel guilty over enjoying another man’s fame.”

“So you know who the real hero of Harrickshire is?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but vomit came out instead, splattering on the floor. The sour smell burned her nose, roiling her own stomach.

Figuring the snake’s work done, she released its grip on his bloody heel and willed it to return to her, hardening it into a walking stick in her hand. Creetisians didn’t believe in the powers of the Primal Forces, and Melchor Raines’s eyes flew open wide. Though, the Queen noted, in his current indisposition he probably thought he was hallucinating.

The Queen leaned back on her couch. “General Cutler, would you fetch the guard without the door and send word to the Lord High Sheriff that he has another dastard to wring information out of? This one’s a member of the Creetisian Fist, so he’ll be as tough as dried beef, but the venom ought to help loosen him up a bit. They should get to him before his tongue swells up, though.”

The General, stunned speechless, nodded and went to the door. Melchor Raines moved as if to stand up to try to reach her, and the Queen wondered if his movement was a final attempt to fulfill his orders to kill her. But his flaccid limbs failed him, collapsing under his weight and throwing him into his own vomit.

“You really should stay still and be calm,” the Queen cautioned him. “Getting worked up only helps the poison move more quickly through your body. You’ll be in excruciating pain soon enough. No need to hurry things along.”

He moaned and the Queen shook her head. Maybe she had forced the snake to push more venom than was necessary. They really did need his information, if they could get it. At the very least, she hoped they removed him from the room before the convulsions started. Such a display would bring back unpleasant memories of her childhood, and she had drunk her fill of unpleasantness for one day.

Baron Olivanne Longford started up the dark steps to the Flame Cathedral. It was late. Lanterns burned by the doors to the massive structure, giving him the impression that his ascent was a journey from the abyss to an illuminated home of beauty reaching out to embrace him in its light. This was surely the intent of those who designed the building, reinforcing the notion that there was a meaningful reason to strive upward.

He paused. Getting past the sentries at the doors might prove troublesome if he roused the rest of the guard. With the war underway, a thick patrol of soldiers marched the streets and surrounded the gate of the palace complex. Had he appeared as a Lord, he might have talked his way past the guard at the gate on some pretense as long as they didn’t recognize him as a fugitive. But suffused as he was with the Primal Water, he came as the hulking Dales Marter. He felt more monster than man, his gigantic form making quick work of the soldiers’ necks where he had ascended a lonelier section of the wall.

The Voice that had found him as a youth suffused him with its quiet whisper, instructing him on where to go and what to do. His body was the vessel for Primal Water, his mind the vessel for the Voice. The two were one, it seemed. Were they collaborators, or was one a slave and the other a master? Whichever the case, he was not their thrall; he acted as a willing servant. The Voice provided him with purpose, the Water with power.

He placed one foot before the other and continued his ascent, boot leather rasping on the stones. This was the first time the Primal Water had allowed him to ingest it. The Primal Water’s effect upon him was markedly different from the river and pond water he had used in the past to transform into Dales. He felt like a flood ready to burst from a dam, his skin taut and slick with moisture. Anyone who saw him would think him sweating under a humid summer sun, but it was the water barely contained that gave his skin its sheen.

Taking three steps at a time, he reached the top and its warm light in a few strides, two guards’ eyes widening at the beast of a man before them dressed in the homespun wool and worn leather of a common worker. He smiled at them anyway, hoping a toothy grin might set them at ease. A little gregariousness and some down-home stupidity ought to do the trick.

“Beg yer pardon,” he said, removing his hat and wringing it in his hands nervously, “but is it too late fer an ugly cuss like me to pass a prayer to the Flame?”

They looked at each other in exasperation. “Only members of the House of Light can pass prayers into the Eternal Flame,” one explained, coming closer. “You may pass your prayers into any fire you choose and the Eternal Flame will receive them.”

“Oh,” the Baron said, trying to sound disappointed. “You see, my brother’s in the war in the south, and I wanted to pass a prayer directly to the Flame itself to make sure it got it, you see. Can I do that?”

The guard shook his head. “No. No exceptions. Good night, Mister. Please be on your way.”

The Baron replaced his hat. Just as he raised his head, his hands shot out and clamped on the necks of the two guards. He jammed his swollen thumbs into their tracheas, squeezing until they popped. Both men gurgled for air, trapped in his inescapable clutches. Their halberds clattered to the ground as they struggled, turned blue, and went limp.

Releasing his grip, he let the bodies crumple to the cold stone. With a long stride he stepped over them, finding the thick door behind them locked. A quick search of the guards for a key proved fruitless, but the solution popped into his mind, a prompt from the Voice.

He opened his hand, willing the water up from his skin to pool in his palm. With a thought, it formed into the shape of a key, and with another he hardened it to ice. He inserted it into the keyhole, but it wasn’t the right shape. The water, he now understood, was his to shape and control. He exerted his concentration until the shape conformed to the lock, and it slid in. The water moved and froze around the tumblers until, with a little turn, the lock clicked and the door swung open. His skin reabsorbed the water.

Inside the hall was empty, lanterns placed sparsely along the building’s long outer hall. Olivanne dragged the bodies inside, stuffing them in one of the many abandoned rooms that lined the hall. He had to hurry. The work the Voice called upon him to complete required concentration and some meditation, and he would fail if forced to confront a host of guards.

The path to the resting place of the Eternal Flame he knew as well as the one to the cave of Primal Water near his home. He had come to the Flame Cathedral often in his contemplations, the Voice instructing him to familiarize himself with the Primal Force he was to destroy just as he had killed Peacock beetle after Peacock beetle until they no longer seemed like objects of any consequence.

So during the summers he had come and sat in the public observation chambers high above the main floor and just stared at it as it hung. It was such an unremarkable thing, a modest fire in a peasant pot just as Joris Pulsipher had found it. He knew its shape, its light, its flickering patterns. He knew it would burn paper and flesh if touched, but gave off no heat. An oddity. But eternal? No. Eternal was a name people had placed upon it, people whose lives spanned but a blink in time. Tonight the Eternal would end and the harsh truth of life’s uncompromising fragility plant its seed in every mind.

Quietly, he pushed open the door to the central chamber, entering where only Lord Ember and members of the House of Light would come to commune with the Flame and pass in their prayers. Due to the late hour, he expected he would find it abandoned, but as he passed inside, he found that light bathed the chamber.

On the raised dais knelt Lord Ember next to a basket of little slips of parchment, a pile of prayers he fed into the Eternal Flame one at a time. Two lanterns sat on opposite sides of the dais, casting enough light to illuminate the first balcony of seats on either side of the circular chamber.

Lord Ember turned as the Baron approached, his eyes questioning. The Baron affixed a sloppy, country grin on his face, but Lord Ember didn’t buy it, his sharp eyes digging into his, the old man’s face paling. Baron Longford started into a run.

“What are you?” Lord Ember whispered, struggling to his feet. With an intake of air, Lord Ember opened his mouth to let forth a shout. But the Baron was faster, grabbing his neck and squelching the cry before it could leave his throat.

Again the Voice provided direction. Keeping his right hand clenched about Lord Ember’s scrawny neck, he raised his left and placed it over his victim’s gaping mouth. Primal Water seeped out of his palm and into the old man’s throat. Like a liquid gag it strangled his sounds, but let him breathe through his nose.

With two strides Baron Longford carried Lord Ember to the hook used to raise and lower the Eternal Flame’s pot. He dropped Lord Ember on the ground and pinned him there with a knee, trussing up his feet with the rope. Once finished, he pulled the lever and pulley to hoist him up into the air upside down. His orange stole of office fell to the ground beneath his reddening face.

“Now, Lord Ember,” the Baron said, dropping his low-class accent, “you will bear witness to this deed as your final act in the flesh. You see, Water and Earth and Air might war with each other, but none require the other to live. The Air and Water might chip away at the rock, but even as sand and dust it remains. The Earth might hem in the Water, but the Water remains. The Water and Earth might shun their sister Air, but the Air remains.

“But Fire, Lord Ember, Fire is like us. It must consume and breathe to survive. And when it cannot breathe, and when it cannot consume, it must die, just as we must die.”

He stepped to the pot, trying to scoot it along the ground with his foot. It wouldn’t budge. It was true, then. Lord Ember really was the only one who could move it. The pot and its flame stayed stock still no matter how much force he exerted. It was like an ant trying to move an anvil. How had the bull brought it, clenched in its teeth? The Voice chastised him for his delay and he knelt before the pot. But the Flame was different; it had diminished a great deal since last he had seen it.

It cowers in fear, the Voice said. Finish it!

The Baron leaned over the Flame, its weak tongues of fire not reaching to his face. There was no heat, but as he stared down into its flickering form, some emotion shot into the still deadness of his Voice-trained heart. His resolve shook, the foundations of his purpose cracking under the weight of emotions he had long tried to quell.

And then memories flooded unbidden into his mind. He remembered the beauty of the Peacock beetle, its purple and green carapace shimmering in the summer sun. He remembered the hours he had spent with the family dog as it followed him faithfully through forests and across rivers and licked his face and hands. He remembered the puffy cheeks and the tender cries of his firstborn son, his trusting gaze and grasping, tiny fingers. The worth of everything he had killed, its beauty, burned into his heart.

And he shrank.

I warned you this would happen, the Voice soothed. Beauty has no value because it has no permanence! What thrusts up in the summer season is crushed come the winter. Those who cling to beauty—whether in the heart or in the eye—are doomed to suffer agony at its loss over and over. Nothing has any value or lasting beauty or unending life, and only those who accept this truth can truly be at peace. Only then can they know the freedom you have known.

This lesson he knew well. The Voice had lashed it into him over and over with every life he had taken. And with those lessons had come peace. In an ephemeral world of fragile life, there was no need for guilt or exultation, sorrow or joy. There was only action and survival—if one cared to act or to survive at all. In the end, the choice didn’t matter because even caring about that choice was pointless. Death would come throw all into its depths unfathomable. It would drown every shame of failure or flush of success, every groan of misery or moan of pleasure, in the same inscrutable hole.

Fortified, he acted quickly before the Primal Fire could infect him with more of its naive, sentimental picture of the world. With a vomitus heave he expelled the Primal Water from his body, the crystal clear liquid gushing out of his mouth and draining from his pores. His mouth strained, pain erupting down the length of this throat.

And with the violent ejection, his body deflated, water filling the pot, strangling the Eternal Flame, which seemed to flail and twitch as it shrank and withered smokeless and soundless beneath the onslaught of Primal Water. A pool grew on the floor as the water overflowed, soaking into the clothes that sagged around his diminished but true body.

Lord Ember’s bulging eyes remained fixed on the Eternal Flame as it suffocated like a drowning swimmer, its light failing ever more. At last the Eternal Flame winked out, and with it died the lantern light, casting the chamber into impenetrable gloom.

Chapter 43

After Davon had departed from Arianne with a tender kiss—a privilege he hoped to enjoy with greater frequency—he had transformed back into the powerful Khodo Khim. Urgency seemed to be the key to making the change, and urgency he possessed in abundance. The northern duchies were in grave danger, though, he realized, they were also the treasonous fools who had brought that danger to Bellshire’s door. Still, those who would suffer most would not be the nobles and aristocrats, but the common folk who had no part in the scheming. For their sake, Davon ran as if he were the prey rather than the hunter.

As the sabercat, his bodily senses extended, bringing the world into sharp focus. Smells announced themselves miles before he passed their source, and the lack of sunlight failed to deprive him of critical sight. Every movement in his field of vision registered to a mind that could instantly sort and track them. The night was alive to him like never before, like a blind man who had found sight. Without the weight of Arianne and the cage, he tore along the road with the force of a wild gale, startling late travelers as he sprinted past.

Night had fallen long before the outskirts of Bellshire slid into view, and he darted off the road to rest on a bald, grassy hill just to the north of the first farms and buildings outside of the city. Chest still heaving with the exertion of running, he sat and tried to calm a nagging anxiety that buzzed about his mind, a fear that steadily mounted with every stride forward. The fear had no name. It was something outside of the Creetisian threat. Was it for Arianne? For Bellshire?

After several minutes, he rose up on all fours, ready to run again. Pressing forward was all he could do. To his left, a wall of thick gray clouds threaded through the spires of the Ice Fire Mountains, a shroud that covered the scant illumination offered by the winking stars and slivered moon. And like that approaching storm, the anxiety and fear within him suddenly blew in with the force of a tempest. It was like the night he had sensed when the ruffian was about to knock down Arianne’s door, but much more powerful. His heart pounded, and he cast about for the threat. Where was the danger?

And then every light in Bittermarch went out at once. Every fire. Every lantern. Every candle. It was as if some ill wind had extinguished every source of illumination. The anxious premonition of danger fled, replaced by his own dread, a dread enlivened by the cries of surprise and terror rising up from the city to mix with the mounting gale and thunder of the encroaching storm.

He darted off the hill. Something more horrible than war had come to Bittermarch, something dark. Using his long legs to his advantage, he barreled through the abyssal night until the buildings thickened around him. Finding a private alley away from terrified eyes, he returned to his human form. He strode into the benighted, blinded city, making for the palace and missing some of the sensory advantages of the sabercat form.

Some few like him braved the streets, brief slashes of distant lightning providing some illumination to go by. Something about the palpable dark inspired the men and women around him to hush their voices, though sharp wails from the young and the fearful punctuated the whispers, their palpable terror prickling his skin. His eyes fared better than most, some around him so lost they could only feel their way around by running their fingers along the sides of buildings. Most fled indoors where familiar tables and walls guided trembling hands and stumbling feet.

While loath to accept the reality, Davon could guess what had happened. The Primal Fire had died. With every step forward he became more sure of his conclusion. As the lights of the city extinguished, so did his gift, the wood around him no longer suggesting shapes he should carve. The people around him tried desperately to strike a fire, to no avail. He swallowed hard. The consequences of a world without fire were too far reaching to contemplate. No way to cook food. No way to shape metal. No way to find warmth when the Wasting Wind set in during the winter.

He shuddered and collected himself. Would his rifle even work? He didn’t feel it wise to test it, fearing to unhinge the nerves of people already cowed by fear. He had to see the Queen. Fire or no fire, the war still waged, though he wondered what two armies sitting around dead fire pits might do. With any luck, the strange circumstances would halt the fighting; at the worst, it would turn a shooting war into an ugly contest of knives, fists, and bayonets.

Not unexpectedly, the thick group of jumpy guards at the palace gate denied him entrance, his assertions of urgency and noble connections worthless. This forced him to search the town for the Lord High Sheriff, who had his hands full restoring order. Davon thought he might be turned away from his offices as well, but when the Lord High Sheriff recognized him, he personally ushered him inside the Palace gates immediately.

“You come in strange times, Mr. Carver,” he said, voice hoarse. “Lord Ember is dead. The Primal Fire is out. Melchor Raines tried to poison the Queen, but she discerned him and turned the tables. And let me not forget to mention that Lady Hightower was pulled away from her execution by a sabercat large enough that I could ride it. You are aware that she escaped?”

“Yes,” Davon said. “A busy day for you.”

Noticing the Lord High Sheriff’s little stumbles on the cobbles, Davon produced the blue moss, which didn’t seem affected by the loss of fire. The blue glow enveloped them, the Lord High Sheriff letting loose with an exclamation of surprise.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Something from the North People,” Davon said. “I’ll explain the details of my long journeys later. I come with more dire news.”

The Lord High Sheriff grunted. “More bad news? I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“It’s about the guns bought with all that donated money. They are in the hands of Creetisians. They found a way through the mountains in the north and are descending in numbers on the northern duchies.”

“No!”

“It is true. I saw it.”

“I do not doubt you, Mr. Carver,” the Lord High Sheriff returned. “I gave an exclamation of dismay, not disbelief. The Queen has been anxious for word of you, and now I see why.”

“No,” Davon disagreed. “I do not believe she is aware of the Creetisian threat from the north. Do you know if guns will even fire now?”

The sheriff grunted. “They don’t. So the joke’s on everybody. This scheme continues to surprise me at every turn. To attack us from the north and extinguish the Primal Fire? How can that happen? No one thought either of those things could be done!”

“It’s hard to know if the war and the death of the Primal Fire are connected,” Davon said as they approached the stairs to the palace. “It would seem odd that a plot to manufacture so many weapons would also include disabling them.”

The closer they approached to the palace, the more something tickled Davon’s senses, a recognition of some force unfamiliar to him. It was like smelling a fire before seeing it, or feeling the wet of a storm on the wind minutes before it arrived. It wasn’t constant, seeming to fade in and out like the wind of the storm nearly upon them.

They ascended the stairs, all eyes drawn to the blue moss that eased their passing, a feast of light for those starved by the darkness. By the wanting looks of the guards and servants they passed, he feared one might try to snatch the moss from him and run away with it.

The usually friendly palace felt like a morgue filled with somber, stunned mourners searching about for the corpses of their loved ones. Whispers rasped in weak echoes off the walls, punctuated by the harsh shouts of those falling over their own feet. In the dark, every sound was amplified. The creaks and groans of doors and floors that went barely noticed in the light demanded attention in dark.

The sensation Davon had felt fleetingly before thrummed with consistency and force now. It was not a foreboding or a warning, but an awareness of a powerful presence somewhere nearby. The Lord High Sheriff eyed him curiously.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Carver?” he asked.

Davon nodded. It was close. “Something is very wrong. Stay alert.”

The sheriff grunted something about everything being wrong and they ascended the stairs to the second level where the guard told them the Queen waited in her drawing room with General Cutler. The guard stood thick in the halls, all discomfited and blind, dutifully trying to be watchful in total darkness. A full ten men stood with their backs against the wall outside the drawing room.

“Might we have some of that light?” one asked. His blue coat and golden chevrons marked him a Captain. Davon pulled a hunk of the moss apart and handed it to him, his relief at having some vision overspread his face. The Captain knocked on the door with four prearranged taps in a specific pattern and in a few moments a latch inside popped.

The Captain leaned in. “The Lord High Sheriff and Davon Carver here to see her Grace.”

“Get them in here!” the Queen said. “And where did you find light?”

“From Mr. Carver, Your Grace,” he answered.

“It is Baron Carver, now. He is forgiven and all I have taken restored,” she said. “Let me see you, Baron.”

Davon allowed the Lord High Sheriff to enter first, following him in. Five soldiers stood post along the walls in the drawing room, one barring the door after he closed it. The large windows, now smeared with the spit and spray of water driven by the wind, admitted almost no light. The blue moss cast everyone’s face in a ghoulish hue. Only the Queen didn’t seem in awe of the strange moss in Davon’s hand.

Davon walked forward and bowed. She sat with her walking stick across her lap, wrinkled lips turned up in a smile.

“Well, here you are at last,” she said. “And a scruffy mess, to boot.”

“My apologies,” he added. “But I have been in wild company for some time. The Aua’Catan captured me.”

“Yes, and I see you have some of their blue moss. I saw it once before, long ago, when the Aua’Catan used to come to see the Primal Fire. They stopped nearly twenty years ago. I am not sure why. Please sit, Davon. I think we have much to discuss. You have been told that Lady Hightower was condemned to death, no?”

“She is safe now,” he replied.

“You know this?” the Lord High Sheriff exclaimed.

“I do. I have seen her.”

The Queen’s eyes flitted to the Lord High Sheriff briefly before she spoke. “While as the guardian of the law I must condemn the robbery of justice, it was, I think, the most fascinating and wonderful thing I have seen in all my years. Sometimes I regret that I will die soon; life always seems to turn up some unexpected new wonder to thrill me. Well, we shall leave that beastly rescue for later.”

The Lord High Sheriff raised a finger. “But—”

“Later,” the Queen said. “What news have you for me, Baron Carver?”

Davon related all he learned about the Creetisian army and the missing guns. General Cutler burst from his seat. “We’ve barely a token force in the northern forts!” he exclaimed.

“The good news is that their newly procured weapons will do them no good, now,” the sheriff reminded him. “It will be clubs and rocks. If your men stick to their forts, they should be quite safe.”

The Queen sat up. “I think you are forgetting the people they are supposed to be protecting, Sheriff. We must send word to the army in the south without delay.”

Lightning flashed through the windows, briefly illuminating the room with brilliant light.

“It won’t be soon enough,” Davon said. “If the Creetisians continue marching south, they will be here long before any reinforcements can arrive.”

General Cutler slammed the tea table with his fist, rattling the cups and saucers there. “This is ludicrous! We must find the traitors and drown them all before the Creetisians rob us of the chance for justice!”

“It will be difficult,” the Lord High Sheriff said, taking a seat. “Justus Paige named names in open court. As soon as Arianne Hightower went on trial I can guarantee you that ledgers that would prove involvement have gone missing, been altered, or burned altogether. Unless we get corroborating proof, it will be difficult to build a case against anyone.”

“Has Baron Olivanne Longford been caught?” Davon asked.

“No,” the sheriff said. “Besides that dung beetle Paige, Baron Longford is the only one we think we can prosecute with ease, and he has disappeared. His involvement strongly suggests that his brother—”

The Queen raised her hand. “That will be enough on the subject until we can talk in private. General Cutler, get word to the south immediately—rain and wind notwithstanding—and send scouts north. We may need to evacuate the civilians from Bellshire to prevent a blood bath.”

A scream outside the door, sounding distant, froze them, ears straining. The patter of the slow rain on the window accompanied their breathing and the incoherent mumbling outside the door. The presence Davon had felt since arriving on the palace grounds was coming closer. What was it? Was this another gift of the Khodo Khim?

Just as their hearts started to settle, the door shook as if kicked by a horse, hinges squealing under the impact. The men outside screamed now, an incomprehensible mixture of commands, yelling, and grunting that rose into a fury and then slowly died down. The door shook with impact several more times before the voices died altogether.

“Brace the door!” General Cutler cried out. Two soldiers leaned their shoulders into it and Davon stepped over to help. But as he neared, his eyes were drawn to the wooden floor where blood and water ran freely under the door and pooled about the soldiers’ boots.

And in that moment he knew what the presence was. He was Khodo Khim. It was his gift to find the Primal Forces, and one seeped toward him now. Lightning flashed again. Primal Water, swirling with tendrils of red blood, poured into the room where the Queen of Bittermarch sat, face transfixed in horror.

Arianne awoke. Something kept pulling at her neck, rubbing the skin raw. The darkness inside the lean-to constructed by Ki and Ta was deep. The two slept at her side, breathing easily and deeply. It had taken Arianne nearly an hour to let her thoughts of Davon loose so her eyes could close. She worried for him. She wanted him. Now that no barriers existed between them, her longing multiplied.

The tugging at the back of her neck persisted, and as the grogginess burned away under her surprise, she realized that her wrist and her hair also seemed to have a life of their own. Somewhere nearby, something was fluttering and bumping with a dull sound and she yelped in surprise.

The sisters sat up as one, hands on nearby spears in a moment. Outside the confines of the lean-to, clouds skittered through the sky, casting everything into total darkness one moment and allowing a breath of moonlight the next. The fire had completely gone out, and in the dimness, it took some moments to realize that Davon’s carvings had gone mad.

Her pendant shot straight away from her neck, always pulling south, as did the bracelet and the five carved rings Ki and Ta had so carefully woven into her hair. Everything pointed and pulled the same way—south. The two snow finches beat against the pouches where the sisters had stowed them for the evening, and as soon as they undid the leather straps, the little carvings burst out and flew away into the night.

“Something is wrong,” Arianne said.

“It’s close to midnight,” Ta announced after a look at the sky. “I’ll stoke the fire so we can get a look around. My bird refuses to return.”

“Mine as well, sister,” Ki confirmed. “And it appears that even Arianne’s hair rings wish to fly away of their own accord.”

At that moment the chain on her pendant snapped and the carved rose fell into the dirt. Inch by inch it moved as if pulled by an unseen string. She quickly trapped it and clenched her hand around it. She did not want to let these symbols of Baron Carver’s affection for her go, especially the hair rings. When the sisters told her what they meant she blushed and smiled for nearly an hour—five rings for the five children he hoped she would bear him.

“Ki!” Ta said, alarmed. “There should be coals and smoke and heat from this fire. It is as cold as the grave.”

“I’ll fetch more tinder,” Ki offered.

Arianne removed her bracelet before it could slip off her wrist, clenching it in her fist. While the two sisters worked on the fire, she removed one of her stockings and used it as a pouch to hold her lively jewelry. Reluctantly she undid the braids that held the hair rings to alleviate the uncomfortable tugging at her scalp.

“It will not light!” Ta said, twisting a stick in dry bark shavings.

“Let me try,” Ki offered, commandeering the task. “You were never very good with fires.”

After several minutes of vigorous attempts and subtle accusations of fire-making incompetence, the sisters gave up. Ki rubbed her hands. No spark and not even the hint of smoke had rewarded their best efforts.

Their carved birds swooped in out of the dark, buzzing the sisters’ heads before darting south into the night again. The collection of carvings in Arianne’s sock continually bumped and jostled in the same direction, forcing her to keep a good grip on it.

A thought struck her. “Could the carvings be a message from Davon?”

Ki stood and walked toward the lean-to. “That is my guess. Something does not feel right. What do you think? Do we leave now or wait for morning?”

“I could hardly sleep now,” Arianne said. “But isn’t traveling in the dark treacherous?”

Ta walked over to her sister. “Ki, does the blue moss still give light?”

Ki dug in her pack, producing a luminescent lump the likes of which Arianne had never seen.

“Yes,” Ki confirmed. “This will get us out of the wild. We should be able to follow the road easily enough.” She turned to Arianne. “It is a long walk in a dress like that, Lady Hightower. Let me cut a length off the bottom to ease your journey.”

“But this dress is a favorite of Davon’s,” she lamented.

“He told you this?” Ki asked.

“Not in so many words, no.”

“With his eyes, then?” she prompted, a knowing smile visible in the moonlight.

Arianne blushed. “Yes.”

“Well, you can make another,” she said, pulling a flint knife. “Besides, as much as he likes you in this dress, I’m sure he will like you even better out of it.”

Ta laughed and Arianne was glad her cheeks appeared none the redder in the dim light. Ki went to work, slicing a good six inches off the hem of her dress and petticoat. Arianne had chosen sturdy walking shoes for her long walk to her execution, but those barely rose above the ankle. With Ki’s alterations, a little of her shin was visible.

“There,” Ki said, stuffing the cloth into her bag. “If you are still not comfortable, I can cut more. Getting it above the knees would offer the most freedom.”

“Most certainly not!” Arianne objected.

“We should get her some leather pants from home,” Ta added. “I wonder what the Brown Man would say to see her dressed as a proper Aua’Catan?”

Ki laughed. “It took him three days before he could look at us. Perhaps he would feel more at ease about seeing his future bondmate dressed as an Aua’Catan than he did seeing us. You know, Lady Hightower, that you Bittermarchians do wear far too many clothes. How is a body supposed to move as it should?”

Arianne cleared her throat. “We feel that covering ourselves is best for modesty’s sake.”

“Who is Modesty?” Ki asked.

Arianne opened her mouth to answer, but snapped it shut when she realized she was being sported with. Ta and Ki laughed and gathered their backpacks. Arianne grabbed her sock and breathed in, the air hinting at moisture and tasting of the verdant green around them.

Night birds trilled a warning at them as Ki and Ta led Arianne out of their camp. The moss’s blue light provided just a bare circle of illumination, and Arianne kept her eyes trained on it to avoid snagging her feet on rocks and sticks. Once in the more friendly grass of the plain along the river, she relaxed. Moonlight darted in and out as the clouds veiled and unveiled its light, the twins’ white hair practically glowing when it caught the weak rays.

A brisk breeze hissed through the grass, and Ta looked to the sky. “I believe we will have a little rain,” she speculated.

“I hope not,” Ki answered. “Lady Hightower’s dress will be completely waterlogged and I will have to cut it all off so she can walk.”

Arianne stumbled. “You most certainly—” Then she bit her lip. The sisters laughed again. Had the two given Davon such a difficult time? Wherever the carvings wanted to go, she hoped they led to him and she hoped that he wasn’t too far away.

Chapter 44

Davon pulled the two soldiers away from the door and gave one of them the rest of his blue moss. “Get the Queen to the far end of the room and surround her! Hold the moss high so you can see.”

The water continued to seep under the door, mingling with the blood of the slaughtered men on the other side. Davon moved behind the couch closest to the door and pulled his knives as the pool widened. The Lord High Sheriff commandeered a rifle and bayonet from one of the soldiers and joined him.

“Who is behind the door?” the sheriff asked.

“Not behind, coming under,” Davon corrected. “It is Baron Longford, only you may not recognize him when he shows himself.”

The sheriff’s face contorted with the questions he wanted to ask, but he snapped his rifle up, bayonet attached, as a form rose from the pool of water, glinting in the blue moss light. Davon felt the presence of the Primal Water before him as it took the shape of Dales but not his features. It remained translucent, a hulking creature of clear liquid warping the light as it passed through.

But a darkness danced inside it, a darkness Davon had seen cavorting around the flame inside the Seeing Wall. The shadowy figure inside the water was barely a hand high, and wherever it moved inside the massive, watery form, all light died.

Davon jumped on the couch and sprang forward, sabertooth knives raised overhead for a powerful downward strike. A fist of Primal Water took him in the ribs before he could swing, sending him flying across the room to slam into the wall with terrific force. Breath exploded from his lungs and he dropped his knives as he landed on a decorative table, trinkets of shattered china and crystal falling with him to the floor.

Ribs aflame, he gasped for breath like a fish out of water, unable to fill his lungs without agony erupting in his chest. The Lord High Sheriff yelled and then was silenced. Davon struggled to his feet, finding a watery tentacle wrapped around the man’s throat. With a whipping motion, the tentacle snapped the sheriff’s neck and threw him to the floor.

Another watery appendage flung the couch against the opposite wall as if it were nothing more than a child’s toy. Davon retrieved a sabertooth dagger and threw it, but it passed through the liquid Baron, only dimpling the water for a moment before sending a spray out the other side.

As the soldiers rushed forward for a bayonet charge, Davon transformed into Khodo Khim. There was hardly room for him, a nearby couch and table shoved away to accommodate his girth. His injured ribs still burned, lancing pain through his chest with every breath.

The watery hand of the creature extended into a tentacle, whipping across the soldiers and encircling them, pulling them tight as if in a noose. Their faces flushed as the tentacle squeezed blood to their faces, and they screamed as they were hauled together and constricted, pressed tight against one another until ribs cracked and arms snapped. Davon leapt, his massive body passing through the tentacle. The liquid appendage splashed down as it lost connection with the main body, the soldiers dropping with it in a sodden heap, writhing in pain.

Davon spun, upsetting more furniture, and jumped toward the undulating water before him. Just before impact, the form simply collapsed, splashing to the ground as Davon sailed over. The wetness under his paws quickly slid away, the transparent creature reforming three long strides from where the Queen huddled in a corner. Only General Cutler stood between her and the creature, and he held the blue moss aloft, his eyes wide with terror.

Crouching, Davon gathered himself and bounded off of his hind legs just as two watery arms shot out from the monster. One arced toward General Cutler, hammering him on the side the head. He crumpled, eyes vapid and mouth frozen open. The moss tumbled out of his hand.

The other arm shot unnaturally backwards, hammering Davon in the already injured ribs. Burning pain scorched his ribcage as the heavy blow knocked him into the windowed wall overlooking the garden. Glass popped as cracks spread like a lightning strike on the rain streaked window.

Breathing came hard, every intake searing Davon’s chest with agony. He could barely stand, four legs unsteady, each wanting to go its own direction. The Queen screamed as a tentacle wrapped about her waist and hauled her into the air. There was nothing Davon could do. In frustration and anger he sucked in air, cracked ribs bellowing in pain as his massive chest inflated. The tentacle lifted to dash the Queen against the wall, and Davon let loose a massive bellow, a roar so mighty it shattered the weakened glass behind him.

The Baron’s watery form rippled as the waves of air blasted toward it, mist breaking free from its edges. The congealed water warped and then burst, spraying tiny droplets against the wall like rain in a wind whipped storm. The Queen fell hard as the grip on her waist disintegrated and she cried out in pain. But there, standing alone before her, was Baron Olivanne Longford, stunned and stumbling. His Dales-sized clothes hung baggy around him like child in his father’s coat and trousers.

Muscling through his pain, Davon strode over, the Primal Water already migrating back toward Baron Longford’s unsteady feet, pulling away from walls and carpets, drawn to him as if he were a lodestone.

Extending his claws, Davon batted the Baron to the side, ripping his left arm so deeply that it hung by a few shreds of sinew at the shoulder. His body slammed into the wall, smearing it red. Davon twisted to face him, ribs screaming, and the wide-eyed Baron bolted for the glassless windows, flopping over the edge to fall one story down into the rainy night.

He hit the ground with a sodden splash. Davon peered over the window ledge and into the garden below, feline eyes and lightning aiding his search. Rain spattered against his fur as he scanned the cobblestones and planters, finding Baron Longford lying bleeding in a pool of rainwater. His skin was absorbing rainwater as it had at the river, swelling his body and knitting his shoulder back together. Already he stirred, his inflating form filling his clothes. Davon stepped back and bounded out, flinging himself into the night.

The impact sent bursts of pain through his body, and he stumbled, slamming into a stonework planter. Rocks and dirt tumbled to the ground under his weight and his vision blurred. He shook his head to clear it. Baron Longford’s scent was close, but by the time Davon’s eyes cleared the man was already on him. A heavy fist caught him in the head, sending it spinning until a kick to the ribs made him forget every other pain.

He flailed blindly, animal instinct filling him with rage. Driven by the need to survive, Davon reared, paws thrashing. Baron Longford backpedaled from the flurry, but not before Davon raked a claw across his chest and ripped open his shirt. As Davon came back down on his forepaws, the Baron’s massive fist hit his bony head again, rattling him. Like a madman, the Baron pressed forward, fists and arms flailing, a snarl gashing his face. Davon shrank back for a moment, catching one of the Baron’s arms with his long sabertooth. Before he could retract it, Davon opened his jaw and clamped down the Baron’s meaty bicep.

Teeth sunk into flesh. With a whip of his feline head, Davon yanked the arm completely off the other man and flung it into the night. Blood and water spurted from the Baron’s shoulder, his eyes wide with shock. Davon bit down again, turning his head sideways. His fangs sunk into the Baron’s chest, water and blood filling his mouth as he lifted him into the air.

But something lurked in his blood, something he could feel, something cold. It was like ice and shadow, bitter and formless, and it poured into his body and reached into his mind. His jaw slackened and the Baron fell out, splashing to the ground.

A voice spoke to his mind, distant yet powerful. Crush him. He is meaningless.

The command was calm, a rational counterpoint to a heart hammering from exertion and danger. The Voice was deep, smooth, and exacting. It expected obedience, and Davon could feel a punishment waiting if he didn’t obey its wishes.

End his life. But take no pleasure in it. One should not rejoice. One should not mourn. Death is, nothing more.

Davon had intended to kill the man. Even now, arm gone and bleeding, the scant water tried to save him, every drop that touched him sucking into his skin. But the blood gushed out with the water, the Baron’s face paling with every pump of his weakening heart. Above him, Davon could feel the Primal Water seeping down the edge of the wall, trying to return to its host.

Do it now!

And Davon understood. The Voice was the darkness he had seen dancing in the icy Seeing Wall and in the Primal Water. It was an infection, a stain. It was in the Primal Water. It was in the Baron’s blood. In horror, Davon realized that the Baron’s blood was in his mouth. Davon transformed back to his human form and spat the warm fluid into the night. Still, the taste remained. The Voice echoed in his mind, a shadow of its former strength. Kill him! it whispered. Davon gathered his spit and expectorated again, breathing painfully in and letting his heart settle. The Voice was gone. The Baron was not.

Olivanne’s body swelled with the water gushing in, the stump of his shoulder no longer bleeding. Behind him, the Primal Water slithered toward him along the mortar between the stones, searching for its servant. Baron Longford stirred and Davon raised his rifle.

“So,” the Baron said, “I see you have a gift, as well.”

“Who is behind this plot, Baron? Be quick.”

He laughed. “The plot doesn’t matter anymore. The real lesson has been taught. If the Eternal Flame is not so eternal, then so must we all fade and die. A winter without fire will teach the lesson. What you call life or beauty or love is all without purpose. To embrace such things only brings sorrow. Be free, Baron Carver. Be free as I am free. Only in emptiness is there peace! I can teach you.”

“You aren’t free,” Davon growled. “You are as much a slave to your emptiness as anyone else is to life or love or beauty. I’ve felt empty, Baron, and there’s no value in it.”

“You are a fool,” he said, turning back to Davon.

“Or you are,” Davon returned.

The Primal Water inched closer, speeding as it neared Baron Longford as if anxious for the reunion. Olivanne’s ripped shirt allowed a view of the watery scar that marked him as the chosen of the Primal Water. Why had it chosen such a wretched man, or had the infection of the shadow influenced its choice?

Baron Longford sat up, craning his neck around to watch the approach of his primal master.

Gritting his teeth, Davon dropped his rifle, grabbed Olivanne’s head, and twisted it until the neck broke. The Baron’s body settled to the ground, the absorbed rainwater leaking out of his deflating skin. Still the Primal Water came, reuniting with its host, swelling Baron Longford’s body back to the size of Dales. But the corpse didn’t move.

“Davon!” the Queen shouted from above.

“Here,” he returned, ribs protesting with every breath. The blue light of the moss weakly framed the old monarch’s silhouette in the broken window.

“Are you quite all right?” she called.

“I am well. And you?”

“Quite miserable, actually. Are you in danger? I have sent soldiers down.”

He took another look at the motionless Baron. The Primal Water may have seeped into him, but his wounds did not heal, nor did the watery creature that had nearly undone them all show any signs of returning. Olivanne Longford was no more.

“All is well, I believe, your Highness.”

The Queen leaned heavily on the window sill. “So you are the enormous sabercat, as I discerned. Quite a trick. When did you learn it?”

“A few days ago.”

The splashing of the soldiers’ cautious feet and their nervous calling ended the conversation. Davon guided them to his location with his voice, the rain slackening.

“We need to take the body inside,” Davon ordered. “Somewhere dry. His missing arm is somewhere around here.”

“Yes, Sir.”

After a few minutes, the soldiers found the arm, but the body could not be moved no matter how many men threw their backs to the task. Not even a limb could be plucked up from the stones. Then Davon understood. The dead Baron was the vessel for the Primal Water. Only the Khodo Khim could move it now, but his burning ribs couldn’t handle the task—at least as a man.

“Stand back, if you would,” Davon ordered. “And don’t be alarmed.”

He changed after a brief stint of concentration, finding the transformation becoming more and more natural. The soldiers, however, found nothing natural about it, bumping into each other in an attempt to get distance from the gigantic sabercat. Davon growled as soothingly as possible and scooped the corpse into his mouth. With a painful bound, he carried it through the broken window, startling the Queen, her house guard, and Doctor Otis, who tended to the monarch’s left arm by the light of the blue moss. The soldiers fumbled for guns.

Davon quickly dropped the Baron’s body on the floor and resumed his normal shape, hands in the air to placate the terrified men.

“He’s with us,” Queen Filippa said, face pained. The soldiers relaxed, and the doctor shook his head and returned to work.

Most of the injured and the dead had been removed, but the Lord High Sheriff’s body still lay motionless on the floor at the Queen’s feet. The Queen winced as Doctor Otis splinted her arm.

“How is she, Doctor?” Davon inquired.

“I think the arm is the only break,” he returned, “but she’s a mess of bruises.”

“And my walking stick seems to have disappeared,” she lamented. She turned to the corpse that Davon had dropped to the floor. “Is that Baron Longford?”

Davon nodded. “It is. When the water swells him, he takes the shape of Dales, the Caravan Master at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company. It was the same man all along. The Primal Water chose him, though there is something else, something that infects it. It spoke to me briefly when the Baron’s blood was in my mouth.”

The Queen frowned, a question on her lips, when a soldier darted into the room.

“My Queen,” he said, bowing. “You have a visitor. I told him to return in the morning, but he wouldn’t be denied.”

“Who?”

A familiar voice spoke from the doorway. “It is I, Duke Longford. I have come to confess for the good of Bittermarch. My information is urgent.”

Davon ground his teeth. Here, undoubtedly, was the dastard who had conceived of the scheme. The Duke’s face was gaunt, his haughty demeanor brought low. A resigned, fearful look haunted his eyes, and Davon knew that Bittermarch was indeed in grave peril.

Chapter 45

Davon sat on the couch next to the livid Queen, the scowl on her paling face deepening with every word that marched out of Duke Longford’s mouth in a halting cadence. The Duke had, indeed, come to lay his soul bare, and for all his treasonous trespasses against his nation, Davon could at least respect that when their circumstances had turned for the worst, he’d had the courage to come forward.

Duke Longford was shocked to see the bloated visage of his brother on the floor and even more surprised about Olivanne’s service to the Primal Water. This confirmed to Davon that the plots against Bittermarch and the Eternal Flame were separate endeavors. Whatever the case, the Longford’s were indeed ambitious people and complicit in all of it.

“The plan,” the Duke continued, “was for me to stabilize Bittermarch after your death and that of your successor. I would then take the weapons we purchased and the men at our command and put a quick end to the war. We had bargained with Creetis to allow them parts of the south, though I had no intention of letting them actually have it.”

The Queen’s eyes burned. “And so you are saying now that Creetis not only has an army to the south, but one to the north armed with our weapons paid for by several prominent families from the north?”

The Duke swallowed, hands trembling on his lap. “Yes, Your Grace. We went to recover the weapons from the various locations where we had secreted them and they are gone. With our armies deployed to the south, we are in grave danger.”

“That I knew,” the Queen returned, voice severe. “I want the names of the conspirators. All of them.”

“Please,” Duke Longford begged, “do not make me sink so low as to be an informant on my peers. It is beneath my honor.”

Davon stood. “Beneath your honor? You plot assassination and treason against your Queen and your nation, and giving up the rats of this conspiracy is beneath your honor?”

The Duke paled. “We believed our actions in the best interests of Bittermarch! We felt you had taken too much control, Your Highness! You disbanded our ducal militias in favor of a national force directly under your control. You sided with the House of Light on almost every issue. Our way of life was threatened!”

“Names!” the Queen demanded.

“No,” Duke Longford said, straightening in his chair.

Davon strode over and hauled the Duke up to his feet by the lapels of his coat. “By the Flame, Duke Longford, I care not for you or your treasonous friends, but speak to me now and tell me that Arianne Hightower knew nothing of this scheme.”

The Duke swallowed hard. “She knew nothing.”

With a push, Davon dropped him on his chair.

The Queen closed her eyes in relief for a moment before affixing them on the Duke again. “At least tell me this: are the names Justus Paige reported in open court accurate?”

“Yes,” the Duke said, face defeated. “They are.”

“And what of the extinguishing of the Eternal Flame?” the Queen pressed. “What do you know about that?”

“I swear on my life that I knew nothing of it. I had no idea of my brother ever being the servant of Primal Water.”

Queen Filippa exhaled and the strength with which rage had imbued her fled, her face turning weary and wan. “Well, I guess we can all be grateful that the weapons you so stupidly let fall into the hands of our enemies won’t work at the moment, though if the Eternal Flame isn’t restored, who wins or loses this war won’t matter in the least. Winter will kill us all. Undersheriff Higgins!”

The Lord High Sheriff’s second in command waited by the door and strode into the dimly lit drawing room, casting a glance at the sheet under which rested the body of his former leader. Higgins was lanky and tall, more intellectual in character than the man he once worked for.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Find a deep hole and stick Duke Longford in it. Don’t throw away the key, but I wouldn’t mind if you lost it for a while. You will have a lot of work to do in the coming days rounding up some important people.”

“And don’t forget,” Davon added, “to have the courts clear Lady Hightower’s name first thing tomorrow.”

“As you wish,” the Undersheriff said with a bow. “Duke Longford, come with me, please.”

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” the Duke said, shoulders hunched. “This was my scheme, my error in judgment. Be lenient with those that I persuaded to join in this folly.”

“Be gone!” the Queen growled.

The room fell silent as the once proud Duke Longford left in disgrace and under guard.

Davon shook his head and rubbed his burning ribs. “With your permission I will reconnoiter north of Bellshire tomorrow, my Queen. I can do it faster than your scouts.”

The Queen nodded. “Take your rest tonight, Davon. Have you sustained some wound?”

“I am well enough to travel,” he said, though his ribs didn’t fully agree.

“I think not,” she replied. “Have the doctor look at it before you go. If you aren’t fit, then I will send others.” Her eyes searched the darkness around her, the blue moss providing poor light. “Now where did that walking stick get off to?”

“I will assist you,” Davon said. “You should take your rest. The morning light will bring better fortunes, I hope.”

She grunted and Davon pulled her from the couch, careful of her left arm, which hung in a sling. She shuffled awkwardly, seeming so frail, eyes dull and tired.

“Just get your bearings for a moment, Your Grace,” he admonished. “You’ve had quite a shock to body and soul. If my ribs didn’t ache so badly, I would carry you.”

She smiled. “King Ostris used to enjoy carting me around. He would always try to catch me unawares and pick me up. He was a hearty man, even more than you. But you are like him in many ways, Davon. The good ways.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. That is high praise indeed.”

They stepped out into the pitch black of the hall, two soldiers falling in behind them as they picked their way toward the Queen’s chambers with only the blue light to guide them. As they neared the door, the Queen faltered and Davon scooped her up. His ribs protested and he sucked air through is teeth. She was lighter than he anticipated, however, and the burden proved little inconvenience once he had her settled.

The Queen’s tired eyes fought to stay open. “You love Arianne, don’t you?” she said, voice woozy and distant.

“I do,” he said.

She smiled. “Good. Good. Just as it should be. She will need you a great deal in the coming days. Help her, Davon. Marry her soon. Promise an old woman that you will do it.”

“I will.”

She exhaled, and the tension drained from her, her face falling into peaceful repose. A soldier opened the door to her room and Davon took her inside.

Davon said, “I will send for your Lady’s Maid to prepare you for bed.”

“No,” she said. “Just put me in bed and cover me up.”

Davon placed her slight frame on the mattress, wrangling the blankets until they buried the old monarch in warmth. He retrieved the glowing moss from her hand and placed it on the table next to her.

“Thank you, Ostris,” she said, eyes shut and face slack. “He is good, just like you.”

Davon smiled. Dreaming of her husband.

“Don’t wake me for breakfast, dear,” she continued, voice weak and distant. “I want to sleep in.”

Chapter 46

“Davon, wake up.”

It was Arianne’s voice, and were it not for the light of a morning sun he could sense behind his eyelids, he would have figured himself stuck in a dream. If Arianne were in it, it was likely a good one. He had been so bone-weary after the toils of the last two days that he had fallen into his bed inside the palace without so much as removing his boots.

A hand took his. “Davon, wake up, my love. We need you.”

We? He forced his uncooperative eyes to open, squinting. The curtains of his window had been pushed aside, sunlight bathing everything in a warm hue. He blinked to clear his vision and squeezed the hand in his. Arianne. She sat on his bed, flanked by Ki on her right and Ta to her left. Elaine stood behind, face troubled and threatening to burst into tears.

He inhaled to clear his lungs, broken ribs punishing him for the effort, though they didn’t seem as painful as they had been the day before. With effort he pushed himself to a sitting position, fending off the sleep that still drugged his thoughts. By the slant of the sun, it was well past mid-morning. He needed to be off to scout northward.

“Really, Brown Man,” Ki said during the silence, “you should not sleep so deeply in times of trouble. The door squealed like a wounded boar when we entered and you didn’t so much as twitch. I could have skewered you in your sleep.”

Davon put his other hand over Arianne’s and looked her over. Her dirty face and unkempt hair told the tale of a long, late march. And someone had cut off the very bottom of her dress. The twin sisters fared better, though he knew their conditioning gave them greater resilience.

“It seems the three of you need to trade me places on the bed.” Davon craned his neck around to get a better look at Elaine. “And how are you, Miss Brighton?”

“Awful, Baron Carver,” she said, lip quivering. “My parents have been arrested. The Queen is dead, and Arianne tells me that I shall have to call you brother instead of husband.”

Davon stood slowly, heart pounding. “The Queen is dead?”

“Yes,” Arianne said, tears welling in her eyes. “They found her this morning. She passed in her sleep.”

He could hardly believe it. “This is awful! What a dreadful time to lose her!”

Lord Ember dead. Queen Filippa dead. Powerful nobles arrested on charges of treason. A massive army bearing down on them from the north. He paced the room oblivious to everyone for several moments, his mind trying to grind out a useful way to deal with the crisis. But a sob pulled him from his ruminations. Arianne. The Queen was her dear friend.

He returned and sat by her, pulling her to him while she mourned. Elaine dissolved into tears, and Davon raised an arm, inviting her to him and embracing her as well. He found his own cheeks wet, and several minutes passed under the cloak of sadness. Ki and Ta looked on gravely.

“We must tell him,” Ki finally prompted.

Arianne pulled away and wiped her eyes. “There is something you need to see at the Flame Cathedral, Davon. It is extraordinary. It has to do with your carvings.”

Davon looked at her neck and wrist. Her carvings were missing. He turned to Ki and Ta. “And your birds?”

“Gone,” Ta answered.

“And my sabercats,” Elaine blubbered.

Davon rubbed his neck. “Where did they go?”

Arianne rose and took his arm, wincing as she stood. “It would be easier to show you.”

“Are you well?” Davon asked her.

“My feet are bruised and blistered beyond recognition. I’m afraid the shoes in which I chose to face death are not very good for walking to Bellshire in the middle of the night. Ki has already applied a salve, but it will take time. I would ask you to change into a sabercat so I could ride you if I didn’t think it would scare the mob.”

Davon pulled open the door, the sunlight in the building a welcome relief from the oppressive darkness of the night before. “A mob?”

“Yes,” she answered, “both come to mourn the Queen as well as gather round the Flame Cathedral.”

They left the palace proper, the gathered crowds thronging the palace and the Flame Cathedral. The crowd reminded Davon of something he had forgotten. “Arianne! Your name has been cleared.”

She smiled. “Yes, I know. I spoke with the undersheriff when we arrived early this morning. It is the only good news he had for us.”

“Has the Queen’s will been read?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she replied, fiddling with her hair. “It will be presented in the House of Lords this afternoon. I think they’re still trying to determine how many nobles they will arrest. If the Queen has chosen someone who was one of the conspirators, the succession will come to a vote. Since most of the nobles implicated in the traitorous scheme are from the north, it is quite possible our new monarch will be from the south.”

They pushed through the noisy throng, making their way up the steps to the Flame Cathedral. The crowd here was thicker still, and the guard had to push and shove to keep curious people from the building proper. Ki and Ta elicited a lot of wide-eyed looks from the men and women alike, though the two sisters just smirked at the attention. The door to the inside of the Cathedral was open, and members of the House of Light spoke to one another inside, eyes alight with wonder. Mr. Goodwin leaned against the door, beckoning to Davon and his party. Davon presented his palms to the guard, and they let him and his companions pass.

Davon smiled and shook Mr. Goodwin’s hand. “How are you, Mr. Goodwin?”

“I’m not dead, so not as good as I would like. Good morning, Lady Hightower and barbarian one and two.” Mr. Goodwin’s drawn face looked like it had spent the night camped at death’s door, though a lively white rose stuck through his lapel to mock exhaustion of his frame. His face brightened quizzically when his eyes fell on Elaine. “And who is this little ray of sunshine?”

“This is my sister,” Arianne explained. “Miss Elaine Brighton.”

“Forgive me for staring,” he said. “You remind me of someone, Miss. Do you like flowers?”

“Yes, of course,” Elaine answered meekly.

Mr. Goodwin pulled a flower from his lapel and handed it to her. “Then do me the honor of caring for this one. It certainly will be more at home with you than me.”

“Thank you,” Elaine said, taking the rose.

Such a tender act from such an irascible man took Davon aback for a moment. While Elaine seemed a little embarrassed, Mr. Goodwin’s countenance brightened, the slack lines on his weary face disappearing as if he had just rested for several hours.

Mr. Goodwin coughed. “Well, drag yourself in here, Baron Carver. This is all your fault, I’m sure. We’ve found all the members of the House of Light that we could, though no one knows what to make of this.”

All the Flametouched men and women that could be gathered had assembled in the chamber where Joris Pulsipher’s now flameless cooking pot sat on the stone platform. But the pot was not empty. Piled high within it were his carvings all jumbled about in a heap.

Davon released Arianne and walked forward tentatively while the gathered Flametouched hushed into silence. He stooped down before the pot, thoughts mired in amazement. They were all there. Queen Filippa’s Arrow Asp staff. The sabercats. The candles. The finches. Mr. Goodwin’s flower. Arianne’s jewelry. Everything he had carved and gifted. Everything but one.

“How did they get here?” Davon asked.

“They came of their own accord,” Arianne explained, stepping forward. “They practically pulled their owners here, and if the owners wouldn’t come, they dragged themselves. Are they all here?”

“All but one,” Davon answered. “I carved something for the late Lord Ember—”

A gasp of astonishment cut him off as the crowd parted. Walking toward the platform was the likeness of Lord Ember that he had carved and gifted to him what seemed an age ago. It was barely eight inches tall, but it strode forward fluidly without haste as the Flametouched looked on.

“You carved these?” a dark-haired woman from the crowd asked Davon.

“I did. It was my gift.”

“And what is their purpose?” she pressed.

“I thought they were merely gifts,” he answered, standing. “I cannot be sure of what this means at present.”

In utter silence they waited as the stately figurine of Lord Ember completed its long walk toward the pot burgeoning with carvings. Davon stepped back, taking Arianne’s waist and pulling her next to him. A warmth was filling him, an anticipation of something good just as powerful as his dread had been the night before. His heart beat with the vigor of youth, a flood of joy washing away all the worry and darkness that had overcome him that morning.

The figurine arrived at the pot and jumped, catching the rim and pulling itself up. It ascended to the top of the pile, standing on the back of one of the sabercats. Slowly, it raised its arms and Davon felt the warmth within him rise to the level of burning. Arianne glanced at him and then pulled away, hand on her mouth.

The figurine burst into flame, astonishing everyone. The carvings beneath the tiny Lord Ember took up the fire, the conflagration in the pot rising in the air until it was as tall as Davon.

A fiery tendril shot out like a whip, hitting Davon squarely in the chest, burning through his coat and shirt. The force knocked him down, but there was no pain, only joy. One by one the memories of gifting each carving flashed through his mind along with the emotion of the one who received it. The chamber faded for a moment as peace and contentment suffused him to the point of bursting. It was as if every pain was purged, every mistake a forgotten memory.

“Davon?”

Arianne again. He opened his eyes. She knelt by him, holding his hand. The strength of the joyous feeling faded, but the cleansing of the fire remained with him. He came to his feet and took stock of himself. His ribs had healed. He felt rested. He felt at peace.

Arianne stared at him in wonderment. “Are you well, Davon?”

He took her hand. “Never better.”

“You were glowing for a moment,” she said. “Come see.”

She led him forward to the pot where the Eternal Flame again burned cheerily in its humble home. They joined the crowd reverently watching its tongues of flame flick about in the morning light, grateful for the return of what they thought forever lost.

Arianne released his hand and began fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. Davon felt the red rise in his cheeks.

“I am unharmed, Arianne,” he assured her.

“I know.”

She pulled away the shirt. There, on top of the three sabercat scars was seared the mark of the Eternal Flame.

Arianne spun him around. “This man is no longer Baron Carver, but Lord Ember, chosen by the Eternal Flame. If you are Flametouched, kneel before him.”

And they did. Davon felt sick.

One of the undersheriff’s goons belted Melchor in the face. The Creetisian spy grimaced at the blow. The recently killed Lord High Sheriff had possessed a more powerful swing, he was sure. The goon’s bonier fist hardly carried enough weight, though after an hour of pounding and threats, Melchor thought his body might have simply become accustomed to the pain. Creetis routinely used more sophisticated torture techniques. What the Bittermarchians offered could hardly call itself more than a back-alley beating behind a tavern.

His vision still blurred and swam. The snake’s venom, even an incomplete dose, had nearly crippled him. His stomach felt like someone was inside him mashing it with a booted foot. That hardly mattered now that it was empty, though the dry retching still hurt his throat and head when his stomach demanded more convulsions. The small stone room where they violently questioned him smelled of his vomit, vomit that the rotted hay on the floor did little to absorb. His leg had swollen into a puffy black and blue wreck. It throbbed, feeling like the fluid inside it might explode out of the skin at any moment. He would be thankful if it did.

“Was the Creetisian Ambassador in on this scheme of yours?” the undersheriff—Higgins, was it?—asked for the sixteenth time. Melchor was counting. It helped him endure the pain.

The policy of the Creetisian Fists was never to answer any question under duress, so as he had for the last hour that morning, he simply grinned until the goon punched him again. This blow compressed his midsection. The dull pain actually helped mask the spasming discomfort of his stomach, for which he mentally thanked his bloody-knuckled tormentor.

“Did you know Baron Longford? Did you work with him?” the undersheriff demanded. Melchor believed this only the eighth time this particular question had come around. His swollen tongue tried to lick the caked blood off of his lips, but his dripping nose kept supplying more. At least the blood kept his mouth moist. His spit had long since failed him. Even if he wanted to spill all his secrets, he wasn’t entirely convinced his throat could produce more than raspy grunts.

The goon readied his fist for another blow, but the Undersheriff raised a hand and pulled him up short. “Hold. Let him spend a little time with one of his conspirators to see if that will loosen up his tongue.”

The lanky undersheriff and his thug left the cell. While his blurry eyes couldn’t be sure, the light from the small grate on the wall indicated that morning had long since come. He hardly cared. He had failed in his mission, though he held out hope that the Creetisian army from the north would finish the work for him. They had no love of nobles or monarchs, and they were under orders to spare none of them alive.

Melchor squirmed in the firm, wooden chair, testing the strength of the bonds around his raw ankles and wrists. Pain lanced up his limbs as the rough ropes scratched burning grooves into his skin. The goon might not be able to throw much of a punch, but he tied a good knot. Exhausted, Melchor slumped, letting his head hang and his cramped muscles relax. With an envenomed leg twice its normal size and a stomach that would immediately eject any substance put into it, his chances of escape were slim. How long would they keep him alive? Would they even give him a trial?

He doubted it. With war afoot, they would likely order a very public execution and be done with it. Melchor knew his only hope was that Creetisian forces would seize control of Bellshire and free him. How long that would take, he could only guess. Still, members of the Fist did not talk when tortured, and the undersheriff of Bellshire might find a Creetisian operative of more use drowned in the river than silent in a cell.

The door creaked open. Two of the sheriff’s men entered and hoisted his chair off the ground, carrying him out. They were far burlier than the bony-fisted goon. Why hadn’t Undersheriff Higgins turned them loose on a Creetisian spy? Maybe that was coming next.

But that wasn’t the plan at all. The undersheriff’s men took him down the dark dungeon hallway to a separate cell, setting him down inside. A corpse slumped in the corner where a weak shaft of sunlight could illuminate its bloated features. Undersheriff Higgins was already inside.

“Here’s your good friend, Baron Longford,” the undersheriff said, trying to be snide. He wasn’t good at it. “Enjoy his company for a while. He won’t be going anywhere. Not only is he dead, but only Baron Carver can carry him around. Strange. You know anything about that?”

Only Baron Carver could carry the corpse? More Bittermarchian superstition. As for Baron Carver—Melchor wanted to tie that man up in a dark cell for an hour or two. Then the goon could watch and see how a real interrogation was done.

The retinue left, clanging the door shut. Melchor grinned, caked blood cracking and flaking from his lips as he did. Such infantile tactics. Did they really think that a member of the Fist could be broken using the ‘look at the corpse of a co-conspirator’ technique? He had probably seen more corpses than all the sheriff’s men combined. The undersheriff was clearly an amateur.

Melchor squinted at his new cellmate to get a better look. His eyes simply would not focus properly. But this could not be Baron Longford. He was far too big. Or maybe his blurry eyes simply inflated the size of the corpse in the corner. The Baron’s face didn’t seem quite right either, but it was too unclear to make a determination. Curse the Queen’s Arrow Asp. He hadn’t quite figured out how she had managed that little piece of trickery.

Resigned, Melchor closed his eyes. There was nothing to do but wait for the booming of cannon shot and the staccato of gunfire to signal that his fellow Creetisians had arrived. How he longed for that sound. Perhaps in the thick of battle the undersheriff would forget about him. Maybe the effects of the Arrow Asp’s poison would fade more quickly than he thought they would and return his body to working order.

He exhaled, bruised muscles and ribs aching with each in an out of his breath. He thought he heard a trickle of water from somewhere. How he could use a drink! Even if his stomach just launched it back out, it would at least get the taste of blood out of his mouth. While bile was certainly no great improvement over blood, the variety would do him good.

The pain in his leg lessened, bringing relief. It was as if he had planted the swollen appendage into a cold mountain stream. A tingling, cleansing sensation crept up his body, soothing his hurt and unclenching his stomach. His eyes flicked open. What was happening? He blinked. His vision no longer swam or blurred. It was the Baron Longford opposite him, his pale, lifeless face angled toward the light. Melchor would have sworn the corpse bigger just moments ago. A clean stretch of floor between him and the Baron caught his attention. The dirty straw had been washed aside, a channel of water seeming to flow from the Baron toward his foot.

His bodily pains continued to fade, but an uncomfortable pinching sensation briefly stung his chest and his palms, jolting him upright. Then he began to swell. At first it felt unpleasant, like there was too much water and too little skin to contain it. But the feeling was replaced by one of power, of unconquerable strength. The ropes at his ankles and wrists snapped. The form fitting servant’s garb he had donned as a disguise ripped asunder, no longer able to contain his bulging body.

Hands now free, he stretched, bringing them around so he could see why his palms had stung before. There, on his palms, was inscribed a wavy line. The same line ran across the center of his bare chest. He stood, dumbstruck. It was impossible! The Primal Forces were a lie!

A rat skittered out from under a mound of moldy hay, sniffing the air as if sensing some kind of change.

Crush it.

Melchor turned his head about, wondering where the command had come from. It almost sounded like his own voice. No one was with him save the dead Baron. There was a soldier outside the door, he was sure, but the order to crush the rat seemed to come from inside him.

Crush it, and I will show you a way out of this prison.

It was inside his head, but it wasn’t him. Was it madness? Poison? The Primal Water? Did the elements speak? Would they help him? He shook his head to clear it. Maybe the Arrow Asp’s poison had finally addled his brain and sent him into the arms of insanity. Still, he was free and he no longer hurt.

Do it now!

The rat sniffed about the Baron’s corpse. With a quick step and a downward stamp, Melchor crushed the vermin, the crack of its snapping bones barely audible beneath his massive foot.

Good. Now do not cry out. There is one last ritual.

A host of rats, ten at least, flooded out of a small grate in the wall. Melchor watched transfixed as they scurried over and surrounded his now bare feet. Then all at once they dove in and chewed at his ankles. More than any beating he had taken before, the awful chewing of the rats on his flesh prompted him to cry out. But he stifled it, and in a moment it was done, the rats retreating back through the grate. He lifted his legs, expecting to find blood and ripped flesh, but instead a grouping of odd runes surrounded his ankles.

Now hurry. There is more that must be done. Your victory is still within reach.

Melchor realized that the dead Baron’s clothes were unusually big for the corpse they covered. Melchor stripped them off of his body. Crazy or not, he would get away from this prison if he could, and if some strange voice in his head wanted to lend aid to his cause, he would take it.

Chapter 47

Davon slung his rifle over his shoulder and cinched closed his leather ammunition bag. There was little time to lose. He stood inside the office of the late Lord Ember—now his office—and tried to collect his thoughts. The country suffered. What paltry army they had left in Bellshire scrambled to man defenses on the north of the city, but it was inside the heart of the of the city where terror threatened to carry the day.

“You should stay,” Arianne begged him, rubbing his arm. “They will read the Queen’s will in a few hours. Then you can best decide how to act. The people need Lord Ember now.”

Davon smiled at her. Ki, Ta, and Mr. Goodwin all looked on, standing by the window in the spacious room. Elaine napped on a couch by a massive bookshelf.

“No, Arianne,” Davon said, running a finger down her worried face. “Lord Ember or no, the people still see me as Baron Carver, the man who faked his own death to escape his wife. They will not follow me until they can forget that.”

“They may have to follow you anyway,” Mr. Goodwin said, leaving the window to join him. To Davon, the old man seemed more spry and strong than he had just that morning. “From what I’ve heard from Arianne, the Queen was very fond of you. It may be that you are to be the next King of Bittermarch. She did not know you would become Lord Ember before she made the will. The law states that if the same man or woman is both Lord Ember and the monarch—”

“Yes, I know,” Davon cut him off, not wanting to hear what came next. If the Queen appointed him as monarch while he was Lord Ember, the Houses of Light and Lords would be dissolved, their political power nullified, and Bittermarch would be ruled with absolute power by the one so chosen. “I doubt the Queen would have chosen me,” Davon continued. “She knew my precarious reputation among the nobles. But what we need to concern ourselves with now is protection and information. I can scout with twice the speed of horses and men. I will return quickly.”

Mr. Goodwin shrugged. “I can hardly see how a few hours would make a difference. The Creetisian army will come whether you go scampering about or not.” The old rascal walked over and smiled fondly at Elaine, removing his coat and draping it over her sleeping form. “She is such a lovely, innocent creature,” he said.

Davon shook his head. Was this the same man that threatened Justus Paige with a paring knife and who had a sharp word for everyone? And Davon hadn’t seen Mr. Goodwin drink a lick of rum in two hours’ time.

“Please,” Davon said, “my mind is settled. I must do this, and quickly. In a moment, I will ask for some privacy, but first I ask this of the three of you. Ki, Ta, Mr. Goodwin, please do not leave Arianne’s side until I return. If I do not return, and if Bellshire is in peril, please take her and her sister through the wilderness to Jun’Kal and hide them.”

“As you wish, Khodo Khim,” Ki said, Mr. Goodwin nodding in affirmation.

“Thank you. Now, if I could have a private word with Arianne, please.”

Mr. Goodwin smirked. “I somehow doubt there will be many words involved.”

“I should hope not,” Ta said as she and Ki retrieved their spears from the corner. “There has been far too much talking already.”

Arianne blushed, and the three of them left. Elaine stirred as the door closed, but returned to her slumber.

“I really hate being parted from you,” Arianne said, taking Davon’s hands.

Davon smiled at her. “It won’t be for long. Please stay away from trouble. Ki and Ta will draw some unwanted comments, but they are warriors. If you can manage it, scrape up a guard to be with you at all times. And avoid the walls and high places. And don’t sit by windows. If the—”

“No more, Davon,” she said, stepping forward. “I understand.”

He wrapped her up, drinking her in one last time. He kissed her and she him, lost in the sweet closeness until Davon’s anxious heart prodded him to move. Tears slid down her cheeks and he kissed her forehead.

“I love you,” he said. “I will return before you know it.”

Arianne smoothed her blue silk dress as she sat in the House of Lords waiting for the will to be read. The bath and fresh attire did wonders, though the bottoms of her feet still felt like someone had beat them with a spiked stick. As Davon had ordered, Ki and Ta followed her everywhere like two sabercats watching after a lost cub. The white haired women flanked her on the bench, frowning at the press of bodies and surging noise of nervous voices.

The guard had confiscated their quartz tipped spears at the door after several minutes of argument about admitting them at all. Only after Mr. Goodwin used some colorful language to inform them that Lord Ember had ordered the twins to stay with the Lady Hightower did they relent. While Davon had rightly worried that the Aua’Catan might draw ‘unwanted comments,’ the stark contrast between two women of the wild and the powdered and primped ladies of the nobility hardly drew comments at all—everyone was speechless. The jaws of ladies and lords alike dropped as if pulled down by an anvil.

“How I long to put my head in a lake,” Ta grumbled. “This is insufferable. Could you not hold your council out-of-doors?”

Arianne could understand. The combination of the afternoon heat and the press of bodies turned the House of Lords into a furnace.

“Just wait till they start talking,” Mr. Goodwin quipped. He sat next to Elaine on a bench just behind them. “Then the whole place fills up with hot air.”

Ki turned, face puzzled. “Explain this.”

“Never mind, barbarian girl,” Mr. Goodwin said. Elaine giggled.

Arianne shook her head. Mr. Goodwin did appear in an odd good humor. She would almost swear he had lost a few wrinkles and recovered some black hair from the gray. He seemed protective of Elaine, which worried Arianne. What connection did he have to her? Still, the girl seemed to appreciate his company.

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Arianne’s face and she removed a paper fan from her sleeve and worked the air toward her face. While it provided little relief, it gave her something to do. Who had Filippa chosen? Davon? Thinking back on her conversations with her old friend, she knew that Filippa had loved the man and wished him to lead. But Davon was right; the people were not ready to accept him yet. With the former Lord Ember dead and Duke Longford in disgrace, there were no obvious favorites left. The Westgate Jail was filling up with most of the notable northern candidates, so someone from the south made sense.

At last, Baron Oliver Dibet, the House Speaker, entered from a side door followed by Mr. Redd holding the sealed envelope containing the will. Lord Dibet was a Baron from the south, his spirited wife also a favorite with Filippa. The assembly instantly went silent.

“At last,” Ki said under her breath. “They must finish this before we all die.”

The Baron stood at the stained walnut podium, raising a gavel and pounding out three strikes.

“Why did he do that?” Ki asked quietly.

“A call to order,” Arianne whispered back.

“But everyone’s already listening.”

Arianne shrugged as Ki whispered something to Ta, who grinned from ear to ear. Perhaps they found Lord Dibet’s outrageous mustache a cause for humor. The monstrous thing nearly reached to his ears on either side.

The Baron Dibet straightened, placing his hands on the edges of the podium. “Lords and Ladies of Bittermarch, we come together to read the will of Her Excellency, the late Queen Filippa, ruler of the realm and Flametouched. As a practical woman, she would not wish us to belabor these proceedings while war rages at our doorstep and traitors fill our jails. So I shall be brief.”

“See,” Ta commented to Ki, “they can be reasonable.”

Clapping broke out and someone yelled, “Out with it!” The Baron banged the gavel again and silence fell.

“The Queen’s will was placed in the care of her personal attorney, Mr. Redd. It was signed by the late Queen and witnessed by the notaries eighteen days ago.”

Murmuring ran through crowd, and Arianne’s mind spun. It was Davon, then. For what other reason would she have changed the will so recently? Or perhaps she suspected even then who the traitors were and was forced to change it.

Again the gavel fell. “I now give way to Mr. Redd for the reading of the will.”

The silence was so complete that Arianne could hear the rasp of the paper as Mr. Redd broke the wax seal and removed the document from its envelope. The old attorney’s hands trembled slightly as he unfolded the single page and placed it before him on the podium. He cleared his throat and affixed his spectacles.

“To all my subjects in Bittermarch, I, Queen Filippa, appointed monarch of Bittermarch by my late husband, King Ostris, do mandate that upon my death the burden of leadership of this fair nation shall fall to Lady Arianne Hale, Widow of Lord Cornton and Viscountess of Hightower.”

Arianne couldn’t breathe. Mr. Goodwin was chuckling behind her, Elaine’s gasp loud enough to conquer all the others in the room. Ki and Ta threw her a strange look, and every head in the room swiveled so that searching, surprised eyes could find her. In those eyes she found warmth and coldness, jealousy and curiosity. In some of those glares waited disgust and even treachery. Blood drained from her face and she blinked, trying to get her mind to accept what she had just heard.

Ki leaned in and whispered, “I think the duty of protection Davon laid upon me has just become more difficult.”

Mr. Redd pounded the gavel over and over, beating down the tumult and yelling, “There is more!” Silence achieved, he turned his gaze back to the parchment. “Lady Hightower shall hold this office until such time as she chooses to marry, and if and when that blessed event occurs, her husband shall assume the title of King until his death.

“This is my will and cannot be contested. The terms are effective immediately, and all will render obedience and honor to Queen Arianne from this moment forth or be considered traitors to the Kingdom of Bittermarch. She will be presented to the Eternal Flame within three days’ time.”

The tumult in the room rose to a fever pitch, a swirling rumble of delight and outrage and shock. Arianne stared forward, waiting for someone to wake her up. Queen until she married? Husband to assume the throne?

Mr. Redd retired from the pulpit, Baron Dibet taking his place. “Queen Arianne of Bittermarch, please rise and approach the podium to take the oath.”

Trembling, Arianne grasped the back of the bench in front of her, using the strength of her arms to make up for the weakness in her shaking legs. How could Filippa do this to her? The old woman hadn’t even dropped a hint! How could she rally the people behind her now that the Kingdom was crashing down around them all?

She swallowed her fear and composed herself, straightening her shoulders and lifting her head. At her trial she had learned to stifle her distress to accomplish a purpose. Her people needed her now. They needed someone strong to take the reins and lead them through war. She had no time for weakness or the luxury of fumbling about. Most of all, she knew she had to choke down the gnawing fear that every eligible bachelor would want to wed her, every one but the one to whom her heart belonged.

As she strode down the center aisle, she worked to relax her face and unclench her hands. Her treacherous stomach, however, she could not settle. As she approached the podium, she remembered what Filippa told her in an idle moment: “No one rules alone.” She would have generals. She would have advisers. She would have Davon Carver. And she would not let him go.

Chapter 48

From his perch on a wooded knoll, Davon spied on the Creetisian army spreading across the wooded hills at evening in search of rest and food. Like a blight of insects they seemed, a mighty plague scrabbling over the land. Their pants were the off-white of egg shells, coats a dull gray. Sporadic fires sprang to life as the sun dipped behind the treetops to the west, the evening glow casting a warm light on the sparse, puffy clouds.

To his sensitive sabercat nostrils, the stench of the army was like sticking his nose into the armpit of an unwashed beggar. His desperate purpose had propelled him northward at a blistering pace. With ears pinned back and paws barely touching the ground, he had streaked like a mighty bullet shot from Bellshire toward its foes. He had kept to the road as much as possible for speed, but turned aside frequently to avoid the frantic stream of human traffic. Refugees from all the northern duchies fled hastily southward toward the capital to escape the grasp of the advancing Creetisians. Davon had rejoiced to catch glimpses of rifles leaning on many of the refugees’ shoulders; Bellshire needed as many guns as it could get.

He had stopped to rest and watch on a high tree covered hill not far from where the Creetisians had stopped to camp for the evening. Watching the Creetisian horde fan out below him, he knew the paltry reinforcements provided by the influx of refugees would hardly bolster the defenses enough to add one more day to the Bellshire’s freedom; there were simply too many Creetisian soldiers. The enemy army would overrun the city in less than four days, and even that estimate required him to admit some unwarranted optimism into his calculations. The Creetisians would pour into Bellshire, kill and subdue the resistance, and have plenty of time to fortify before the main body of Bellshire’s armies returned from the south.

Davon transformed back into the form of a man and sat, putting his back to a barkless pine burned bare by a lightning strike. Since the reigniting of the Eternal Flame, he had only seen two shapes in wood for him to carve. While camping the night before, a piece of hickory dead fall had shown him a new snow finch for Ki and a rose pendant for Arianne. These he had carved and finished with his usual speed and finesse before he had fallen asleep that night.

And now, there to his left, superimposed over the length of a low, living pine branch was the strangest thing his gift had ever asked him to carve: a carving knife. For him. Odd. Pine was a soft wood to begin with. How could a knife of pine be used to carve anything? And most interesting of all, it was the first carving he would create by taking wood from a living tree.

Despite his misgivings, he carefully pruned the small branch away from its tree, the sticky pine sap befouling his fingers. And then he set to work. It was a simple shape and quickly done, the shavings of wood littering his pants and coat as he worked. The last cuts were to inscribe the symbol of the Eternal Flame on either side of the wooden blade. He tested the edge with his thumb. It was a sharp as pine could be, but not sharp enough to cut anything firmer than butter.

So engrossed had he been in his carving that time had gotten away from him. The sun had fallen farther than he intended and he wanted to get on the road back to Bellshire before full dark descended so he could camp well ahead of the advancing force.

He bagged the newly carved knife and scavenged inside his coat pockets for food. He would eat a little and then journey back to the south with dire news: the army of Creetis would arrive in Bellshire in less than three days. Davon had half a mind to find Duke Longford in his cell and devour him whole. What greedy foolishness! What insufferable stupidity!

Davon put a pine nut between its teeth and bit down, the sharp taste filling his mouth. He rarely ate the seeds, but they were a leftover from his sojourn with the Aua’Catan and readily at hand. He opened his bag to fish around for the dried strips of meat they had gifted him. The clean smell of mint wafted out as he scraped a corner, the scent Ki and Ta had worn to mask their presence from predators.

Davon shook his head at the memory. The campfires below reminded him of the terror birds the sisters had led into the camp to devour the men chasing him. The Aua’Catan were a strange people, but their brilliance in the outdoors appealed to him. To know the scents and the smells so well, to learn the ways of the animals so completely, to survive in a place so raw—all inspired his admiration. So stealthy had been Ki and Ta that he hadn’t noticed their approach in the dark until they poked a spear point in his back.

As his teeth worked the tough meat, he glanced below, the dusty, smoky haze and dim light softly veiling the white canvas tents of his enemies. About a mile ahead of the main army he could make out a solitary campfire. The lead scouts, perhaps. He would pay them a visit before he left. He wished he had the twin sisters’ know-how so he could bring a few terror birds with him, as well.

He stopped chewing.

An idea sounded in his mind like a bell on a summer morning, its vibration pushing him to his feet. A smile strained his face. It just might work! He crammed the rest of his jerky back into his bag and cinched it shut. Terror birds might be in short supply, but a surly herd of mammoth? That he could arrange. The plains to the east were full of them this time of year. While a man might not have a chance at driving the beasts where he wished, a gigantic sabercat with a roar like angry thunder would.

In an instant he changed to Khodo Khim and charged off the knoll, weaving in and out of the trees and over boulders with fluid ease. He angled south and east, the scent of the army strengthening and varying with every loping stride forward. Mutton and beef—no doubt plundered from the farms they had passed—stewed in their pots; the dusty leather of their boots; the oil and powder of their guns; the beer in their barrels. All these scents played across his nose, painting a picture of everything around him just as clear as the eyes of the hawks circling about the army for scraps.

The camp of the Creetisian Scouts waited in a small thicket. The five of them were at their ease, lounging against logs, bare feet to the fire and bread and liquor in hand. Davon surged, snapping slender pine branches as he burst into their camp and let loose a roar that unmanned them all.

Jittery legs tried to stand and quivering hands fumbled for weapons, but with a push from his back haunches Davon soared through the air and killed two with a whistling swipe from his hooked claws. A third had his hand on a rifle. Davon whipped his head and gored him with a curved tooth, chomping down on the head of a fourth just behind him. The fifth ran. Davon was faster. After a brief pursuit he leaped on the soldier’s back and tore his head from his shoulders.

Fur and teeth stained red, Davon lifted his head and let loose another roar before loping east with the speed of the wind.

Go home, Creetisians. Go home or you’ll regret it.

Davon hadn’t returned. As usual. Arianne massaged her temples as she paced about her new room in the palace. It felt awkward to take Filippa’s larger accommodations so soon after her death, so instead, Arianne chose an adjacent room meant for distinguished guests. While not as big, it was well appointed. There were separate rooms for her bed and her bath, and a small living area where she now waited for sunset and her appointment in the Flame Cathedral—and for one tardy Baron.

Curse the man! Could he never show up when he was needed? Nearly three days had passed since he had left. He should have returned much sooner. Even if he weren’t dead or lost, an entire Creetisian army was making camp scant miles from Bellshire. Shots had been fired. Tomorrow would bring more. Tomorrow Creetisians would run in the streets. Tomorrow they would swarm the palace and murder her.

The one remaining General in Bellshire, a Frederick Marsden, had tried to sound as optimistic as possible. “We may yet win the day,” he had said over and over. “The Creetisians are poorly trained,” he would interject, or perhaps, “We have the advantage of fighting in territory we know well.” Arianne suspected he simply wouldn’t say the straight truth and didn’t wish to see a Lady cry. She had felt like it all day. Why couldn’t Filippa have stayed alive long enough to watch Bellshire fall? Why did she have to die and let the ruin of the nation come under the watch of an inexperienced Queen barely three days into her rule?

The only bright spot to the entire affair was the return of Missa and Orianna. The two had waited at Hightower until they were forced to flee southward. They would come to her shortly and prepare her for the ritual at the Flame Cathedral. After that, a long night of planning and hoping and casting prayers into the Flame awaited. She tried not to think about what would come with the rising of the sun, though if Davon showed up before then, she might just forgive him.

Her Lady’s Maids arrived a few minutes later, Ki and Ta following them into the room. The Aua’Catan sisters had been relentless in their obedience to Davon’s command to protect her. Their white hair and icy-blue eyes always startled her with their alien beauty. They were, however, nearly insufferable with their comments and questions about everyone and everything. And their unfortunate jerkins! Scandalous. They were excited for the chance to see the Eternal Flame that evening, the first of their kind to visit the Primal Fire in many years.

“You’ve been worrying at your hair, Your Grace,” Orianna admonished. “It’s a fright.”

“I’ll fetch the dress,” Missa said. “It’ll have to be one that buttons down the front. You have to face the Flame naked, so you’ll be undressing and dressing yourself.”

“At least they have that right,” Ki commented, throwing herself onto a stuffed leather chair. Of the two, Ki seemed the most fascinated by the customs and luxuries of civilized people. “I was wondering if the Primal Forces would talk to someone wearing four—or is it five?—layers of clothing.”

Arianne had learned that the twin sisters were Airtouched, Ki’s extraordinary gift of reading the breath of others as fascinating an ability as Davon’s living carvings. Primal Air had gifted Ta with the ability to walk with complete silence, something she did to play tricks on the hapless House Guard as much as to do anything useful.

“Are you angry that the Brown Man hasn’t returned?” Ta asked, leaning on her spear next to her sister.

“Yes,” Arianne answered. Quite angry. “Why do you call him Brown Man and not Davon or Khodo Khim?”

Ki shrugged. “Because he is brown—nearly as brown as our men—and he is a man. Why do you call him Davon instead of Baron Carver or Lord Ember?”

Arianne blushed. “Because we are friends.”

“So we call him Brown Man because he is our friend,” Ta concluded. “Besides, it would be hard to use titles with someone you had to share your body with to warm him.”

Arianne stopped. “What?”

Ta wore a mischievous smile. Ki looked up at her. “It may have been better to keep that between us, Spear Sister.”

“Keep what?” Arianne demanded.

Ki sighed. “When the Brown Man took the test at the Seeing Wall, he returned nearly frozen to death. We placed him beneath many furs, but Ta and I…well, we used our warmth to help revive him.”

That didn’t sound so bad. “I’m sure it helped, and that it is a common practice among your people.”

“Yes, of course,” Ta soothed. “We are not as concerned about our nude bodies as you Bittermarchians are.”

“Nude? You were all naked?” Arianne was shocked. Orianna stopped brushing, and Missa stopped unbuttoning.

“Of course,” Ki answered. “It works best flesh to flesh. The skin is where the warmth is. Do not trouble yourself. He was unconscious and remembered nothing.”

“But you remember!” Arianne protested.

“Of course,” Ki answered. “We saved his life. He owes us a debt.”

Arianne thought it best to remain silent. Her flustered, tired thoughts would not be dignified on the other side of her tongue. Curse that man! Every woman in the room was grinning except for her. Davon was going to pay for not divulging that little bit of information, right after he paid for not returning when he said he would. So far, she hadn’t done so well at carrying out her threats of punishment against him, but this time would be different!

A simple white gown affixed and hair repaired, Ki, Ta, and two of her House Guard accompanied her to the Flame Cathedral in the hazy evening light. The Ember Guard patrolled in double their usual numbers. The extinguishing of the Eternal Flame and the murder of Lord Ember had terrified everyone and cast a bad light on those meant to protect the sacred edifice. Four of the Ember Guard fell in with her retinue as they ascended the steps and passed inside the circular structure.

The Ember Guard was just as thick here, patrolling two by two through the massive outer hallway. Members of the House of Light dotted the hall, bowing as she passed. The sounds of whispers and the scuffling of the guard set Arianne on edge. The entire building felt even more solemn than Queen Filippa’s funeral just the day before. It was as if everyone was trying to keep the forthcoming doom of Bellshire a secret from everyone else.

Arianne scanned the numbers on the doors, looking for number sixteen as she had been instructed. Mr. Goodwin and Elaine waited for her there, talking in low tones with Karina, the Steward of the Flame Cathedral. She had run the sacred place in Davon’s absence. He should be here! Tradition dictated that Lord Ember introduce the Monarch to the Eternal Flame.

Elaine embraced her. Mr. Goodwin bowed, and Arianne was sure he looked younger now. His hair had definitely turned from full gray to black with only flecks of silver.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” Karina said, bowing. She wore the white robe and the golden stole. “I am honored to have the privilege of introducing you into the chamber of the Eternal Flame. I know you have been here before as a guest, but I must give you some instruction for the ceremony. It is quite simple. You will enter the chamber alone—”

“She will not,” Ki said.

“It is tradition,” Karina argued.

“Lord Ember told us to stay with her at all times,” Ki countered. “I will not disobey his wish.”

Karina’s forehead creased. “What is your will, Your Grace?”

“They can come. Davon instructed them to protect me, as they said.”

“Very well. When you enter the chamber, the door will be shut behind you for privacy. You approach the dais. There, you will trip the lever, and the Eternal Flame will descend in its vessel. You disrobe completely and sit cross-legged before it, palms open toward it. If it chooses you, it will do so quickly, branding your palms with the symbol of the Eternal Flame.”

“Has a monarch ever not been chosen?” Arianne asked.

“Oh, yes,” Karina answered. “Only about half have been chosen. King Ostris wasn’t chosen, nor his predecessor, King Orick.”

Arianne nodded, feeling better. Karina unlocked the door, signaling for her to enter. She stepped in a few paces, Ki and Ta following. Another door waited in front of her and she opened it as Karina shut the one behind her. A breath of cool air caressed her face as the spacious, dim room opened up before her. A single lamp—hardly bright enough to illuminate a fraction of the room—sat on the dais. High above in the dark recesses of the ceiling the Eternal Flame hung, casting a small pool of light on stonework.

“We will wait here by the door,” Ki said, her eyes reverently joining Ta’s in an attempt to see the Eternal Flame.

Arianne nodded and hiked her dress above her ankles. Heart fluttering, she took the sloped path toward the dais. The dark room, vast with empty galleries of seats, felt like a tomb full of ghosts, the air damp and still. She swallowed and stepped up to the circular dais. The beat up iron lever stuck out of a stone post, and it required both of her hands to pull it back. Somewhere above her, a wheel squeaked, and the pot lowered ponderously from above until it settled with a clink on the stones at her feet.

The Eternal Flame.

Beautiful it was, but a bit eerie in the dark. She stepped close to it, transfixed by the tongues of flame soundlessly darting about. The tightness that had clenched her chest for days momentarily loosened its grip, giving enough space for a welcome calm to trickle into her heart. She smiled and removed a strip of paper from where she had tucked it in her bodice. A prayer for Davon. She knelt and slipped it into the fire. While it shed no heat, the Eternal Flame consumed it without smoke.

After contemplating the sacred fire for a few more moments, she stood and undid the buttons on the front of her dress. A drip of water echoed through the chamber, making it seem all the more empty. She checked behind her, comforted by the spear wielding sisters by the door.

Her dress fell to the ground, and she worked at her shift and undergarments. She checked the gallery and behind her to make sure only the sisters were there, though the two of them were grinning and whispering to each other. She blushed, imagining what comments the two rascals might be sharing with each other.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Was it raining somewhere? After casting off the rest of her clothing, she turned her gaze back to the Eternal Flame and sat cross-legged before it as instructed, extending her palms toward the worn cooking pot that was its home.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She waited. A few moments passed before the tongues of flame seem to bend forward for a moment as if to smell her, but almost as quickly they retracted, burning naturally as they had before.

It wasn’t going to choose her.

While she had prepared herself for this rejection, her heart sank with disappointment. If nothing else, being Flametouched would have helped the skeptical nobles in her kingdom to accept her as their queen, though, she admitted, it also would have helped her be less skeptical of herself.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Where was it coming from?

She stood and pulled her undergarments and shift back on. How she would have liked to have the same discerning gift as Queen Filippa! It would come to little use, she reminded herself. They would probably all be dead in a few days, if not tomorrow.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

One of the sisters screamed.

Chapter 49

Arianne spun toward the door, clutching her dress to her bosom. Someone, someone immense, stood in the shadowy room with her, blocking the door. Both of the Aua’Catan sisters lay unmoving at his feet. With a massive arm the brute lifted a plank of wood and barred the door. Arianne backed away as a man she had never seen before in her life strode up the ramp toward her.

He was big, bigger than any man should have been. His woolen shirt and pants threatened to rip with every stride forward. Even more disconcerting, his wide face was unnaturally puffy, almost to the point of seeming swollen. Cold, gray eyes held a deep malice and confidence, and Arianne shivered.

She backed away, leg brushing the cook pot where the Eternal Flame burned, the light of the lantern behind her casting her shadow over the brute bearing down upon her. With a quick push, she tripped the lever and the Eternal Flame ascended slowly toward the ceiling. The beastly man watched it go up for a moment and then turned his lusty eyes on her. With a swipe of his massive hand, he tore the dress out of her arms, leaving her in her shift.

“It really is a shame to waste such a beautiful woman,” he said, looking her over. The accent was Creetisian, the manner educated and controlled. “The women back home are all broomsticks and bitterness, but here in Bellshire they are like ripe fruit, plump and sweet.”

Someone was pounding on the outer door, filling the room with a deafening ruckus. Arianne continued to retreat backwards across the dais.

“I should hurry,” the Creetisian said. “I was to kill you just after Queen Filippa, but there was a slight delay.”

His arm dissolved into a tentacle of water. It whipped at her and she turned her back to it. It struck with the force of a metal rod. Pain shot through her limbs and she lurched forward. Flailing, she slammed into the wall on the far side of the circular dais and crumpled to the floor, head spinning. Black blotches swam in her vision, pain pinching her chest.

The lever to lower the Eternal Flame whined, and the pulley wheel squeaked as it descended toward the floor. Arianne squirmed, every movement eliciting a stabbing pain from the center of her back. Carefully she rolled over, facing the dais. The pot landed in the center, and the flames reflected in the sober eyes of her attacker.

The man’s cocksure countenance of moments ago had gone, replaced by one of contemplation and even struggle. His lip quivered, face scrunching as if in torment. The pounding at the door escalated. Something firmer than fists beat against the thick wood. They were coming for her.

The man knelt. His entire body shook now as if he fought to contain something that wanted to burst out of it. With an unsure expression he leaned forward, face directly over the Eternal Flame, mouth widening in an involuntary convulsion.

A quartz-tipped spear sank into his lower back and he arched, his yell of agony joining with the incessant banging at the door.

“Open the door!” Arianne yelled, not sure if it was Ki or Ta that had thrown the spear.

In horror, Arianne watched as the brute pulled the spear out his body, no worse for the wound. He bounded back down the ramp toward the door, spear in hand. Clenching her teeth, Arianne staggered to her feet, trying to reach the lever. A wave of dizziness struck her, and she fell to stones on the dais, well short of the Eternal Flame. One of the sisters screamed and was silent. Arianne rolled onto her side, trying to settle her head.

And the Eternal Flame was there.

Somehow it had escaped its pot and ambled toward her on legs of fire. Two tendrils shot out and struck her palms. Pain shot up her arms and into her chest, but light bloomed within her, a magnification of the peace and calm she had felt when she had first regarded the Eternal Flame. Locked in a sweet bliss, she was insensate of anything for several moments.

When consciousness returned, she was whole, her back as fit as if she had never been struck. She came to a crouch. The Eternal Flame had returned to its pot, but so had the brute, kneeling in front of it has he had before. His eyes were fixed on the flames, the war she had seen in his face before fought anew. He didn’t even see her, oblivious even to the pounding against the door, though the booming sounds held a hint of cracking and splintering now.

The man’s mouth opened again as if to vomit, a trickle of water pouring off his tongue and into the pot. That’s what happened to the Eternal Flame! she reasoned. Baron Olivanne Longford had drowned it before coming to attack the Queen Filippa. Davon’s carvings had returned it to life.

There were no carvings, now.

She had to stop the brute, keep him occupied until help came. She darted forward and laid her slender shoulder into his with all the force that she could muster. Hitting him was little different from slamming into the wall she had just encountered, but the impact threw him sideways, his mouth snapping shut.

She fell on her back, head banging on the stones. As she bent to push herself up, the man straddled her, pinning her arms down. His slavering, angry face regarded hers. There was something familiar about this bloated Creetisian, but she couldn’t place it.

“It appears I didn’t strike you hard enough last time,” he seethed, eyes wild.

A warmth built within her, a heat that started in her heart, ran down her arms, and centered on the new scars on her palms. It crescendoed, building until it was uncomfortable. She grunted, trying to free herself from his trapping embrace. With a leering gaze he released one of her arms and raised his meaty fist above him, a fist she knew would collapse her head like a hammer would an egg.

With a yell she pushed up, driving her free hand around his wide throat. The heat pulsed out of her, her palm searing hot. The brute’s eyes shot wide, his mouth stretching open in a gurgling scream. His muscles clenched, body as rigid as a statue. A cloud of steam shot from his mouth as if water boiled inside him, billowing out of him in clouds that rose into the darkness of the ceiling.

Inch by inch his body deflated and weakened. Still the heat pulsed from her, still he screamed as if he couldn’t stop. But as the steam lessened and his shrinking body started to slack, something—an angular shadow—stepped out of him and stood by the cook pot, arm raised as if to shield itself from the light. It had the form of a man, but no detail. It was slender and sharp, blurry around the edges and only as tall as the Eternal Flame.

A horror gripped Arianne’s heart, the kind of emotion she felt when she feared a loved one lost. The same terror she felt when she had been trapped in a cage to be lowered in the water. The heat inside her went out. The man’s eyes rolled into his head and he collapsed on top of her. She recognized him now. This was Ambassador Clout’s attaché, Melchor Raines. He lay unmoving on top of her, face pale. With effort she pushed him to the floor and got to her feet, running for the door and away from the dreadful shape of the shadow.

A section of the door gave way, the tip of a halberd poking through as she arrived, wood splintering over two bodies on the floor. One of the sisters was dead, spear driven through her heart. Arianne knelt by the other. Her arm and head were bruised, but her chest rose and fell in an even motion. She was alive, but thinking of one sister without the other tore at Arianne’s heart.

“Your Highness!” someone yelled. “We’ll be through in a moment.”

“I’ll open it!” Arianne yelled to the face pressed against the hole in the door.

She hefted the plank out, and the Ember Guard poured in, followed by Mr. Goodwin, Karina, and Elaine.

“Remove the man on the dais,” she yelled to the Guard. “Remove him before the Primal Water can find him. Mr. Goodwin, get Elaine back to her apartments. Karina, this Aua’Catan woman is hurt but not dead. Take her to Doctor Otis. The dead woman is her sister. Convey her body to the morgue until we know what should be done with it.”

Arianne strode back up the ramp, passing four of the Ember Guard as they hauled a limp Melchor Raines from the room. “Do not give him water,” she commanded, remembering something Davon had told her. “Put him in the driest place you can find.”

She reached the top of the walkway and stopped. The shadow was still on the dais, prowling around the Eternal Flame as if trying to find some way to get to it and to strangle it. Malice poured from it, a hatred as palpable as the cobblestones at her bare feet. Three of the soldiers had leveled their guns at it, faces pale and sweating. They feel it, too. She wondered if Davon as Lord Ember could do something to kill it or banish it.

She raised her hands, thinking that perhaps the flame and light she had used to drive the dark form out of Melchor Raines might be used to drive it out of the room or kill it. But at her approach, the shadow fled into the dark recesses of the room and vanished from sight.

She flicked the lever and the Eternal Flame ascended back to the safety of the rafters while soldiers searched the recesses of the room with shaking guns. But it had gone—she no longer felt its smothering presence trying to drown every good feeling.

The cloud of steam that had been the Primal Water had also fled. Would the shadow find it, or had it gone in search of Melchor Raines?

Once her commands were obeyed, she carried the lantern out of the room and shut what was left of the door behind her. She couldn’t be sure if the strange shadow would move on, and she wondered where the Primal Water would go. But there were more important matters to attend to, not the least of which was to put her dress on. The people in the halls were staring.

“Stand guard outside this door,” she ordered the soldiers. “If anything sounds amiss, get help and let me know immediately.”

Where is Davon?

Arianne and sleep kept poor company that night. Her ordeal in the Flame Cathedral had exhausted her, pushing her eyelids down, while her terror for Bellshire rudely propped them back up. What resulted was not a night of sleep, but rather a night where she couldn’t remember some parts as well as others. When she awoke—if that’s indeed what it was—she immediately asked for a report from Undersheriff Higgins, General Marsden, and Karina from the House of Light. Melchor was restrained and confined; the Creetisians were nearly upon them; and there was no sign of the odd shadow or the Primal Water.

The last report she wanted she would collect herself: it was Ki that had survived Melchor’s attach, and she had been taken to the infirmary. Arianne wanted to see how she fared and offer what words of comfort she could. Not having the Spear Sisters with her felt odd after days of their constant presence, and Arianne could only imagine how odd it would be for Ki not to have her twin, her Spear Sister, by her side. It would be like looking in a mirror and seeing nothing reflected back.

Missa entered the room with dress and brush in hand, and while Arianne wanted nothing more than to get out the door, Missa reminded her that she was a Queen now and that she had to look the part. By the time she had collected all her reports and escaped her Lady’s Maid, it was mid-morning. At least four guards trailed her has she worked her way down to the infirmary, and she found herself feeling awkward about the constant bowing and the “Your Highness” honorific thrown at her at every turn.

When she arrived at her intended destination, she found Dr. Otis hunched over the desk near the door, scribbling something on a parchment. He dropped his pen and bowed as she entered. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he said. “What can I do for you this morning?”

“I wished to see how Ki was faring,” she replied, “the Aua’Catan woman who was injured last night.”

“Ah,” he said, frowning. “An interesting one, that. About as good as Baron Carver at obeying her doctor’s instructions. She sustained a severe bruise to the arm and head. She’s been awake since early this morning, but in a low state. I was going to release her after the mid-day meal. Do you wish to see her?”

“Yes, please.”

“Follow me, Highness.”

Unlike her previous visits to see the Queen and Davon, the infirmary’s beds were now filled with those injured during the darkness of the Eternal Flame’s extinguishing and other nobles who, Arianne suspected, were letting their nerves get the better of them. If there was much more toil and trouble, Arianne thought she might be joining the mumbling, moaning crowd herself.

Dr. Otis led her to the partition at the end of the room and then excused himself to oversee preparations for the impending battle. Ki lay on her stomach, head resting on her arms and eyes staring blankly at the wall. A bruise, mottled black and purple, ran across her upper left arm. Her white hair covered whatever injury she had sustained to her head. Her quartz-tipped spear leaned against the wall nearby.

Arianne walked around the bed and crouched beside her, trying to catch her pale blue eyes. Ki spoke before she could.

“There is nothing you can say, Arianne.”

“I know,” Arianne replied, moving a strand of hair away from the Aua’Catan’s face. “I just wanted you to know that I am here for you. I owe Ta my life, and I know that she would have wanted me to make sure you are cared for.”

Ki stirred and turned over, scooting up to lean against the headboard, wincing at the movement. Arianne sat at the foot of the bed, saddened by the pale face and haunted eyes from a young woman that had always seemed so lively and self-possessed.

“I thank you for your concern,” Ki said. “I will always mourn for my Spear Sister, but these attacks against the Primal Flame also cause me to fear. What happened last night? I’ve only heard whispers and rumors.”

Ki’s face gradually regained some color as Arianne laid before her the tale of Melchor Raines, the Primal Water, and the strange shadowy figure that came out of the man as she burned him.

“Do your people have any lore that could help?” Arianne asked. “It is clear that we in Bittermarch know less than we should about the Primal Forces.”

Ki bit her lip for a moment. “That is true, but even to our people much lore has been lost. Creetis and his descendants saw to that. My people don’t speak of a dark primal force. Still, there is the legend of the Hahka.”

“Hahka?” Arianne asked

“Just as the Khodo was a child of Earth, Air, Water, and Fire, the Hahka was a child of Earth, Air, Water, and Shadow. It, too, manifests itself as a beast, a great Black Bear in the stories. But they were just stories.”

Arianne thought for a moment. “So could the shadow I saw be Primal Darkness, or is it the Hahka’s chosen, like Davon is the chosen of the Khodo?”

Ki shrugged. “In the stories, the Hahka could have no servant, as there was no heart so dark that it would ever serve it. Again, these are stories. There is no Primal Darkness in our lore.” And then her eyes widened with some realization and she swung her feet over the side of the bed. “Has the Brown Man returned?”

“No,” Arianne said. “What is it?”

Ki covered her mouth with a hand for a moment. “The carvings! The legend says that the Hahka was imprisoned by Jho Jhimm, Tamal u’Khan of the Primal Flame, someone like your Lord Ember. She carved five torches that burned with the light of the Primal Flame. She surrounded the Hahka with these torches. The beast could not come near the lights and was trapped eternally while the Primal Fire burned.”

Arianne swallowed. “And if the Eternal Flame went out?”

Ki reached for her boots. “Then the Hahka could escape. It is just a tale, but ever since the first attack on the Primal Flame I have wondered why anyone would wish to drown it. We need more wisdom from the elders of my people.”

Arianne stood and grabbed Ki’s spear from the wall, glad to see the life of purpose flowing back into the woman. “Do you mean to go back to Jun’Kal, then?”

“Yes,” Ki said. “And you are coming with me.”

“I most certainly cannot,” Arianne objected. “I am a Queen now and must stay with the people. Surely you understand this.”

Ki shrugged. “Maybe, but the Brown Man told me to bring you out of the city if you were in danger, and from all the whispers I have heard this morning, your Bellshire is about to be overrun by people that want you dead and who are from a nation that I hate. You are not a general, and you can do no good here. Come with me now.”

Arianne handed Ki her spear. “No, Ki. I am the symbol of Bittermarch, and there is good yet that I can do. You go to your people. Find out what you can.”

Ki measured her up with a glance as if testing her resolve, and Arianne marveled at the determination of her gaze. The Aua’Catan were a tough people.

“You mean to disobey the Brown Man, then?” Ki asked.

Arianne smiled. “I do owe him a disobedience or two, but if circumstances appear dire, then I will go with you.”

Ki nodded. “Very well. Then I will stay, and when the time comes, you will come with me to Jun’Kal.”

Chapter 50

The first thunderous report of cannon fire erupted at dawn the next day, startling Arianne in her hiding place. While the sound seemed distant, it still felt too close. She hadn’t slept again. For her safety, General Marsden had decided to secrete her—barricade her, really—inside a room at the very top of the Flame Cathedral. It was accessible only through a trap door and a ladder from an anteroom to the top tier of seats in the chapel. Small, square cutouts in the wall allowed a view of the Eternal Flame raised into the rafters.

On the opposite wall was a door to the roof of the tall structure. General Marsden had instructed her rather severely never to show her face on the roof as it might allow the enemy to spy her position. He had also said, quite bluntly, not to allow herself to be taken prisoner as the Creetisians would most likely make her death a spectacle. In the event of likely capture, he had suggested, face grave, that she throw herself from the Cathedral roof for a quick death on the stones below. This had sent a chill into her heart that assured that sleep would never find her while the war lasted.

Soldiers went in and out the rooftop door to bring her reports. Whenever the door opened, she looked longingly outside. It had rained lightly that morning, the scent of grass and trees sneaking in through the door a pleasant contrast to the stale interior of her confinement. As the tumultuous morning matured into day, the clouds retreated, bringing sunshine and a sweltering heat that sent streaks of sweat down her back.

The pop of rifle reports and the roar of cannons gradually moved closer, like the sounds of a great beast coming to devour them all. From the reports, the Creetisians moved implacably forward, and Ki—who stayed outdoors and avoided company—would peek her head around the doorframe to throw her a meaningful look every time the reports got worse.

Around Arianne were those she loved. Elaine, Orianna, and Missa waited with her in the poorly appointed confines of the cramped room. It was barely wide enough for one person to lay across and about three times as long. Mr. Goodwin waited by Elaine, picking at his fingernails with a paring knife and muttering under his breath.

Chairs and other appointments would not fit through the trap door. Pillows and rugs were brought in for them to lounge on, as were two weeks-worth of food and drink. Among the General’s other frightening communications was the firm belief that they would only hold the city for a day if luck attended them. When—not if—it fell, they were to hide and hope for the forces committed to the south to return, retake the city, and rescue them.

But the worst was feeling useless and decidedly unqueen-like. Holed up. Trapped. Unable to give what poor comfort or counsel she might muster to help her nation. The General assured her that her most important task was to stay alive, that what she did or said that day would have no bearing on the success of the battle, and that her survival would mean everything to the larger war and the rebuilding that came after. She tried to believe him but desperately wanted to do something.

From time to time she would stare through the cutouts in the wall to watch the Eternal Flame in its pot. They desperately wished they could move the Eternal Flame and hide it, but only Lord Ember could heft the pot, and Davon had quite disappeared from anyone’s knowledge. Again. He had contacted none of the other scouts, he had sent no word, and Arianne was furious at him on and off in fitful bouts. How often did he think she could forgive him for running off just when she needed him? To pass the time she imagined what she would say when he did show his face again, mainly to stave off doubts that the reason he wasn’t there was because he had been killed already.

Captain Gage, who had been assigned to see to her protection, burst through the door. He seemed young for a Captain, but was thickly built, his squarish face sober. “A group of Creetisians have burst through and are in the streets!”

“Already?” Mr. Goodwin said. “It’s barely past midday!”

“There are too many of them!” he explained, face pale. Through the open door the sounds of close gunfire and men yelling poured into the room with renewed power. “The militias inside the city are fighting them off and plugging the hole,” he continued, “but it cannot last, Your Grace.”

Arianne wrung her hands together, heart leaden. Creetisians in Bellshire! The color in her face had long since fled, her skin almost as pale as the dress she wore.

“Thank you, Captain Gage,” she said, straining to keep her voice even. “Let us know if there is any change in our circumstances.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

He left, the door scraping shut and dulling the sounds of battle. The faint scent of gunpowder and smoke trailed behind, overpowering the dusty smell of the neglected room where they waited.

“Will Bellshire really fall?” Elaine asked. “Will the Creetisians come for us, Arianne?”

Arianne knelt in front of her sister and took her hands. “We must try to have hope, Elaine. We have done all we could. The soldiers will fight to the last man to keep us safe.”

“But you heard what the soldier said,” she cried. “They will find us and kill us!”

Mr. Goodwin, eyes fiery, stopped the incessant trimming of his fingernails. The wrinkles on his hands had disappeared. The man turned more supple and spry by the hour.

“They won’t get you, Miss,” he said, voice as firm as stone. “I was a clerk, but I’ve learned a thing or two about defending myself since then. No one will harm you. No one. Not while I live.”

Elaine nodded. While Arianne thought Mr. Goodwin optimistic, the absolute conviction in his voice could not be gainsaid. The man was a mystery. Davon described him as an irascible piece of old leather that could scare a dire wolf away from its cubs. The frightening part she could believe. Whenever his eyes were not on her sister, they were as hard as flint, hiding what seemed a deep hatred of the world.

But when he was with Elaine, he changed entirely, as if she were the world, and one he could live in without bitterness. At first his attentions seemed grandfatherly, but he was undoubtedly growing younger, and she wondered what the exact nature of his gift from the Eternal Flame was.

Captain Gage opened the door a scant hour later, Ki following him in.

“They are repulsed,” he reported. “They are gathering for another charge, probably within the hour. We will not hold them.”

“It’s time, Arianne,” Ki said, face hard and eyes determined. Arianne opened her mouth, not sure of what to say, of what decision to make, but at that moment a snow finch carved of wood fluttered through the door and landed on Ki’s left shoulder. She gasped in surprise. Arianne rose and stepped close to get a look at it. Unlike the finch Davon had carved before, this one sported a swirling pattern on its breast turning in the opposite direction of the one around Ki’s navel.

“It is from the Khodo Khim,” Ki said. “And this,” she continued, taking the bird into her hand, “this is Ta. Somehow it is. He must be near. We should go.”

Arianne turned to the nonplussed Captain Gage. “Captain, I must flee the city and seek a safer haven.”

Water. Melchor wished for a drink more than freedom. His throat burned, inside and out. A blistered red imprint of Queen Arianne’s hand stung his neck every time he moved his head a fraction of an inch in any direction. The burning ejection of the Primal Water from his throat had nearly killed him. He couldn’t talk. Even breathing hurt, and he felt as weak as a sickly babe. But the thirst had risen to the top of his discomforts. His swollen tongue felt like raspy sand against the top of his parched mouth.

The Ember Guard had bound him to a bed inside a locked room of the Flame Cathedral and had neglected him ever since. He could guess why. The room had no window or light, but the thick stone walls couldn’t completely mask the blast of gunfire and sharp reports of cannon blasts. Like a tide they rose and fell, close then far, weak then strong.

In vain he pulled at the cords on his arms and legs. Wisely, they had tightly strung each of his appendages to a bed post, and the Ember Guard knew its knots. He could scarcely bend his elbows or his knees, making all his techniques for defeating a binding impossible to use. He hardly had the strength for an escape attempt, anyway.

Surely the Creetisians would inspect the Flame Cathedral first when they overran the city to see the great mystery of the Eternal Flame. They would find him. If they didn’t hurry, he thought they might find nothing more of him than a pile of dust. Water. He needed it. Never had he thought he could want something so much that it would override every other desire.

He ceased his struggle against his bonds, tired of agitating his raw ankles and wrists. Closing his eyes against the dark, he breathed in and out, seeking a refuge from the discomfort within his own mind. And he had much to consider. The Primal Forces were real. Creetisians were ignorant, though they would know their error soon enough. The citizens of Bittermarch didn’t realize what they had. So much power! They could use the Forces, harness them. If they wished it, they could overrun Creetis and unite the continent.

When the Primal Water had lodged inside him, it had healed every blow that had damaged him and could crush any man. The Voice, he now knew, was something else entirely, something murderous and persuasive, even to a man with hands as soaked in blood as his were. Arianne’s burning palms had banished it from him. He could feel it leave his body, and even in the excruciating rictus of being burned, he thought he saw something, some shadowy form beside him.

And with the thought of that strange entity something about the light in the room changed. Only a sliver of illumination leaked under the door to keep the room from total blackness, but even as dark as it was, something veiled the light just a shade more. And he felt it, the presence of the Voice, just as he had when the water was in him.

His eyes snapped open. They had long since adjusted to the dark, and he tilted his head up. Something stood on his chest just above his heart, something human in shape but without weight and without definition. His ropes creaked as he strained against them, but there was no escape.

The figure, barely as tall as his knee, hopped off his chest. He could feel more than see it next to his head. The Voice, now a whisper, hissed into his ear, but its words resonated through his body.

Do you yield?

“To what?” he rasped, voice but a sliver of its strength.

There was no answer at first, but it came to him intuitively as if his own heart were speaking to him. It wanted obedience. In exchange, it promised power. Had it promised Baron Olivanne Longford the same? And where was the Primal Water? His body hungered for it. He longed for what he became when he swelled with its power.

It is a simple choice, it whispered. I can help you escape. I can help you guide your countrymen and win this war.

Melchor tried to think, but it came with more difficultly than swallowing. The Shadow emanated malice, and one thing he knew for sure: bargains always had a price.

“What do you want from me?”

A home. Like the Primal Fire, I am a traveler in the hearts of all men, but as yet I have not claimed a servant. Olivanne Longford I would have claimed, but he is gone The time has come for me to choose. Your heart…it is ready. I already fill it. Now let me claim it, and I will give you whatever gift you desire, though in time you will learn that even desire itself is folly.

“What about Baron Longford? Wasn’t he your servant?” he asked, the words scraping painfully through his tortured throat.

I taught him, groomed him for the role I now offer to you. I had to shape the Baron’s heart, but yours has already been molded to my liking.

“Will you take my will?” he asked, wondering what limits there were to this deal he was being asked to make. The Primal Water had made no demands when it filled him; the Voice seemed full of them.

No. I will teach it. Choose now. Time grows short if you wish to help your countrymen.

Help his countrymen? Melchor furrowed his brows. Were they not firmly in control? Surely they outnumbered their enemies by at least four to one. But something was different about the muffled sounds filtering through the walls. The tenor of the battle had changed. Had the Bittermarchian armies somehow returned from the south? Impossible.

Choose.

Dealing with the dark figure felt wrong, but he knew that if he couldn’t escape and if the Creetisians failed to win the day, he was doomed. If the strange shadow could offer him power like what he had enjoyed with the Primal Water, then he would take it, take it and rise to whatever position he wanted. He was of strong mind and will, and would not let the odd shadow force him into anything he didn’t wish to do.

He was about to vocalize his assent, but the creature seemed to know. Without sound or pressure, it leapt back up onto his chest, standing just above his heart. And then it slowly sank into his body, sending a shiver across his skin as if a cold wind had blown in from the north. A shapeless scar, a blotch, bloomed spread across the left side of his chest as if someone had dripped ink on it.

Only after the dark being had disappeared inside him did Melchor understand the price of the agreement.

Joy, happiness, desire—all gone. So were anger, fear, and hate. But perhaps ‘gone’ was not the right word. Buried might be better, buried but still alive. What was left was nothing but the rational, the knowledge of what he had to do and why he had to do it, but at the same time, a nagging idea in his brain suggested that any endeavor was ultimately pointless.

Thank you, the Voice that sounded like his own said. What do you desire that I can help you acquire?

The Voice had tricked him. He desired nothing, now. He was a blank slate. If life was without joy or pain, and if it was void of meaningful pursuit, what was left? There was only one thing: survival.

“I need to escape. I need water,” he said, and the words came less painfully now. His body was still injured, but the pain was somehow dulled.

Then let me show you what it means to be the servant of the Primal Shadow. Pull against your bonds.

He did, and ever so slowly the ropes passed through his wrists and ankles like a dull knife through hard cheese. In the end, his limbs snapped free, still perfectly intact, and the ropes fell slack to the bed unbroken. The sensation was strange. He thought this should surprise or delight him, but he felt nothing at all. This was as it should be. This ability to escape bonds was expedient, nothing more, nothing less.

Now for the guard. Shadow is a part of you. It is not strength, but subtlety, not speed, but stealth. It is not endurance or resilience, but stretching and shrinking. See the crack under the door? Walk under it.

Mentally, he realized this should, at least, sound like madness or folly, but without hesitation he strode forward. With every step he got smaller. His oversized clothes shrunk with him, and small chunks of dirt and rock rose up around him like boulders, the light under the door brightening as it fell upon him.

“What of the light?” he asked.

Don’t fear the light. Light creates shadow, just as the joy in men’s hearts creates the pain of its loss. Only the Primal Flame itself can turn us aside.

He stepped under the door, staring at the guard’s boot heel. The immense hallway of the Flame Cathedral was truly engulfing at his present size. Servants lugged blood soaked soldiers into rooms for care, while others rushed about with water and food. Water!

Have care of the footfalls, the Primal Shadow cautioned. A careless step could crush you. There is much work to be done. We must find and kill the Queen and keep your countrymen from defeat.

“What is happening?” he whispered. At his size, it was little more than a squeak.

Get nourishment quickly, and then go outside. Then you will see.

Chapter 51

The fury of the mammoth herd was more than Davon could have hoped for, the rumble of their retreat like an unending thunder that felt at times as if it might sunder the very ground they traversed. Just the sight of him as a giant sabercat sent the beasts into an uncontrolled panic; when he roared, panic gave way to the unthinking instinct all animals possessed to flee from danger. It also created a disorderly mess, a rolling flood of tusk, hide, and churning legs that he struggled to channel in a useful direction.

Back and forth across the wide prairie west of Bellshire he had loped, inspiring stragglers to better efforts and forcing those that wanted to run off in any other direction than southeast to correct their course. He couldn’t keep them all in line, but if he could get half of them to Bellshire, he reckoned it would be enough. The more wooded areas north of the city complicated things, but he was nearly there, sending the main clump of the mighty herd right down the road that led to Bellshire’s northern gate.

It was early afternoon, now. The noise of the herd’s passing drowned out any sounds of the battle he hoped had not already been lost. The Creetisian army vastly outnumbered the force left behind to protect the city. Surely Arianne was well hidden, but if Ki and Ta had followed his instructions, they would have taken her north if the battle had tipped too far in the Creetisians’ favor.

While the road had made his herding task easier, it had doubled the dust, and he paused to ascend a nearby a hill to get above the obscuring cloud. And there it sat, Bellshire, a host of white tents around the northern side of the city. Nothing was burning inside the walls, though he had noted that the Creetisians seemed to want the towns and buildings intact, no doubt to use them after they occupied the territory.

From his vantage point, it appeared that the army was marshaling in a field between their tents and the outer walls of the city. The orderly rows of tents were like a large white flag on a sea of green, their soldiers little maggots worming their way toward Bellshire. Davon growled. It was time to give the Creetisians a nasty surprise they wouldn’t soon forget.

He bounded off the hill. Without his continual prodding, the tired mammoth herd had slowed, some animals foraging for leaves or sucking in water from the stream along the road and shooting it into their mouths from their long trunks. The time for refreshment and rest was over. He inhaled until his lungs felt fit to burst and let loose the longest, loudest roar he could muster, a roar he hoped would reach even the Creetisians’ ears.

And the mammoth bolted. Davon ran after them, letting loose with a deep bellow anytime they slackened. The leaves and branches of the trees along the lane trembled at their passing. Then the trees gave way to open plains, and at last, like a pent up flood, the herd burst into the enemy encampment.

The meaty legs of the careening mammoth pulverized everything—tents, fires, and wagons—as if they were no more than brittle playthings. The herd’s terrified trumpeting added to the din of their passing, and Davon’s roars mixed with the scream of fleeing and dying men to create a cacophony he was sure would unman even the bravest of Creetis’s soldiers.

To keep up the pressure, Davon crossed back and forth across the herd as they fanned out, roaring to drive them into a final frenzy. The Creetisian army had turned away from Bellshire, hastily forming their lines to face the bestial onslaught. The first line of guns fired, the bullets mostly serving to enrage the mammoth more. The second round fired, along with one of the cannons they had managed to reposition. One mammoth fell.

And then the sea of hairy brown hide collided with the sea of white uniforms, the Creetisians scattering in every direction only to be pounded, crushed, and broken. Calls for order were useless. Only pockets of men could form, but their attempts to blast the creatures only sent them careening in new directions to stomp on their allies.

It had worked.

Davon sprinted away again, turning any retreating mammoth back toward the Creetisians. Some of the enemy soldiers bolted for the city, taking their chances against the outmanned Bittermarchian soldiers, but the bulk of these were blasted down by the men on the walls.

Davon’s heart leapt within him, but almost at once his happiness was cut down by something else, a feeling of dread that blunted his joy at his success. The screaming and yelling of frightened and dying men remained the same, but to his keen vision it seemed as if there was some shadow, taller even than the mammoth, that loomed large for a moment and then disappeared, only to reappear somewhere else.

He wondered at the odd trick and the abysmal feeling that accompanied it, but was denied the luxury of analysis. Whatever the figure was, the mammoth must have sensed the terrifying feeling that had penetrated his heart, and they turned and ran north, straight for him. While the herd’s return journey did the Creetisians no favors, he had now become the victim of his own scheme.

He roared to turn them. Still they came. He roared louder. They flinched, eyes wild, but still they came. The shadow rose and fell all over the field, the mighty shape of a giant man, scaring the lathering herd senseless. Just the presence of the shadowy form turned Davon’s heart cold, and somehow he knew he had seen this shadow before; or perhaps not seen, but sensed it.

The terrorized herd thundered right for him. He turned and ran, shooting back up the road just ahead of the stomping feet behind him. The dark feeling eased the farther he retreated from the city, the mammoth relaxing their pace. Paw after paw he ran until they were far behind, and then he angled off the road and into the shadow of the woods where the mammoth would likely not follow. Exhausted, he slowed to a jog and then to a walk.

The fresh scent of oak and pine was a welcome relief from the smells of mammoth that had been a poor visitor for his sensitive nose for days. He turned toward a trickling stream where he stopped and drank his fill. What was the shadow that had turned the mammoth against him? But even more pressing, had the herd done enough damage to make the Creetisians abandon their designs or at least delay their advance enough for the armies sent south to return and finish them off?

As he swallowed another helping of water, a flapping bird landed on a rotted log that slanted into the water. It was a snow finch, the one he had recently carved for Ki. It flitted onto his head, chirped in his ear, and then flew to the east, perching on a branch as if waiting for him to follow.

Despite the summer heat, Arianne pulled her cloak about herself while she leaned against the outer wall of one Cinder Pipe tavern. It was crucial that no one, friend or foe, recognize her. The Creetisians might be fooled by the concealment of her face, but any Bittermarchian might guess that a mysterious woman traveling with Elaine Brighton, Ki, Captain Gage, and ten palace guards would likely be the Queen fleeing the city.

She imagined the disappointment her people would feel on learning of her abandonment would mirror her own. Leaving felt wrong and cowardly, but she had to agree with her advisors. The Creetisians would want to make an example of her, and her death would strike a demoralizing blow to the nation. As long as she was alive, she could rally her nation and take back what the Creetisians had won. Still, she wished they had the luxury of waiting until dark to keep the chance of discovery to a minimum.

Fortunately, Mr. Goodwin seemed to know a good deal about the back ways of the city that kept them from the more crowded areas until they came to northeastern edge of Bellshire, a section of the town that was largely abandoned due to its proximity to the fight. The area was little better than the Crooks, but Mr. Goodwin knew exactly where he was going.

Arianne peeked around the corner of the alley where they waited to see if he had made any progress. As it turned out, Mr. Goodwin also had a knack for opening locked doors. Now that his youthful transformation was complete, he was a handsome, dark-haired man, but no amount of youthful vitality could quite hide eyes or a tongue that seemed able to strip the skin off a man if he got cross.

“You’re in my light,” he growled at one of the palace guards that watched over him, pushing him a step back to let the sun’s rays fall on the lock into which he had inserted two small rods. “Curse that old Ben,” he muttered as he worked the tools. “He’s changed the lock again. I swear the man’s as paranoid as I am.”

Arianne pulled a frightened Elaine to her side and wrapped her arm around her shoulders. The poor girl from a comfortable life wasn’t quite ready for the upheavals of the past few days, and her eyes always seemed on the brink of tears. Arianne couldn’t blame her, but if her sister started crying, Arianne thought she might just join in.

“Why are we trying to get into a tavern?” Elaine asked.

“Mr. Goodwin says it will help us escape,” Arianne said, beginning to wonder the same thing. Davon had told her Mr. Goodwin had a fondness for strong drink, and while she hadn’t seen him drink much, she hoped he wasn’t wasting their time to stock up on spirits for the journey.

The lock popped and Mr. Goodwin stepped back and kicked the door open. “Tavern’s open after all,” he quipped and stepped back to let everyone enter, nodding his head and extending his arm in an exaggerated flourish that brought a grin to Elaine’s face. Arianne surmised he must have been a charmer in his younger days, which seemed to have blessedly returned to him.

She stepped inside and wrinkled her nose, Elaine’s grunt of disgust and Ki’s revolted expression a bit more demonstrative. The place stank of cheap beer, dirty sweat, and the backside of several animals put together. It was as low a place as she had ever seen. The tables were roughhewn and coarse, and stains of every size and hue covered the floor. Whoever had left the tavern before it closed had done so in a hurry, half-filled mugs still sitting atop the tables. Mr. Goodwin chuckled and closed the door behind them.

“It’s not much,” Mr. Goodwin said. “But it has what we need.”

“And what is that, exactly?” Arianne asked.

“A bolt hole,” he said. “Now, come to this side room. Captain Gage, leave half your men in the main room just in case we are discovered. They may follow us in a moment.”

“What’s a bolt hole?” Elaine asked.

“Well, Miss,” Mr. Goodwin said, “it is a secret exit for people who need to leave a place in a hurry without being detected. The late Lord High Sheriff knew where most of them were, but I don’t think he knew about this one.”

The side room Mr. Goodwin mentioned—which was really just a glorified booth—was separated from the common room by a dingy red curtain that Mr. Goodwin thrust aside. Straight-backed chairs covered in tooled leather surrounded a single round table that sported fewer dents and dings than the others in the establishment. Arianne wondered what the purpose of the booth was, besides a quick escape.

“Captain Gage,” Mr. Goodwin said, “if you would help me tip the table backwards.”

To Arianne’s surprise, the table, which was supported by a single column of wood in the middle, swung over silently on a hinge, bringing up a square piece of the floor with it. A breath of earthy air filled the room, and Mr. Goodwin called for Captain Gage and his soldiers to find and light all the lanterns they could.

Arianne peeked over the upturned table to find a hole descending into darkness, a rope ladder secured to one of the floorboards dropping down.

“It’s not as deep as it looks,” Mr. Goodwin said.

“You’ve been through this bolt hole?” Elaine asked.

Mr. Goodwin coughed. “Yes,” he said, looking away.

“What for?” Elaine pressed.

Ki smirked. “Yes. I should like to hear the tale.”

“We’ll leave that for later,” Arianne said, Mr. Goodwin looking relieved. “Where does the hole come out?”

“In a barn on the outskirts of town,” he answered, taking a lantern from a recently returned Captain Gage. “It’s at the foot of a hill and not far from the road that leads to Harrickshire. It’s far enough out that it should get us past their patrols.”

Ki stepped forward and glanced down the hole. “And the Elder Forest there will be our trail. I think I have just enough mint to scent everyone from the predators, and even if the Creetisians find us, they won’t wish to follow us inside.”

Arianne nodded, noting the nervous glances of the soldiers. They weren’t very excited about the prospect of traversing the dangerous Elder Wood in the dark, either. How had Davon lost his fear of the shadowy trees and predatory dangers? The Elder Wood at Harrickshire had thrilled her during the daytime, but passing through it at night would be another thing altogether.

In the end, the soldiers scrounged up four lanterns, and it was decided that Captain Gage and five soldiers would descend first, followed by Arianne and her party, ending with the remaining five soldiers who would close the bolt hole behind them.

It took a lot longer than Arianne expected. The coarse rope ladder bit into her palms, and no matter how secure her hands or her feet, should couldn’t shake the feeling that she would fall off at any moment. Ki and Mr. Goodwin descended as if they had practiced doing it their whole lives, but it took some coaxing to get Elaine down.

The tunnel itself was barely tall enough to stand in and only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time. Once the remaining soldiers were down and the bolt hole closed, they marched forward single file along the damp pathway in the light of several low lanterns.

Arianne could feel Elaine close behind her, and wondered if her sister felt the same discomfort in the confining dark. After they had walked for only a few minutes, Arianne felt like screaming and digging her way out. The cool air, musty smell, and cramped quarters had the feel of an old grave.

“How long does this go on, Mr. Goodwin?” Elaine asked.

“Not much longer, Miss,” he said, “though it is a good deal longer than most tunnels I’ve had the, um, opportunity to traverse.”

Not much longer seemed like an eternity, and by the time the lantern light fell on a narrow set of wooden steps, Arianne wanted to walk over everyone to get out first. At least it was steps instead of a rope ladder, she noted happily, though a couple of planks had gone missing and others were badly cracked.

Captain Gage and his five soldiers went up the squealing, popping stairs first, throwing open a trapdoor and cautiously sticking their heads up. But the barn where the tunnel ended was free of danger, and in scant minutes they were all standing in the modest edifice and squinting into the light.

Dust lay thick about the tools and the floor, the barn appearing to have had little use. Light streamed through cracks in the planks that formed the walls, while rays of sunshine slanted through holes in the crumbling roof. But there was something else—the sounds of battle, but with odd sounds mixed in with the regular rounds of rifle and cannon shot they had heard all day. It sounded like the trumpeting of mammoth.

“Milady,” Captain Gage said, “I will take a handful of men and scout about.”

“I will go too,” Ki said.

Captain Gage furrowed his thick, dark brows in consternation. “I would prefer—”

And then a roar broke through the air, a roar Arianne had heard before when she watched a massive sabercat burst onto the Drowning Bridge and knock the soldiers to the ground.

“Davon!” she exclaimed.

“Khodo Khim,” Ki said with a grin, and then she bolted out through the rickety door, leaving Captain Gage and his men behind. They left on her heels, and Arianne wrung her hands and paced the barn. Davon was here! How would he find her? Was he in danger?

As if reading her thoughts, Mr. Goodwin spoke up. “Baron Carver’s a sharp one, Your Grace. He’ll make it through, though you might not want to tell him about that little clause in the Queen’s will where he becomes king if he marries you.”

They waited for nearly a quarter of an hour, the sounds of the battle rising to a frenzied pitch and then softening. The screaming of the terrified mammoth faded, and the gunfire subsided to sporadic pops. In their place came the wailing, moaning, and yelling of injured, frightened men. Even if distant, it chilled her heart. Elaine interrupted her pacing by grabbing onto her hand and leaning against her.

The soldiers snapped alert at the sound of running feet, Arianne’s heart leaping into her throat, but it was Ki and Captain Gage and his men returning, eyes wide with wonder.

“It is strange,” Ki said, “but wonderful. I believe the Khodo Khim arranged a meeting between the Creetisians and an angry herd of mammoth. A trick he learned from Ta and me. The bird he carved for me has flown off toward the battle.”

Arianne smiled. Davon had come through after all. Maybe she might forgive him just a little bit for deserting her again, though she really did owe him a reprimand or two.

“Captain,” she said, “are the Creetisians done for? Can we go back?”

Captain Gage opened his mouth when the wooden snow finch dove in through the door and alighted on Ki’s shoulder. A few moments later, Davon walked through the door, scruffy looking and laboring.

Arianne ran and embraced him.

“You can’t go back, my love,” he said in answer to her question. “Not yet.”

She held him for many moments, and when she pulled away, her cheeks were wet. She wiped them with her sleeve.

“Why not?” she asked.

“They have been dealt a blow, but there is something dark at work here,” he explained. “I’ll tell you more along the way, but we need to get moving. Thank you, Ki, for getting her this far.”

Ki nodded. “Let’s get scented, and then I will scout ahead, Brown Man.”

Chapter 52

Melchor left the Creetisian Field Commanders’ hastily re-erected tent just as the orange-tinted sun dipped below the hazy horizon. It had taken him nearly ten minutes to convince the sentries that he was a member of the Fist, and another hour to keep the Creetisian Military Committee from packing up and retreating.

Of course, he didn’t teach them that the Primal Forces were real—not yet. The mammoth herd he had explained away as a Bittermarchian trick. His own shadow antics to get rid of the beasts he had to feign ignorance of having even seen.

Most importantly, however, he had argued that while they had lost the day, the war was not over. They still had a sufficient force of soldiers to accomplish their purpose, even if the task was now more difficult. During the night they would secrete a large force in the forest northwest of the city. The remaining Creetisian forces would line up as if for battle, but retreat quickly and bait the Bittermarchians out of Bellshire. Once the Bittermarchians swarmed after them, the hidden army would flank them and commandeer their own fortifications. If successful, the Creetisians would likely have several days inside the city to prepare and resupply before the southern armies returned.

But there was work to be done before the sun rose. After resupplying with weapons and ammunition, Melchor passed the sentries around the command tent and stepped around another crushed body on his way to inspect what was left of the Creetisian encampment. It looked like a mammoth had stepped square on the dead soldier’s chest, snapping in two the rifle he had held. Melchor had long grown indifferent to corpses and gore, but it seemed odd that the devastation around him would arouse no feeling whatsoever, not anger, not disgust, not even surprise. Such was the power of the Shadow that housed within him.

It had taken a sheer force of will to restore order to the bewildered, demoralized army. The air still hung thick with dust, smoke, and piteous moaning, and the stench of death assaulted his every intake of breath. But even the mounds of bloodied, broken bodies couldn’t penetrate the utter deadness of his heart.

He didn’t even feel the proper rage for the perpetrator of the devastation: Davon Carver. The Shadow had revealed the identity of the massive sabercat. Oddly, he missed the feeling of anger he should have felt. He missed the drive and focus the feeling gave him. Instead, there was just a list of what he had to do. Kill Davon Carver to secure the safety of the army, and kill Arianne Hightower to demoralize the Bittermarchians.

The lovely Arianne Hightower.

The thought of her struck an odd chord of emotion within him, the first since the Shadow had taken him for its own. When the Primal Water had suffused him and the Shadow was nothing more than a voice, it had promised to help him kill the Queen in exchange for his aid in extinguishing the Primal Fire. As this aligned with his goals and those of his nation, he had agreed.

But when he had knelt face to the fire, peering into the depths of the mystical Eternal Flame, the apathy that had been trained into him by his Fist commanders in Creetis had wavered. He had assassinated and tortured countless people with hardly a second thought. He had no close relations—the first assignment of any within the Fist was to assassinate any to whom they had strong ties. And he had done it, coldly and dispassionately.

But there, in front of the Eternal Flame, he had felt that odd sentimentality that he thought no longer a part of his nature. He had remembered the soft embrace of his flaxen-haired mother after he had skinned his knee tripping over their gray cat, a memory he would have never recalled on his own. The wonderment that had struck him upon first hiking the eastern slopes of Ice Fire Mountains returned to his heart with redoubled force. And of all things, the stray thought of Lady Hightower’s exquisite beauty had set him aflame with a passion and desire he had long suppressed and considered the realm of young fools.

He had quashed these thoughts. He had tried to let the Primal Water loose upon its natural opposite, but Lady Hightower had burned it out of him, and the Shadow had fled from her ignited hands. She had banished the Shadow, had torn it out of the Primal Water with hardly any effort. It could not abide her light and her heat.

The Primal Fire was the superior of the Primal Shadow.

And at that thought some feeling jabbed at his heart. What was it?

I sense a hope within you, the Shadow said, voice castigating. Just because your army isn’t completely annihilated is no cause for joy. Focus on what must be done.

He unstoppered the waterskin he had confiscated from a corpse and drank deeply. By the time he had finished his meetings with the Field Commanders, his raw, burned throat felt ill used despite the Shadow’s deadening effect on the pain. The lady’s burned handprint on his neck was uncomfortable beneath the collar of his shirt, but even as injured as he was, the Shadow’s presence had freed him from exhaustion.

You must find the Queen, it commanded. I can help you get into the city. The Primal Water is in there somewhere, as well. If you can absorb it while I am with you, you will be formidable indeed.

Shouldn’t he feel elated at the prospect of such power? He didn’t. Gathering as much capability as he could was simply the logical thing to do.

How do we find her? Melchor asked. She will be in hiding.

One of my gifts is Fear Finding. I have roots and seeds in the dark soil of every heart. If you know what Arianne fears most, then I can sense her and lead you to her.

Melchor thought for a moment. What would a young Queen faced with war fear most? The loss of her country? The loss of her own life? Perhaps she feared for Baron Carver, for it seemed clear now that the two cared for each other. Another strange feeling pricked his heart. He shoved it down and tried to put himself in her shoes, and the answer came to him as clear as day: failure. Or even more specifically, the shame that Bittermarch had fallen to its foes and she had lost it in her weakness.

He relayed his thoughts to the Shadow, and in moments he felt a connection, an odd tendril uncoiling from his heart growing outward. But it didn’t stretch to the city, it stretched into the wilderness to the northeast. Queen Arianne Hightower had quit Bellshire. Wise? Yes. But head north? The choice was odd. Would she not instead flee south toward her army hastening to return home?

But then came the connection, as if the tendril had struck into soil and knew what grew there and who did the gardening. It was indeed Arianne. Finding her would be easier than he thought. But again, the thought of her face stoked some fleeting fire in his heart that he couldn’t quite identify.

Do not gloat in your power, the Shadow chastised. We must hurry before she escapes our grasp.

Melchor focused his mind on the task at hand and angled his way around the massive corpse of one of the mammoths that the Creetisians had managed to fell. He walked toward the edges of the encampment where the destruction was relatively light. While he doubted the Queen had a large guard around her for a stealthy trip north, he would gather soldiers to deal with whatever protection she had. How many would he need?

In the end, he settled on fifty, and while none of the soldiers he had picked appeared enthusiastic about marching off into the countryside at the onset of evening, they all knew better than to cross a member of the Fist. Before the quarter moon had risen above the tips of the Ice Fire Mountains they set off, finding the road toward Harrickshire an hour later.

While Melchor could see without difficulty, he had to allow his nearly blinded companions lanterns so they could move with enough speed to overtake their quarry. He could sense Arianne moving slowly ahead of them. Another two hours and they would catch them. If they could keep pace, he would have the Lady Hightower and maybe even Davon Carver in his sights well before midnight.

Again the nagging feeling when he thought of her. The Shadow thought it gloating or some hope for his army, but it was something else. It was something in his soul, his heart. Something that rebelled against the utter apathy the Shadow had used to displace every feeling.

Then the ephemeral feeling became a nagging idea, and while he hiked into the forest, the nagging idea became a risky plan.

Davon stumbled over a root and caught himself before he fell, stirring up a ruckus among the dried leaves and snapping branches. Weariness had settled into his bones, the stirring dark of the Elder Wood calling for him to rest from days of running and toil.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to get Arianne far enough away from the city that no one could track and find her. His unsettled mind couldn’t stop reliving the harrowing memory of the shadow form that had driven the mammoth away. How far would Arianne need to go to be safe from such a thing? He only had his fear by which to gauge the distance, but whatever he felt, they would have to stop soon. He wasn’t the only one on the verge of falling face first to the forest floor.

He chanced a glance behind him. While his vision was good enough to see, the rest of his party were forced to make their way double file by the light of three hunks of glowing blue moss. Even Ki’s lively gait had dwindled to little better than a shuffle, and Arianne leaned heavily on her sister, or perhaps it was the other way round. The soldiers fared best, but it had been a long day everyone.

After a few more minutes of plodding, he stopped. A trio of Elder Oak formed a broad clearing next to a noisy stream that splashed against granite rocks and dead fall. The water would cover the noise of their camp and provide them refreshment, but he would need to find a way to cross the stream before he could rest.

The group caught up to him and stopped. “We’ll rest here,” he said, earning a chorus of gratitude in return.

“A very king-like decision,” Mr. Goodwin quipped. Davon still couldn’t get used to the man’s youthful appearance, but he would rip his limbs off if he didn’t quit teasing him about Arianne’s very unfortunate revelation about the Queen’s will. What was Filippa thinking? She knew what his reputation was. Even more, he was sure she knew how much he hated politics.

Bitterly, he realized that Filippa had carefully calculated that his love for Arianne would outweigh his objections, and as the exhausted Lady Hightower walked over and took his arm, he knew the dead Queen was right. How could he ever give her up? But how could he lead a nation of people that thought him the worst sort of noble imaginable?

“I feel like such a coward,” Arianne said. “It’s been nagging me for hours. I should be back in the city. I know staying alive is the right thing to do, but it feels wrong.”

He slipped his arm around her waist. It still felt strange to take such a liberty, the newness of her touch exhilarating.

“It may feel wrong to you,” he said, “but it feels right to me. I want you as far away from guns and cannons as I can get you.”

“Your majesty?” Mr. Goodwin said.

“Yes?” Arianne answered.

“I meant Baron Carver,” Mr. Goodwin returned.

Davon glowered at him, but Arianne’s smile persuaded him not to be too angry. If Mr. Goodwin’s annoying humor could keep her spirits up, then so be it.

“What is it, Mr. Goodwin?” he asked.

“I was wondering if we might light a small fire,” he said. “It is a bit cold and will get colder.”

“No,” Davon answered. “We would be too easy to find. Have everyone huddle together. I’ve got to scout around to find a way across this stream. I’ll return shortly.”

“Well,” Mr. Goodwin said, “if we’re to cram together like fish in the market, at least we all smell of mint.”

Mr. Goodwin returned to Elaine’s side. The odd man had watched over her for the entire journey, and Davon wondered at his devotion to Arianne’s sister. It was clear that something about her had struck him, and Davon reminded himself to ask about it later.

“You won’t be too long, will you?” Arianne said, squeezing his hand.

“I don’t think so,” he answered. “There’s almost always an obliging branch that has fallen across the water or a nice set of stones. I’ll be back before you know it. Ki!”

The Aua’Catan woman walked over, spear in hand and the carved snow finch perched on her shoulder.

“This is a good spot, Brown Man,” she said, “but we are trapped against the stream.”

“I know,” he said, “I am going to find a way over. Stay with the Lady Hightower, please, until I return.”

She nodded, and Davon embraced Arianne again before transforming into a sabercat and padding away upstream. They had traveled close to the base of the Ice Fire Mountains on purpose. While the way was more difficult, it was littered with massive red granite boulders and deadfall that provided a hundred places to hide.

The weak light of the crescent moon slanted downward through irregular breaks in the canopy, and as he followed the stream upward, birds and large animals scurried away unseen in the undergrowth. Dire wolves and short-faced bear lived in the woods, but he felt confident that one roar from his mighty throat would send them running should the need arise.

About a half a mile up he found what he wanted, a desiccated Elder Oak that had cracked in half and fallen over the fern-lined stream, and to his surprise, he saw that the natural bridge had been used to cross the stream before. By the distinct imprint of hide covered feet on the soft mud at the edge of the water, the tracks were from Aua’Catan feet in soft leather boots. The North People traveled in Bittermarch more that he had thought.

Satisfied, he reversed his course to head back to camp when his sensitive nose picked up on a scent that was out of place. It was to the north of them and distant, and he couldn’t quite put together what it was. Moss? Blood? Decay? The moss was certainly everywhere. He stopped for a moment to listen and smell, attuning his ears and sucking in a lungful of air through his nose.

The scent seemed to fade, but another smell drifted his way from the direction of their camp: unwashed and unscented bodies. Creetisian soldiers, he was sure of it. But how had they found them? It was impossible! Casting aside his exhaustion, he roared into the night and sprang away.

Chapter 53

Melchor had ordered his Creetisian company of soldiers to shutter their lanterns and wait behind a tumble of boulders that had the appearance of having tumbled down a mild slope before slamming into the mighty Elder trees. To his fearful countrymen, the darkness of the Elder Wood was a monster all its own, something to be feared because of what it conjured in the imagination. And in the Elder Wood, the imagination wasn’t always wrong, so he couldn’t blame them for the slight tremor of their hands and their nervous glances.

Even before the Primal Shadow had taken him, Melchor had learned to overcome such fears. But now, the uncanny ability the Shadow had gifted him to move soundlessly and without scent in the blackness turned the woods into a place of power and opportunity for him. When his foot alighted upon a crisp leaf or branch, it crumbled or snapped without the slightest noise, and that, in combination with his ability to shrink and grow, had allowed him his current advantageous position one hundred feet from the Queen’s camp.

Stretched out on his belly behind a root, he could spy them through a gap in two trees. A group of Bittermarchians huddled together at the base of an Elder Oak, faces worn. There were soldiers stationed at intervals, and he was sure he couldn’t see them all. From time to time, the Aua’Catan woman he had smashed in the Flame Cathedral crossed between the trees holding her quartz-tipped spear. He hadn’t hit her hard enough, apparently; the North People were a tough lot.

But Baron Carver was absent. Had he ever been with the group, or was he prowling around somewhere in the form of the huge sabercat? It didn’t matter, for his prize was in sight. The Queen sat in the middle of the mass of people, complicating his shot. Her luxurious hair was a bit limp now, but unmistakable next to the blonde locks of her younger sister. He needed to get the Lady Hightower apart from the rest so his shot could be precise. The first shot was for her, and when it rang out, his fifty soldiers were to assault the rest of the party.

He breathed out, finding patience an easy virtue since the Shadow had smothered his desire. If everything was ultimately pointless, then it mattered little if he took his shot sooner, later, or at all. But this needed to happen. The opportunity to enact his plan would come, and he would not rush it. This task he would accomplish in a very particular way, and as the Shadow would no doubt agree, emotion would only endanger success.

But even as he kept his eye on Arianne Hightower, her well-appointed form barely more than a shadow, he could feel that youthful stirring within him that had set him on his present course. He controlled it. The Shadow mustn’t guess his purpose. He kept his sight lined up on her, thankful he had acquired one of the quality Bittermarchian rifles rather than the poor offerings of his own nation.

And then a deafening roar broke through the darkness of the Elder Wood like an angry thunder. Even the leaves seemed to tremble, though it might have been the sudden evacuation of everything with legs or wings from every nearby tree. He could only imagine the streams of urine running down the legs of his countrymen behind the boulders. Would the fear of the wrath of a member of the Fist outweigh their fear of some animal in the dark?

But Melchor knew that the roar was not the work of any ordinary animal. Baron Carver was here, and it was likely he knew that someone had come for the Queen. The time for action had come.

Melchor reaffixed his gaze down the sights of the rifle. An unintended but fortuitous side effect of the roar was that everyone in the Bittermarchian party had stood and was milling about, including the Queen. Owing to the skirts of her dress, he couldn’t tell precisely where her legs were, but he would take the chance. He pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through the dress and the Queen fell to the ground, wincing and holding her leg.

Why did you not kill her? the Shadow asked.

“I want her alive,” he answered. “If we can execute her in front of the walls of Bellshire, then it is almost assured that the Bittermarchians will leave their fortifications and attack us. It will also bolster the morale of our men and crush theirs.”

The Primal Shadow seemed content with the explanation, and Melchor reloaded. Behind him, he could hear the Creetisian soldiers slinking out of their hiding places and navigating cautiously forward as the Bittermarchian guard took pot shots in the dark, bullets aimed at educated guesses tearing through the leaves.

Melchor shot down two of the Queen’s guards as another roar tore through the forest. His men stopped and dropped to a knee. Melchor shook his head. He would need to inspire them to better efforts. Someone was pulling the Queen away from the conflict, just as he intended. First he would need to bolster his men, then he would find Lady Arianne Hightower.

Pain pulsed through Arianne’s leg with every beat of her heart. She put her hand down along her left thigh and felt wetness there along with the hole in the skirt of her dress. All thought had fled after the booming shot, but Davon’s roar had cleared her head enough to move. Soldiers readied weapons and took up position behind logs, rocks and trees, a frantic Captain Gage kneeling in front of her, his rifle pointed into the inscrutable dark.

Ki grabbed her under the shoulder and hauled her up. “The shot came from the west. Behind the tree, Arianne. Now.”

Walking felt like fire was searing her leg with every step and she stumbled. Mr. Goodwin was just ahead shoving Elaine behind the same tree, and after she was settled, he returned to take Arianne’s other arm. With Ki and Mr. Goodwin at her side, Arianne circled the tree in short order and sat next to her sister.

“How bad is it?” Mr. Goodwin asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered.

Ki fished her blue moss out of her bag and handed it to Mr. Goodwin. “Hold it close to the wound.”

Ki ripped the dress open where the bullet had torn it and peered at the damaged thigh. “It’s not deep. I’ll use a slice of your dress to bind it with some salve I have for healing. It won’t help the pain.”

Arianne sucked air. “You just enjoy cutting up my dresses,” she said, teeth clenched.

Ki smiled and set to work, and Elaine grabbed Arianne’s hand. “It’ll be all right, Arianne,” she soothed. “Won’t it, Mr. Goodwin?”

Mr. Goodwin grinned soothingly and squeezed Elaine’s arm. “It will, Miss. It will.”

Somewhere on the other side of the tree, the crush of leaves and branches evidenced that many men now advanced on their position, though at a slow pace. Davon jogged up just as Ki yanked the knot of her bandage tight, and Arianne writhed with the new pain. He knelt and took her hand.

“It’s not bad,” she said upon seeing his stricken face.

And then the pounding of gun shots utterly destroyed any peace left in the forest. Arianne hunched instinctively. It sounded like a hundred bullets whizzed about them popping into the bark of trees, thudding into the ground, and ripping through leaves.

“There’s at least thirty of those Creetisian rats out there,” Captain Gage reported, leaning around the tree. “Probably more. And they’ve got lanterns. They will pay for that.”

Arianne used Davon’s grip to come to her feet, the initial shock of her injury fading. “Do we run?” she asked, testing her weight on her injured leg. It hurt, but she could manage.

Davon released her hand and unlimbered his rifle. “We have an advantageous position here, and I think we can finish them. You, Elaine, and Mr. Goodwin need to move. Ki, there is a log across the stream about a half mile up. It looks like one the Aua’Catan have used before. Take this group up and wait for me.”

“Be careful, Davon,” Arianne said, noting the weariness in his eyes. She wondered how much he had rested or if he were hurt and wouldn’t admit it. He was stubborn enough for anything.

He kissed her forehead, and then he and Captain Gage circled the tree, and the shooting began in earnest from both sides.

Ki grabbed Arianne’s arm and draped it over her shoulder. “Mr. Goodwin, escort Elaine and follow us. Give me the moss back. We’ll need to go without its light until the forest can hide it.”

They pushed east as Davon had instructed, but her wounded leg and the ensnaring sticks and plants turned a half mile walk into an anemic crawl in the dark. After a few minutes, Arianne was able to limp on without assistance. Mr. Goodwin swore under his breath more than once as branches and rocks tripped him up, Elaine chastising him each time for his foul language. The gunfire behind them continued nearly unabated, but more frequently the agonized yell of a struck victim added to the cacophony.

And then Davon let loose a roar that set grown men to screaming like children.

Mr. Goodwin chuckled. “I’m starting to enjoy that sound.”

Arianne liked it, but from a distance. She chanced a look back toward the clearing and paid for it by stubbing the shin of her injured leg on a granite rock in front of her. One of Mr. Goodwin’s swear words leapt to mind, and she used a sharp intake and exhale of breath to cover the sound of it.

The farther they went, the more the gurgling of the stream veiled the sounds of the gunfight behind them, settling raw nerves but compounding the worry.

“There it is,” Ki said.

Arianne peered into the gloom. A pale ray of moonlight breaking through the canopy revealed where a half-blasted tree had fallen across the stream. A veritable garden of ferns spread thick along the stream bed interspersed with sizable hunks of granite. It was beautiful but haunting in the dimness, and they pressed toward it.

“We won’t cross until Davon or danger comes,” Ki said. “I think I—”

A thud behind Arianne startled her, but not as much as Mr. Goodwin pitching forward and falling face down into the ferns. Elaine yelped and Arianne spun, finding a man behind her sister, his pistol pressing into the hair of Elaine’s head and his other arm clenched around her shoulders. The light from Ki’s moss bloomed, casting a pale blue glow on the face of her sister’s assailant.

Melchor Raines.

Maybe it was a trick of the moss’s odd light, but his face seemed slack, his gaze lifeless, as if he were asleep with his eyes open.

“Throw the spear away, north woman,” Melchor said evenly, voice as colorless as his face. “Throw it away or I kill the girl. Do it now.”

Ki hesitated a moment, and then tossed the spear toward the tree trunk bridge where it thunked into the wood.

Arianne raised her hands. “It’s me you want, Mr. Raines,” she said, stepping forward slowly. “Let her go.”

Now his face twitched, the eyes that were so dead moments before spasming back and forth as if he were in a dream. Even his limbs trembled, and Arianne feared his finger might accidentally pull the trigger. She took another step forward and he clenched his teeth, eyes suddenly unblinking, wide, and firmly on hers.

“You burned it out of me once,” he said haltingly as if fighting for every word. “Do it again now.”

“Do not go near him,” Ki warned stepping forward with her.

“Stay back, north woman!” Melchor hissed, Elaine flinching as he moved the gun and leveled the barrel at Ki. “Just Lady Hightower.”

Another convulsion racked his body and he firmed himself with effort. Even in the weak light of the moss, Arianne could see a rivulet of sweat drip off of his strong jaw. “Burn it out.”

“Let her go and I’ll do it,” Arianne countered. She could guess what he struggled against. She could sense that dark feeling in her heart as she approached him. It was that same shadow that had popped out of him in the Flame Cathedral, only now its influence upon the man seemed worse, like an infection starting to fester.

He shoved Elaine to the side, but kept his gun pointed at her blonde head. Another gun was tucked in his belt, a rifle slung across his back. He extended his other, quivering hand. “Hurry.”

As she had in the Flame Cathedral, Arianne raised her palms, a warm fire building upon them, its glow reflecting in Melchor’s strained eyes. She reached out and grabbed his exposed wrist and flared the fire of her hands.

He screamed, and the shadow she had seen before leapt from his chest and fell among the ferns at their feet. She extinguished the fire and immediately his face relaxed and his tremors ceased.

His eyes, hard but his own, held hers. “Thank you, Lady—”

The shadow leapt upon him again, sinking into his body on the left side of his chest. He convulsed and fell to his knees. Arianne stepped back, and sensing an opportunity, signaled to Elaine to come to her. But the moment her sister put one foot forward, Melchor’s face focused and his gun snapped up, pointed at Elaine’s head.

“Don’t,” he growled. “Again, Lady Hightower. Burn it out.” With his free hand he ripped open his shirt, buttons popping away, revealing the mark of the Primal Water on his chest along with something else, something like a blotch, a stain. The mark of the Shadow. The Primal Shadow was real, no matter what the Aua’Catan thought.

“Burn it. Now.” He pointed to the blotch on his chest.

She approached cautiously and knelt in front of him. Now she was trembling along with him. What covenant had he made with this dark power? She understood what he wanted her to do, what he hoped would happen, but would it work? She placed her right hand on the odd blotch and pushed fire into her palm. Grimacing, he placed his hand on top of hers, pushing it onto his chest. The smell of burning flesh and his cry of agony filled the clearing, and it felt to Arianne almost as if her hand was sinking inside his flesh.

The Shadow burst forth from his body again, silently sinking into the ferns beside them. Melchor’s body relaxed. Arianne removed her hand from his seared flesh, the burned brand of her palm completely obscuring the blotch that had been there before. Melchor seemed almost insensate, eyes closed and head slumping to his chest. She ripped the pistol out of his hand and stood, grabbing Elaine’s arm and pulling her away from the Creetisian spy. A low chuckle struggled from his lips, building into a laugh of joy tinged with madness.

“Arianne,” Ki said.

Arianne turned toward her, finding Ki pointing toward the fallen tree across the water. There, next to Ki’s discarded spear, was the short figure of the Shadow. Though it had no face, she could sense its gaze upon them, the sickening feeling of wrongness washing over her like a cold draft from a window someone forgot to shut.

“Keep an eye on it, Ki,” she said.

When she turned back to Mr. Raines, he had stood, legs wobbly, but he had pulled his other gun from his belt and pointed it at her. She chastised herself for not taking it, too. Unfortunately, the pistol she had commandeered from him she held down at her side, and she knew he could kill her well before she could snap it up.

“Again I thank you,” he said, voice raspy, barrel pointed between her eyes.

Arianne swallowed hard. This was the end for her, she knew it. Melchor was a member of the Fist, insanely loyal and utterly cruel. If his mission was to assassinate her, he would do it. Ki moved in front of her, shielding her from Melchor’s gun, her arms outstretched.

“You know,” he said, taking a step forward and craning his head around Ki to see her, “when I read the Queen’s will and discovered that you were her chosen successor, I couldn’t believe it. I thought you too soft, but I see that you have some iron, after all.”

Arianne regarded the hardened man, trying to divine his purpose. Could he be so callous as to kill her after she had freed him from the Shadow, or did he want her alive? His eyes burned with purpose, but he wasn’t settled. Something still churned in his mind, some decision he hadn’t quite made. She needed to stall him. The shooting in the distance had nearly evaporated, and Davon still roared.

“Just leave us be,” Arianne said. “You can just walk away—”

“Out of the way, north woman,” Melchor ordered, taking another step closer and pointing the gun at Elaine. “Or I start shooting.”

Ki didn’t budge.

“Step aside, Ki,” Arianne said, tapping the woman’s leg with the gun. “It will be all right.”

Ki nodded, and as she moved to the right, the snow finch carving leapt from her shoulder right at Melchor’s face. Arianne raised the gun and fired. Distracted by the bird, Melchor didn’t stand a chance. The bullet took the awful man in the belly, a red stain blooming on his shirt. Eyes wide, he staggered back, but didn’t fall. He raised his gun, Arianne expecting immediate death. But he hesitated, a smile coming to his lips. Ki stepped in front of her again, and again Melchor pointed the gun at Elaine.

“Move,” he ordered. “I want to look her in the eyes.”

“No,” Ki said.

A rustling in the bushes diverted their attention. Mr. Goodwin struggled to his feet just behind Melchor, a thick trail of blood drying on the side of his face. The Creetisian pointed the gun at him for a moment, but Mr. Goodwin skirted him, coming to stand in front of Elaine to shield her from the gun.

Melchor probed the wound in his belly, looked up, and then dropped his gun. Hands raised, he knelt on the ground.

“I make you a bargain, Lady Hightower,” he said. “Cauterize the wound and I will tell you how the Creetisians plan to overthrow Bellshire tomorrow.”

“You are a liar,” she said, searching his intense, gray eyes.

“Not about this, Lady Hightower,” he countered. “I give you my word. Is that what you say in Bittermarch?”

“Your word means nothing,” she said.

He shrugged. “If your nation means anything to you, you should hear what I have to say. Cauterize the wound.”

“Let him die,” Ki said. “I haven’t read him, but I know filth such as this without having to try.”

Arianne weighed the options. Melchor was growing pale. She could not trust the man, but if he were telling the truth, it would cost her little to hear what he had to say.

“Very well,” she said. “Ki, Mr. Goodwin, come with me. On your back, Mr. Raines.”

He sank back into the ferns, and Arianne approached and knelt next to him. Ki held the moss in her left hand and from her belt pulled a bone dagger much like Davon’s, pressing it to Melchor’s throat. Mr. Goodwin sat on the Creetisian’s legs, his own knife at the ready.

It took a moment for Arianne to locate the source of the wound within all the blood. Melchor just watched her, face set. He nodded and she pressed her burning palm onto the bullet wound. Eyes crammed closed, he gritted his teeth. The rancid smell of burning blood and flesh wrinkled her nose again. Only a moment, and it was done.

Melchor relaxed, but in a flash his left arm grabbed Ki’s wrist and he twisted. She yelped in pain, and somehow he had the dagger. His other hand grabbed the front of Arianne’s dress and he pulled her down, knife tip pressed against her neck.

“Back off,” he said. “Back off and I won’t kill her. What I have to say is for her alone.”

Ki and Mr. Goodwin stood stock still.

“Step back,” she ordered. “Stand with Elaine.”

Slowly they retreated and Arianne turned to find Melchor staring at her with an odd smile.

“Now listen,” he said. “A force of Creetisian soldiers is hiding behind a hill to the northeast of Bellshire. The remaining Creetisian force will attack the gates and then retreat. If your men open the gates to attack what they think is a fleeing, weakened force, the hidden regiment will slaughter them and pour into the city. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, every swallow reminding her of the knife at her throat. He seemed sincere with his information, but why would he divulge it to her?

He pulled her closer. “This is important. You are the Queen of a nation full of traitors, even among those you call friends and family. I doubt you know the half of the treachery that your peers have committed or what they’ll do when this war is over. Let me live and you can have my information and my skills to aid you.”

His knife flashed. At first Arianne thought she was done for. When he released her, she fell back, finding that he had only sliced away a lock of her hair, which he clutched in his right hand. Dumbfounded, she scrambled back into the welcoming arms of Elaine and Ki, who steadied her. With a groan Melchor struggled to his knees, and on seeing him fully revealed in the weak light, Arianne doubted her ministrations had done any good. His complexion seemed more hollow and pale than it had just moments before.

“What say you, Queen of Bittermarch?” he asked with a weak, gravelly voice. “Are you ready to face your traitorous people alone, or could you make use of a man like me?”

“I won’t be alone.”

He laughed, blood spittle flecking his lips. “You think Baron Carver can guide you? If you want to survive the first year of your reign, you’ll need something more than a man of principle. You’ll need a monster, a monster loyal to you. Let me help you.”

Arianne was no fool. How could she employ a man of such wanton and callous cruelty? She could never be sure of his loyalty. And something within her, some instinct, told her that his motives had little to do with helping Bittermarch. She opened her mouth to say as much when the befouling feelings of the Primal Shadow seeped into her heart. But there was something else, an odor that reminded her of the stale, disused room at Frostbourne where Asper Carver’s corpse had moldered.

“Arianne!” Ki said.

Arianne turned, following Ki’s gaze back to the fallen tree across the stream. The Primal Shadow still stood there, but behind it was something else, a bear of enormous proportions. She froze, her mind not wanting to believe her eyes.

A chuffing roar rumbled deep within the bear’s throat, and it lumbered forward, wood whining under the weight of its heavy tread.

Chapter 54

Davon roared one last time and transformed back into his human self before crouching behind a chunk of granite near the camp they defended. The Creetisian bullet had penetrated deep into his meaty sabercat ribcage. As a giant predator he was formidable and intimidating, but his size and white fur made him an easy mark, even in the dark. Some observant Creetisian soldier had scraped up enough grit to overcome his fear of the bellowing roars and slashing claws and put a bullet in the one thing that had kept him and his comrades from overrunning the camp.

Curse the luck. Davon probed the wound on the left side of his chest, fingers coming back slick with blood. A rib bone had been cracked for sure, and he hoped that his difficulty breathing stemmed from that injury and not any damage to his lung. As yet, the Creetisians had not advanced far, but Davon knew that without the giant sabercat ripping apart anyone that got too close, it was only a matter of time before the Creetisians rushed forward in force. As yet, the gunfire had popped sporadically in the night, sometimes heavy, sometimes slow. It was nearly non-existent, now. They were preparing for a coordinated attack.

Keeping low and holding his side, Davon jogged back toward a knot of Bittermarchian soldiers fanned out around the folds and mounding roots of an Elder Oak. The pain of movement nearly undid him. Every fall of his right foot was agony, and every fall of his left murder. When he found Captain Gage in a large fold to the left of the tree, Davon slumped against the trunk and slid down.

“I killed nine,” Davon reported. “There are at least thirty more out there. How many have we lost?”

“Two dead and three wounded,” Captain Gage said before firing off another shot. “That leaves five of us and you. We can’t hold them. You’d best get the Queen free of here. We’ll hold them off for as long as we can. It won’t be long. Are you well?”

Davon grimaced. He wouldn’t make it far. “No. I can still shoot, but I can’t travel like this. I will stay and hold them off. You take Arianne north. Ki will guide you.”

The Captain reloaded. “Are you sure? She won’t like leaving you.”

“And I don’t like being left, but there’s no other way. Ki will help convince her. Go. She’s a half-mile up the stream.”

Captain Gage nodded, took one last shot into the dark, and scurried away into the night.

Davon unlimbered his rifle and lay on his belly, trying to find some way to position himself that wouldn’t hurt so badly. Standing was too painful. But as he shoved a bullet into his breech loader, a symbol, that of the Eternal Flame, appeared on the stock of the rifle. It was a ghostly image overlaid upon the wood, and in a moment the intuition surged into his mind. This was a template, a guide to follow.

He slipped his hand into his carving bag and grasped the handle of his wooden carving knife. The symbol of Eternal Flame on the knife’s handle glowed amber. As he lifted it out, a bullet hit the bark of the root he hid behind, spitting wood into the air. They had spotted him.

With a bodily scoot to the right so painful that it nearly blacked him out, he retreated farther behind the tree proper. With fluid movements he etched the symbol into the stock, the pine-wood blade cutting easily into the harder wood of the stock. The moment he completed the design, the symbol glowed with the color of fire.

What did it mean?

“Advance!”

Thirty yards ahead in the dark, other Creetisian voices took up the order, and the forest came alive with the sounds of cautious but purposeful marching.

Davon turned to his companions near the tree, who were staring at his rifle rather than the forest. “Hold your ground for as long as you can,” he wheezed. Breathing was hard. It hurt.

Leaning around the tree, he spotted the Creetisian line marching forward through the undergrowth and tumbles of granite stone. They weren’t firing, and Davon guessed they wanted to spare their ammunition until they could actually find a target to hit.

“Fire at will,” Davon ordered, though he realized that his eyes probably saw more than those of his companions.

Davon pulled the trigger, a bullet taking the first Creetisian in the heart. He popped open the breech loader, but found it already had a bullet in it. Odd. He snapped it closed and fired again, shot ripping into the belly of a soldier hung up on a sapling. He fell.

Again the breech loader had a bullet. And then he understood, a grin sliding up his lips. No more loading. Just one shot after another. A shot to the head. A shot to the heart. Another to the chest. One by one he felled them in rapid succession until eight had gone down. The shots of the soldiers beside him were little better than blindfolded guesses, but one shot found its target, nearly taking the arm of a Creetisian off at the elbow.

“Get down!” some wise Creetisian ordered, the mass of soldiers diving for cover. Davon blasted a leg left exposed off to the side of a boulder some soldier had hidden behind. With any luck, the rapid volley of bullets would make the cursed Creetisians think there were more men in the camp than they had anticipated.

Davon retreated behind the tree, head swirling as if he had drunk too much wine. It took effort to breathe now, like his body had forgotten how to do it and needed reminding every time. Was that the taste of blood on his lips? There was no time to worry. He cast about, watching the remaining Bittermarchian soldiers reloading their rifles. Another assault would come, Davon knew. If anyone in the Creetisian force had a tactical mind, they would lay down covering fire while another group flanked them.

But as he regarded the Bittermarchian soldiers again, an idea sprang to mind. He pulled out his wooden carving knife, signaled to the soldier closest to him to hand him his rifle, and got to work.

Arianne’s hand shot to her mouth and she took an involuntary step backwards. She had never seen a bear in the wild, but this was surely bigger than any bear should be. It exuded weight and malice—and age. Something clung to its fur, something lumpy, like a sort of mange, but in the dark it was impossible to tell what it was. Oddest of all, when it walked, it made no sound, as if the plants and sticks it trod on had suddenly gone mute.

The Primal Shadow, barely visible, marched ahead of the monstrosity, the bear following as if pulled by an invisible rope. In a heartbeat, Ki was there, pushing her back, her gaze on her spear still wedged in the log across the stream. Mr. Goodwin pulled Elaine well away from the path of the two creatures, but Arianne noted that neither creature had eyes for her or her party.

They wanted Melchor Raines. And he knew it. The man tried to stand but his knees failed him, and he knelt half covered by the ferns and saplings around him.

“Please, Arianne,” he begged, his face slick with sweat. “You can drive them off. I have information that can aid you!”

“Don’t do it,” Ki warned. “Let them have the filthy murderer.”

Arianne was torn. While sure the duplicitous Mr. Raines could write a book full of Bittermarchian treachery she could use to expose those who had betrayed Queen Filippa, it wasn’t this that led her to consider trying to save him. Melchor was an evil man, to be sure, but what approached him was even worse. As degenerate as he was, Melchor had still begged her to burn the Primal Shadow from him to keep it from controlling him. He deserved no mercy, but if the Primal Shadow could somehow use him again with what he knew, then Bittermarch would indeed be in trouble.

Arianne stepped forward, only to have Ki yank on her arm with an iron grip.

“No, Arianne,” she hissed. “He killed my sister! Let him die.”

Arianne pulled her arm way. “The Shadow isn’t going to kill him, Ki. We can’t let it use him again!”

“Then I will kill him!” Ki said, slipping her bone daggers from the sheaths at her belt and charging forward into the night.

“Ki! No!” Arianne yelled, bolting after her. Arianne wasn’t sure what the tribal customs of the Aua’Catan were, but she could only imagine that killing one’s spear sister invited the harshest punishment imaginable.

Everything came in a blur. Ki was three steps ahead of her, nearly on the injured Creetisian. The Primal Shadow accelerated forward, the bear loping after it. They were all going to crash into Melchor Raines at the same time if she didn’t do something. So she did the only thing she knew how: she flared the fire in her palms.

At the blooming of the amber light, the bear stopped dead in its tracks and flinched as if already burned. The Primal Shadow stopped for a brief moment, but then flew forward. Arianne knew it couldn’t abide the fire. Could she trap it? Burn it?

Ki fell on Melchor Raines, knives ready to strike, but Arianne kept her attention on the Shadow. With a lunge she dove forward onto her side, interposing herself between the Creetisian and the Primal Shadow, raising her ignited palms. The Shadow halted and tried to back away. Before it could, she grasped for its dark, willowy body with both of her hands. The fire in her palms burst forth and arced around the Shadow’s form, repelled as if a wind were pushing it outward. The fire encircled the Shadow entirely, jailing it along with the slender trunk of some sapling barely a year risen from the forest floor. Its trunk passed through the middle of the awful apparition as if the Shadow had ingested it.

Behind her, a struggle she could not see had ensued, but she didn’t dare turn to see what had happened for fear that the Shadow would slip away. She scooted to her knees, careful to position her hands to keep the Shadow ensnared. But how long could she keep it up? The bear still shied away as if the light were some kind of whip ready to lash it at any moment. The struggle behind her was over scarcely a moment after it began.

“Ki!” she yelled. “Are you all right?”

“You must destroy it, Lady Hightower,” Melchor said. “Burn it.”

So Ki had lost. A pit opened in her stomach, waiting for her heart to drop into it. Had Melchor killed her? But she had to focus, had to end the struggle. Gritting her teeth, she poured every ounce of will and desire into her palms, hoping her emotion would fuel the flames. With the power of a rising sun, the light from her palms bloomed around her, blasting outward to blush the leaves and trunks of everything around her like a false dawn.

The bear fled. But it was no use. The fire could not penetrate the Primal Shadow’s form, still circling around it, driven away by the very nature that made light and dark opposites. Inside her body, she could feel a weakness growing, her mind and her body tiring, both complaining as if she hadn’t eaten in days.

But something else was happening. While at first she thought it just a distortion of her fire, the trees and ferns near her were growing. Wherever the light of her fire touched, the plants grew, and the closer they were to the brilliance, the faster they shot upward. To her amazement, the sapling inside the circle of her palms swelled and engulfed the Shadow in the space of only a few moments.

The fire from her hands started to burn the bark, so she pulled her hands slowly away from one another, keeping her fire ignited and bright. Inch by inch the trunk swelled, its bark seemingly made of both wood and light, inching up toward the darkened sky. Her heart hammered in her chest as the branches overspread her like an umbrella, her knees and hands shaking like the new leaves that had sprouted above her.

Then it was too much. The fire went out and she slumped to the forest floor, utterly spent. Melchor Raines laughed with the joy of one delivered. But where was Ki? Where were Mr. Goodwin and Elaine? Slowly the forest returned into focus. The gunfire back down the hill had risen to a fever pitch. Davon was back there somewhere, but she couldn’t remember having heard his roar for a while now. She struggled to an elbow, and then Mr. Goodwin was there, lifting her by the armpit.

“Lady Hightower,” Mr. Goodwin said. “We should go. That bear is still out there.”

“Where’s Ki?” she asked, legs balky, her left thigh reminding her that it had been shot.

Melchor snorted. “Your savage friend is only a little incapacitated. You’ll find the Aua’Catan are miserable at close quarters fighting. But I agree with your man. We should leave.”

Arianne spun on Melchor and would have fallen if not for Mr. Goodwin’s steadying hand. Elaine stood nearby, face ashen. The newly grown tree cast a warm glow about it, veins the color of fire snaking their way through what she now recognized as a young Elder Oak.

Melchor was hard to find in the newly grown foliage, but he was still on his knees, still pale and sweating, and Arianne could only spy Ki’s leg jutting out from behind a fern where she was lying face down. If he had killed her, she would have Mr. Goodwin end him right there.

She took a step forward to check on her friend and then stopped. At first she wondered if the Primal Shadow had escaped the confines of the tree, for the poisonous feeling of dread that accompanied it slid into her heart like a serpent.

But it was the bear. Like a ghost it came through the undergrowth, shying its face away from the light of the tree, but powering forward towards Melchor Raines with a steady gait.

Arianne grabbed Elaine and dragged her back to the tree, Mr. Goodwin following. It took a moment longer for Mr. Raines to realize his danger, and when he did, his eyes shot wide and he finally found the strength to come to his feet. But it was too late. All the Creetisian got was one staggering step forward toward the tree, a pleading hand outstretched, before the bear clamped onto his leg with its massive jaws. With a quick pull the bear sent Melchor face first to the ground.

In the warm light of the tree, Arianne could see now that the clumps on the bear’s fur were moss, as if the animal had lain dormant in the woods for many years. It wasted no time getting away from the light.

“No!” Melchor screamed as the bear pulled him into the undergrowth. “Help me, Arianne! Help me! Please.”

Arianne closed her eyes until his terrified cries faded away, swallowed by the dark trees and distance. Even if she had possessed the fire to rescue the man, she no longer had the desire to do it. Her legs gave out, and Mr. Goodwin helped her sit with her back to the trunk. Elaine sank down next to her and Arianne pulled her into her arms, smoothing her blonde hair back into something orderly.

“Check on Ki, Mr. Goodwin,” Arianne ordered.

He turned to go when the sound of someone approaching set them on edge. The shooting hadn’t stopped, but it had slowed considerably. Had the Creetisians won? Or was it Davon come to spirit them away?

But the face on which the tree’s light fell was not Davon or a Creetisian soldier, but a very worried looking Captain Gage. Arianne swallowed hard.

Davon wondered what the Creetisians had hung over the heads of their soldiers to lend them the strength to persist even after he and his fellow Bittermarchians had practically blasted them into oblivion. The flame-marked weapons had performed admirably, letting loose a withering hail of uncannily accurate bullets. But still, a couple of Creetisian holdouts plinked at them in the night from some hiding place that had shielded them from the bullets that had felled the rest of their companions.

But the time had come to give the dreaded order, to send his men out to search for them and finish them off, a job his feline vision was the best suited for but that the river of blood leaking down his ribs disqualified him to execute. So he gave the order, the three remaining soldiers fanning out into the darkness, weapons at the ready.

He slumped behind the tree that had taken the brunt of the Creetisians’ bullets and pulled his soaked shirt away from his body. There it was, the nasty hole oozing blood with every heartbeat, robbing him of his strength. He felt woozy and cold, neither a good sign. But what could he do? He knew well enough that even the Flametouched Doctor Otis would be hard pressed to save his life now.

Gunfire erupted on the other side of the tree, a quick fusillade he knew could only be achieved by the flame-marked guns. It was followed by the report of a single rifle and a piteous groan. One of the Bittermarchian soldiers had fallen, he guessed.

Silence settled over the forest. The battle had terrified every creature within rifle shot, leaving only the wind and the tentative footfalls to fill the space. Trying to locate a hidden sniper in the dark was an ugly, nervous business. He had to help somehow. He also had to stop the bleeding.

He reached into his bag and pulled out the dagger the Eternal Flame had guided him to carve. His hands trembled, but he managed to cut a length of his shirt and use it to pack the wound. If something inside him bled, however, the bandage wouldn’t matter.

He barely caught the movement to his left. A Creetisian soldier, easily visible because of his white uniform, flashed across a space between two trees. A second later, the soldier leaned around a trunk and fired.

The report was deafening and Davon hardly had the strength to duck. The shot went low and lodged in a root. Now his attacker had to reload and moved behind a tree. With a hand that seemed only half under his control, Davon fumbled for his rifle, but his blood-slicked palms couldn’t grasp it. The weapon almost seemed to be avoiding his grip.

The Creetisian stepped out and fired again. This shot went wide and thudded into the trunk. Davon wished he could muster a laugh. Didn’t they teach any kind of marksmanship in the Creetisian army? With so few weapons and bullets between them, perhaps not everyone got to take a turn practicing. How long would it be before his assailant realized his prey couldn’t fire back?

More footsteps were approaching. Was this it? Was this his end, to die by a Creetisian’s hand, alone and unarmed in the dark? If Arianne had made it free, then it would be worth it, he supposed, though he would have liked another kiss all the same. She was so warm. It had been so good to touch someone, to talk to someone, with absolute confidence that the recipient actually wanted to be touched and talked to. It was the reverse of the living death he had suffered through with Emile.

His eyes drooped for a minute and then popped open. The Creetisian stepped out of his hiding place and took a couple of tentative steps forward. He had figured out that his quarry was too wounded to fight back, then. The soldier raised his rifle, smirk on his face, before Captain Gage blew his brains out from behind. A good shot, the Captain.

“Lord Carver,” the Captain said. “You need attention.”

Arianne, Emile, and Mr. Goodwin stepped out of the trees and Davon’s eyes bulged.

“She cannot be here!” he gurgled, tasting blood on his lips. “The day is not won.” And where was Ki?

Arianne knelt beside him. “Oh, Davon,” she said, lifting his makeshift bandage. Her face was pale, and now she was crying.

“It’s hopeless, dearest Arianne,” he sputtered.

Gunfire startled them all, Captain Gage bringing up his gun and casting about in the darkness.

“I could seal the wound,” she cried, “but my fire is…”

Her eyes shot wide for a moment, gaze fixed on his wound.

“Don’t you see it?” she said.

“What?”

“Where is your knife?” she asked. “Your carving knife?”

“By my bag, but…” He looked down. Something was glowing on his skin, the same symbol that had appeared on his rifle.

She grabbed the newly carved knife, pulled the bandage off of the wound, and to his utter shock, began carving around the bullet hole—carving the shape of flame. The pain cleared the fog in his brain, and a few moments later, the mangled bullet and a gout of blood poured out of the wound, torn flesh knitting together in its wake.

His vision swam, wooziness returning full force. Arianne was clasping his hand. She was saying something. Was it “you’re all right, now?” Was it “I love you?” No matter. She was there with him in the dark, so both had to be true. Thank the Flame.

Chapter 55

Davon fidgeted with the orange stole draped over his shoulders while he waited for Arianne to leave her quarters and accompany him to the Main Hall for her first official day holding court. Three weeks had passed since they had driven the Creetisians out of Bellshire with the help of some longhorned bison.

The Bittermarchian army they had sent south had returned two days earlier than expected, and even after their long, hurried march, they were more than happy to ensure that the Creetisians didn’t dally on their retreat from Bittermarch. Davon added his own form of terrifying harassment until they were at least two days from the city, and he had done that against the wishes of one Arianne Hightower. She had charged him quite strictly not to get shot anymore and wasn’t keen on letting him out of her sight.

The power of the knife that had healed him he was only beginning to discover. The glowing marks on the guns had disappeared as soon as the fight was over, and the scar on his healed flesh had dissipated almost as quickly. After some experimentation, he had discovered that any of the Flametouched could carve a brand of flame with the knife, but only he had the gift of creating living carvings. Except now, the Eternal Flame no longer prompted him. He could choose what he wished to carve, and the stories of his lively carvings were spreading. He’d already had letters with requests for his work.

And, unfortunately, he was famous now, and that was proving as strange an affliction as anything he had ever faced. Everywhere he went the people mobbed him, asking to see him change into a sabercat or to beg from him one of his carvings. He almost longed for the days of his anonymity, and the distant lands of Frostbourne seemed very attractive.

To escape his own notoriety, he had taken to hiding in the Flame Cathedral on most days, or lounging with Arianne in the drawing room of the palace. But it couldn’t last. He would be King. Arianne had trapped him into it with Filippa’s guiding hand, though it was a delicious trap. That Arianne loved him, he was sure, as sure as he was of his love for her. He would trade freedom to be her prisoner. Today they would announce their wedding, though he knew that he was still looked down on by many for faking his death to escape Emile, and no doubt they would find some way to make him suffer for it.

Just another reason he looked forward to his and Arianne’s trip north. Arianne wanted to visit the Aua’Catan and establish a formal relationship with them if she could. Davon warned her that the A’Kor of the Aua’Catan was an isolationist and might not allow them entrance. After recovering from Melchor Raines’s severe blow to her head, Ki had agreed to go to the leaders of her people with Arianne’s proposal, and Davon had sent the promise that he would bring them a gift: Primal Water. He had found it in the meditation pool at the base of the Flame Cathedral, and he hoped gifting it would be enough to convince the A’Kor of their good intentions.

One more week and they would leave, and for the last time he would enjoy the freedom of the woods and the roads. They wanted to view the strange tree that had grown around and trapped the Primal Shadow with its glowing trunk and tender green leaves mixed with ones as black as night. They had set a permanent guard around it, and Davon couldn’t settle his mind on what it might mean for the Eternal Flame or the Primal Shadow.

At the very least, visiting it would give him an excuse to get outdoors from time to time. Arianne kept trying to convince him that as King he would have the freedom to wander and hunt in nearby Harrickshire and the Ice Fire Mountains as often as he liked. He hoped it was true. He wanted to take her with him, and she seemed excited at the prospect. But would grand outdoor adventures simply turn into something they would like to do and never have time for?

Arianne stepped out of her apartment, wishing her Lady’s Maids farewell. Orianna had done her hair in dark ringlets, and she wore a new red dress trimmed in gold to replace the one her misfortunes had abused.

She had done so well at governing during difficult times. Davon thought his first act as King would be to hand the throne back to her. He had told her as much and she quite firmly insisted that it was Queen Filippa’s wish that he rule—and that he would be sleeping in a separate room from hers if he dared try to offload his responsibilities onto someone else.

“Are you ready, Lord Ember?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye.

He extended his arm to her. “No. I look like a fool. This white robe is ridiculous.”

“Don’t worry, Davon. In a few months we’ll trade in your robe and have the tailors design some dashing, kingly attire for you.”

That brought him no comfort. The idea clearly amused her. He didn’t care what she or anyone else said; he would not wear lace on his cuffs or his collar like some of the nobles he had seen. He secretly hoped he could launder his hunting clothes into something acceptable for a throne, but Arianne would certainly object.

She nudged him gently. “You will make a great King, Davon, and one that does not have to listen to the House of Lords or even the House of Light. Imagine how easy that will make things for you.”

He grunted, not convinced. “About the House of Lords, when will the first executions take place?”

She frowned. “It will take time. The trials tend to drag on forever, and some of them will go free because they were more clever than others at concealing the evidence. Still, there are a number of estates you or I will need to appoint an heir for. It is a messy business. It will be good to leave Bellshire for a couple of weeks.”

On that Davon could agree. They would leave the House of Light and the House of Lords in charge of the recovery efforts in their absence. Fortunately, the Creetisians had done little damage to the cities they passed through, fully intending to take them for themselves. The major damage to Bellshire was the betrayal of so many nobles. Faith in and respect for the nobility had fallen so low that Davon feared a revolt would break out under his watch.

They stopped in front of the double doors by the side of the dais, two of the House Guard ready to pull the doors open for them. The murmur of voices on the other side hinted that the gallery of the Main Hall was full, everyone no doubt curious to see how the new Queen fared during her first public court.

Arianne stared at the door, face sobering. Davon turned her face towards his and kissed her.

“You are perfect,” he said. “I will be right by you. And I almost forgot something!”

He hiked up his robe until he could get to his jacket pocket underneath. He removed the new rose pendant he had carved for her, complete with a golden chain he had purchased for it. It was unpainted and unvarnished, just as the first he had given her.

She took it eagerly. “At last! I confess I was a bit jealous that you had carved a bird for Ki, but I see that you hadn’t forgotten me after all! Help me put it on.”

His thick fingers were ill equipped to manipulate the small clasp, but he managed it in the end. His reward was a long embrace and a longer kiss, much to the amusement of the House Guard. She released him, willing the flower to open.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “Now I have a favor to ask of you. You may be loath to do it, but it would leave a great impression on the assembly if you would enter as Khodo Khim. The nobility that is left will need frequent reminders that you can tear their heads off if I want you to.”

Davon changed, his girth crowding Arianne against the wall. The House Guard stared at him wide eyed.

“Don’t worry,” Arianne said soothingly, patting his shoulder. “He won’t eat you unless I say so. Open the doors.”

Sunlight fell over them as the doors swung aside, revealing a room as packed as Davon had surmised. There was no room for even one more person on the benches, and lords, ladies, and their children stood with their backs to every wall. Although the war was over, the guard in the Hall was thicker than ever.

The assembly rose as they walked forward, Arianne in the lead. The chatter rose as they ascended the dais, and Davon let loose a bellow to quiet them. Arianne flinched, and some of those standing fell back onto the benches. Silence fell.

Arianne placed her hand on his furry cheek and leaned in. “Would you please warn me when you are going to do that?”

She sat and Davon returned to his human form and stood beside her, eliciting gasps from the crowd as they seated themselves.

“Open the doors,” Arianne said. “Before I command Da…Lord Ember to retrieve the Primal Fire for our assembly, we must first deal with those I will not give the honor of seeing it. Bring in Justus Paige.”

The guard at the far door disappeared behind the giant ox, returning with a considerably thinner and cowering Justus Paige. He retched on the floor, face pallid and worn, and the assembly booed. Arianne closed her eyes, face hard. Davon wished he could hold her and comfort her. The courts had already condemned Mr. Paige, but she wished to make his sentencing public. Even so, this was the first man she would condemn to die, and it was clear she didn’t relish the task. When her eyes opened again, they were hard.

“Justus Paige, for your part in the plot to overthrow Bellshire, and for your involvement in events that ended the life of one beloved horse, you are sentenced to immediate death. Your hoarded wealth will be split among the victims of your nefarious enterprise. The sentence will be carried out immediately at the Drowning Bridge. Be gone!”

He started to weep, eliciting more abuse from the disgusted crowd. They waited while the soldiers dragged him out and servants cleaned his mess off the floor.

“Bring in Mr. Cranton!” she commanded.

Davon had to fight to keep from turning into a sabercat and tearing Arianne’s former clerk limb from limb. How dare he involve her in his treacherous schemes! How dare he lie and nearly get her killed!

“Mr. Cranton,” Arianne said, jaw set. “You disgust me. You betrayed the loyalty you owed to me and to my household and falsely implicated me in a conspiracy that nearly destroyed us all. Your persistence in your lies almost cost me my life. The courts have ruled that you are worthy of death. I cannot change that ruling, but I think I will slow that death a little. You will remain in a dungeon—a real one—for the rest of your days, a denizen of the dark. Take him away!”

Lastly, Arianne called in Duke Longford. The crowd jeered and scoffed, though Davon wondered how many would-be traitors still lurked in the stands and now hurled abuse at the stoop-shouldered man. Prison and worry had ruined his proud frame, his face gaunt and eyes rimmed in darkness.

“Duke Longford,” Arianne began, “as you were the principal architect of this scheme in collaboration with Ambassador Horace Clout of Creetis, you have been found worthy of death by drowning. That sentence shall be carried out. But first you will act as the executioner of those whom you seduced into your plot with promises of power and wealth. You will pull the lever that sends them into the river. You will pull each corpse from the cage. You will throw each body into the river.”

The audience gasped. Duke Longford wilted. Davon regarded Arianne, her eyes tearing. This was taking its toll on her.

“Many of the condemned are people I once called friend, Duke Longford,” she said, voice heavy with emotion. “One I called husband. For your crime this nation has truly been punished, and you will not find rest until you have felt that weight yourself and seen the death of those you once called friends. Now go. You will begin your work with Justus Paige. More will follow.”

He left a defeated, beaten man to the boos and insults of his peers. Davon could pity him, but could not fault the justice that had found him. Arianne was fortunate that she had escaped a connection with the Longfords.

She cleared her throat. “We have one more criminal to contend with this day.”

Davon’s face pinched. They had talked last night only about the three.

“Bring in Emile Ironhorn!”

Davon swallowed as whispers of speculation hissed throughout the room.

“What are you doing?” Davon asked quietly.

Arianne grinned. A sinister one. “I am making some amends for our future children,” she returned.

Emile Ironhorn strode in as beautiful as a spring day. Her hair was down and her smile wide. Davon shook his head. Whatever Arianne had in mind, she clearly hadn’t told Emile about it. The poor woman looked like she had come in to claim some sort of reward. Emile caught his eye and winked and Davon felt sick. What was Arianne up to?

“Your Ladyship,” Emile said, bowing. “Thank you for bringing me here to your grand audience this morning. I wish to assure you that I had nothing to do with the Tahbor’s involvement with the betrayal of Bellshire when I was affianced to the Earl, nor was I aware of my parents’ involvement. I am quite innocent.”

“There is no evidence of your involvement in the plot,” Arianne said. “That is true.”

Emile beamed. “And I wonder if I might request a boon of the Queen?”

“I had not—”

“It is a simple thing, Your Grace,” she said. “It is the undoing of a mistake.”

“Go on.”

Davon again found Emile’s eyes on him. “The late Queen Filippa recently sundered the marriage between Lord Ember and me under the assumption that it was what I desired. I admit that my anger was hot upon finding that Baron Carver had abandoned me, and I said things that were hurtful toward him. I have, however, forgiven him now and wish that our marriage be reinstated.”

Davon felt his bile rise, scalding his throat. Arianne looked as if she were the sabercat, now.

“Wretched creature!” she exclaimed, standing. “How dare you! You have abused this man to his face and to every acquaintance, friend, and relative you have. You hated him when you married him and you hated him after.”

Blood drained from Emile’s face as Arianne stepped off the throne and walked toward her. “The only thing you love is rank and title, and people like you have no place in my good graces. Believe me, I will have my investigators scour your life, and if I have one hint that you were involved in the plot against Bittermarch I will put you in the cage and drown you myself.

“Until that time, I am stripping you of the rights to any inheritance of the Ironhorn estate after your parents and traitorous siblings are dead, and I am making you a steward over Frostbourne until such time as Davon’s children are to inherit it. You will oversee the reconstruction of the manor that was burned to ash by your vengefulness. If it is not done well, I will take from you your title and you will serve the rest of your days as a scullery maid!”

Arianne returned to her throne and sat, recovering her calm demeanor. The gallery was silent. “So, no, Lady Ironhorn, I will not reinstate your marriage, and to make sure you never have a chance at Davon Carver again, I will be marrying him myself this winter during the Day of Crossing celebration.”

Emile fainted, and by the crack of her head on the stones, Davon guessed it not a faint of affectation as the ladies would often do. The crowd went wild with chatter, and Arianne appeared content to let it run while Emile was removed from the Hall. Davon wondered how many knew that he would not only be their King upon marrying Arianne, but an absolute monarch.

Arianne’s face was happy again. “Davon, my dear, would you fetch the Eternal Flame? It is time for more pleasant matters.”

He nodded and transformed into the sabercat, quieting the crowd as he bounded away to everyone’s delight. The guard at the Flame Cathedral knew to open the doors for the huge, white sabercat, and he padded inside. With a few long strides he arrived at door sixteen and entered, pressing the lever to lower the pot to the ground. He regarded the dancing flames, thankful for its gifts that had turned a ruined life into one of health and happiness.

Unhooking the pot from the chain required his fingers, and he transformed briefly to do the task. Once a sabercat again, he took the pot’s handle in his teeth and returned to the Main Hall at a more leisurely pace to add some ceremony to its arrival. With stately motions he circled the ox, a Khodo Khim herself, who had carried the Eternal Flame across the wintry mountains. The assembly fell quiet as he approached the tripod and hung the pot on the hook. Doing it with his teeth rather than his hands complicated the task, but he managed it without dropping it on the ground.

He returned to his human form and to Arianne’s side, her face soft and inviting. “I love how you can change back and forth,” she whispered. “And your robe is quite fetching now that I’m used to it.”

He smirked at her, and she turned back to the assembly. “Mr. Goodwin!”

Every time Davon saw Mr. Goodwin he could hardly believe it was the same person. In appearance he was a young man now, thick dark hair framing a face full of vitality. When Davon asked him about his transformation, he said that he had thought that his gift from the Eternal Flame was long life, but now knew it to be something else he was just beginning to understand. To Davon, it was as if Elaine Brighton had somehow been the sun that had melted away all Mr. Goodwin’s icy bitterness and hoary age. She accompanied him, her arm in his, her blonde hair glowing in the morning sunshine like the yellow peony sticking out of Mr. Goodwin’s lapel.

“Mr. Goodwin,” Arianne said, “for your services to this Kingdom in tracking down and bringing in Justus Paige, all at great peril to yourself, and for your care of my sister during difficult times, I release you from the Queen’s dungeon and bestow upon you the rank of Baron. I give you the lands of Hightower to be yours in perpetuity as long as your family lives and serves Bittermarch.”

Davon grinned. To see the once jaded and world-weary Mr. Goodwin robbed of snide comments was a delight. Elaine squeezed his arm and he mastered himself as the applause died down.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said. “You are most generous. I know the place is beloved to you and I will care for it the best I can.”

“Good,” Arianne returned. “I’m sure you will. I leave it to Elaine to give you what thanks she will for your bravery on her behalf.”

“She accompanied me today, and that is thanks enough.”

Arianne invited Elaine to come to her, and they embraced.

“You will live with me here until your majority,” Arianne explained.

“Can Mr. Goodwin visit me?”

“Of course, as often as he likes.”

Arianne released her, and she returned to Mr. Goodwin’s side. The crowd applauded again as they left. Davon put his hand on Arianne’s shoulder. It is a shame that I have to be King, he thought. She would do better than I. Maybe she will let me be Huntmaster.

She glanced up at him. “I know that look, Davon. You will not escape this chair. Do you hear me?”

Chapter 56

Davon sat on a log near the edge of the Aua’Catan gathering place—the Pahk—with Arianne next to him huddling under a buffalo hide blanket. They had arrived earlier that afternoon after a four day journey made in haste. Circumstances in Bellshire forced them to delay their departure from Bittermarch for nearly three weeks until they both felt they could leave without the country falling apart.

Ki had returned to Bellshire before they left, bringing word that the A’Kor would receive them and was anxious for the return of the Primal Water to his people. They came quickly, using a small barrel to hold the sacred element on their journey north. On horse it took four days to get to the ice mining town of Windgate.

Once there, Ki managed to convince Arianne that her dresses simply wouldn’t do for the hiking and climbing required to reach Jun’Kal. While Arianne refused to wear the jerkins without proper undergarments and a shirt underneath, after a day of walking in the hide pants of the Aua’Catan, she proclaimed them quite liberating.

Davon liked them on her, too, though he kept that thought to himself. The A’Kor received them cordially, the gift of the Primal Water smoothing away his objections to outsiders arriving. As a concession, Arianne had left the fifty soldiers that had accompanied them north to quarter in Windgate.

After gifting the Aua’Catan with the Primal Water, he and Arianne had spoken with the A’Kor and the T’Mak about their experiences with the Shadow and the bear that had dragged off Melchor Raines. Ki provided her own testimony of the events, but even then the A’Kor and the T’Mak disavowed any lore of a Primal Shadow and insisted the Hahka and its bear-like appearance were just stories and always had been.

Davon wasn’t convinced, and after the Aua’Catan had left them to themselves, Arianne shot him a meaningful look.

“You don’t believe them either,” she said. “I can tell.”

Davon shook his head. “I don’t. They dismissed what happened too easily. I think they’re hiding something, but since you and I have just recently progressed from reviled outsiders to barely tolerated guests, I think we shouldn’t press the matter further tonight.”

The cold deepened as the night took hold, and Davon rubbed his hands together. “Should we move closer to the fire, Arianne?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, opening the hide blanket and inviting him in. “It is more peaceful back here and I need to think. Is there any way we can help protect the Aua’Catan from the Creetisians?”

Davon scooted closer to her and wrapped the hide around his shoulders. “I don’t think so. If they remain hidden up here, they should do well. If we stationed guards or started commerce with them, it would just lead the Creetisians to them. If the Creetisians ever found Jun’Kal, I would rush to the Aua’Catan’s aid. I think I would be a much better King of Jun’Kal than I will be of Bittermarch. You do promise to force me into the outdoors from time to time, don’t you?”

“Yes, Davon,” she said, “we’ve been over this. I will go with you, and I will wear these delightful pants. You men have been quite sneaky in hiding their usefulness from us all these years.”

He chuckled. “I don’t think we are the ones that would object if women took to wearing pants or have been the ones concealing their usefulness.”

“Oh really,” Arianne replied, voice teasing. “I wonder why that is?”

Something cold tickled Davon’s nose and he looked up. Flurries of snow drifted down from the blackness above them, spinning in the warm light of the fire. All at once, the entire company of Aua’Catan rose up and cheered, jumping, singing, and dancing.

Arianne stiffened, face troubled. “What happened? Why are they celebrating?”

“It’s the first snow of the season,” Davon explained.

“They celebrate the arrival of snow?” she asked. “I can hardly abide winter. The Wasting Wind is awful.”

“I doubt they like the winter much either, especially up here, but the first snow is special to them. It’s how they marry.”

Arianne cocked her head. “How they marry?”

“Well, when two people are in love, they declare their marriage—their bond, as they say it—by sleeping together in the same tent on the night of the first snow. Tonight, as it turns out.”

“And that’s it?” Arianne said. “No ceremony or words or dinners or parties? Just sleeping in a tent together?”

“Not exactly,” Ki said, having approached unseen from the side. Davon wondered how long she had been listening. It was good to see her playfulness returning.

“How so?” Arianne pressed.

“Well, there is more than sleeping, Queen Arianne,” Ki explained, grin mischievous. “It is like your wedding and—what do you call it?—honeymoon?—rolled into one.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, the corners of her lips sliding upward. “It all sounds very…uncomplicated.”

“Yes,” Ki returned. “We explained this to the Brown Man earlier. You should bond her tonight, Brown Man.”

He coughed. “I, uh, well, that is not the way my people do things.”

“You are not among your people. You are with the Aua’Catan, and tonight those who love come together and bond.”

“But I don’t have a dwelling,” he said, mind hunting for some way to change the subject.

She laughed. “Yes, you do! We have always kept a dwelling for the return of the Khodo Khim. It is quite nice, fit for a man and his Queen. Look, Brown Man, I will pass on to you the wisdom of the Aua’Catan.” She bent down and took his face in her hands. “It is folly to remain cold when there is a fire to be made. You have won the war I saw inside you. Take the spoils.”

Ki walked away, throwing him a teasing look. Davon shook his head. Such an odd people with strange ways. He turned toward Arianne to tell her has much, but she was staring up at him with the blush of the firelight on her cheeks, the light dancing in her eyes. She kissed him.

“I have been cold for so long, Davon Carver. I don’t want to be cold anymore.”

More from Brian K. Fuller

The Trysmoon Saga

In the mood for epic fantasy? Check out The Trysmoon Saga, a complete four book fantasy series available on Amazon.com. Audio books available on Audible!

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The Pet Assassin, a modern satire sure

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