CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

Am I a hero?

You’re damned right I am.

I got out of bed this morning, didn’t I?

The world being what it is, what could be more heroic than that?

—Challadius the Charmer

 

He felt her hands on him, so gentle and soft. How long had it been since he’d felt such a touch? A touch not of hostility or hate, not of violence, but of kindness?

“I missed you,” he whispered, feeling tears gather in his eyes. “Fire and salt, how I missed you, Layna.”

She stood over him, smiling, but when she spoke it was not to return his sentiment. Instead, her eyes pierced him, and she opened her mouth. “My real mother,” she said. She smiled then, and the touch was gentle no longer, harder and harder by the moment, and then suddenly pain, terrible, hot pain flashed through him, and he arched his back, crying out.

His eyes snapped open, and he saw that it was not Layna who stood over him but instead another woman, one he did not recognize. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, and her hand was on Cutter’s chest in an attempt to hold him still. And either she was the strongest person Cutter had ever met, or—and this was more likely—his wounds had been bad indeed and had stolen his strength.

“Easy,” the woman said, using the sort of voice a person might use with a frightened horse. “Just take it easy.”

Slowly, the worst of the pain began to fade, and Cutter was left breathing heavily, his body covered in sweat. “W-who are you?” he croaked.

The woman snorted. “Who am I? Just the person that saved your life, that’s all. Not that you seem to ready to be thankin’ me for it and I’m doubting anyone else will either. Still, I did, and it was no small task, that much I can assure you. Why, when they dragged you in here you were bloody from your feet to your withers.”

Cutter frowned. “Withers? You…you know I’m not an animal, right? Like a horse.”

“Better if you were,” the woman said. “Horses, after all, tend not to get so torn up that it’s like solvin’ a puzzle trying to put them back to rights. Besides, animals rarely hurt out of cruelty. Unlike some people,” she finished, muttering the last in a quiet voice as she turned away, grabbing several bloody rags sat on a small table beside the bed on which he lay and tossing them into a bucket on the floor.

“Well,” Cutter said. “How uh…how is it?”

She glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow. “How is it? Your body, I suppose you mean? Well—it’s put back together anyway, or as near as I can get it. I’m no healer, and my fool of a husband ought to have known better than to bring you here in the first place.” She shrugged, wiping her hands on a rag. “Still. Done is done, I say, but I won’t lie to you, Princeling. I’ve seen dead men and animals that looked a pretty fine improvement over you.”

But Cutter was not so focused on that last bit. Instead, he found his attention going to something else the woman had said. “Your…husband?”

“That’s right,” she said, “though my trial might be more to the point, one set to me by the gods themselves and likely to earn me sainthood, if I make it out alive. Which likely I will. Him, though…well now that’s hard to say.” She glanced at him, giving a soft, humorless laugh. “My but you look confused, don’t you? Well, let me go ahead and put your mind at ease. My husband is Ned. He brought you and your friends here not a couple of hours gone now.”

“And…where…are they now?”

“Your friends are all resting, as you should be,” the woman said. “You very nearly made a long trip tonight, Prince, all the way to the land of the dead.”

“You…know?”

“That you’re a prince? Of course I do,” she said. “I’m not so old I can’t recognize the Crimson Prince when he’s lying on a bed in front of me. Anyway, all your friends are sleeping. As for Ned, he’s gone off to return the carriage, though the gods alone know what he’ll say to explain all the blood you and that guardsman left in there—I’ve seen slaughterhouses that weren’t so messy. But then, my husband, while he has many faults, also has some few talents, among which is a way with words that’s nothing short of extraordinary. You can thank that particular talent for being the only reason I haven’t dumped you and your friends out in the street.”

Cutter was just trying to catch up, as the last thing he remembered, he’d been lying in the floor of the guardsman’s study, bleeding out and looking to be burning up soon enough. If what the woman was saying were true—and he had no reason to doubt it—then apparently Ned had made it out with the guardsman after all and, unsure of where to go, had brought them here. Still, that didn’t explain everything the woman had said. “My…friends, you said?”

She shook her head, a disapproving scowl on her face. “My but you really were out of it, weren’t you? Your friends, you know, the fat mage Challadius, and Maeve the Marvelous, of course.” She shook her head. “That woman’s as pretty as a king’s dagger and, you ask me, likely just as sharp.”

“Ah,” Cutter said, nodding, or at least, doing the closest approximation to a nod that he was capable of just then. Maeve and Chall had come then, which of course went a long way toward explaining how he’d made it out of that burning house alive in the first place. After all Ned couldn’t have carried both him and the guardsman out alone.

That brought a fresh moment of panic as a thought occurred, and he looked at the woman once more. “The guardsman, the one that came here with us, is he—”

“He’s fine,” she said, then made a sour face. “Or, at least, he’s a damned sight closer to it than you are, and a lot closer than my fool of a husband and I will be if folks in the city find out I’m harboring the Crimson Prince.”

Cutter winced. “Listen, miss—”

“My friends call me Emille. Not that I’ll have any if anyone figures out I’ve had you as a visitor.”

“Right. Look, Emi—”

“Said my friends call me Emille,” she said, frowning and crossing her arms across her chest. “Them and the man I was fool enough to marry. For you, ‘miss’ will do fine.”

“Very well,” Cutter said. “All I mean, miss, is that if I’ve done something to offend you, it wasn’t intentional.”

The woman snorted at that. “Go around choppin’ folks’s heads off on accident a lot, do ya?”

It was Cutter’s turn to frown then. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” she asked. “You say you don’t know what you’ve done to offend me—you who have done enough in your time to offend any right thinking man or woman in the Known Lands?”

“You mean the Fey King Yeladrian,” Cutter said quietly, watching her closely now. After all, the Fey had infiltrated the capital, that much he knew, and there was no telling how many had been corrupted by their influence. Ned had proved himself loyal to the kingdom and that more than once, but just because the man was loyal, didn’t mean his wife was. Suddenly, Cutter was very aware of how weak he was, aware, too, of the sharp instruments the woman had laid out on a nearby table. Some of those instruments were stained with his blood already, and it didn’t seem crazy to think that they might be stained with more before the day was done.

She must have seen him taking in the instruments, for she followed his gaze, grunting. “What? You’re thinking that instruments that might be used to heal might as easily be used to hurt? As if I’d have spent the last hours sweating and struggling to keep you alive just to kill you in the end?” She shook her head. “Leave it to a killer to see killers everywhere he looks.” She sighed, a sigh that was angry and weary all at once. “No, Crimson Prince, the answer is not always blood, no matter how much you might think otherwise, and the gods know there’s been more than enough killing in these last years. Too much. But then, you ought to know something about that, considering you’re the one behind it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That right?” the woman asked. “Somehow while you were off marching to war, slaughtering and warring, did you miss the fact that there were plenty of good men died because you couldn’t keep your axe in its sheath where it belonged? Good men,” she snapped. “Men like my brother.”

“Your brother…he died during the war?”

“Sure,” she said, “him along with plenty of others. Why, you can’t hardly find a man or woman in the city didn’t lose someone to that damned war of yours.”

Cutter could explain to the woman that there was more to it than that, that he had only killed Yeladrian because the Fey king had attacked him when he’d refused to sacrifice his own brother for peace, but he didn’t. Likely she wouldn’t believe him anyway and, besides, there was a better way. “Listen,” he said, “despite what you think, I don’t mean you or your family any harm.”

She snorted. “That’s what most folks say before the harm comes though, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Yes. Anyway, I thank you and your husband for all that you’ve done. Really. But as you say, I’d best be going. The last thing I want is to repay your kindness by getting you in trouble with anyone.”

He started to rise, or at least started to try to rise, but she put a hand on his chest, forcing him down again. “No you don’t,” she snapped. “My mother, gods keep her, always said that there’s plenty enough hurt in the world to go around, that a body ought to do what good she could when she could, try to balance the scales a bit. And I won’t have you wastin’ all my work getting yourself killed by running around like a fool before the stitches set. No, you’ll stay right here until you’re well enough to move and that’s final.”

Cutter frowned. “Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done, really, but I don’t want to put you or your husband in any danger. My friends and I will leave, and you need not worry anymore over the matter.”

She stared at him for several seconds, as if he were a puzzle she was trying to figure out. “You aren’t the way I imagined you would be.”

He gave a small, humorless smile. “Imagined I’d be drooling like a mad dog, growling and hissing, swinging my axe at anything that moved?”

She snorted. “Something like that.”

He nodded. “There was a time when you wouldn’t have been far wrong.”

“You’d have me believe you’ve changed, that it?”

Cutter considered that for a minute then shrugged. “I think I have. Anyway, as for the rest, in my experience people are always different than we imagine.”

“I think you may be right,” she said, giving a small smile, the first sign of anything other than outright contempt since he’d woken.

“Look, miss—” he began.

“Emille,” she said. “You’re my prince, like it or not. I suppose you may as well call me Emille.”

“Very well. Emille, there are things going on—”

“There always are,” she said. He opened his mouth, meaning to respond, but she held up a hand, a gentleness to the movement he wouldn’t have expected. “You just relax, Prince,” she said softly, her voice not unkind, “and listen to me for a moment, how would that be?”

“Alright.”

She nodded, gazing away, and her eyes took on a strange cast, as if she were staring at something far away. “You have to understand, Prince, when my brother, Elliot, was killed in the war, I was distraught, upset. I needed something, someone to blame, something to hate. Do you know what I mean?”

Cutter, who had spent the majority of his life doing the things he did for hate, nodded. “I understand.”

She watched him for a few seconds then grunted. “I think maybe you do. Anyway, we were close, Elliot and me. When he was killed…well, I thought I’d never love anyone as much as I loved him ever again. But I was wrong. I came to the capital then and…I had a bad time of it. Won’t waste time telling you how bad as there doesn’t seem much point. Anyway, I guess I was here a year or two when I met Ned.” She gave a slight sniff, running a finger along her eyes. “He was the driver of the carriage I took from my brother’s funeral, as a matter of fact, though we didn’t realize that ‘til much later. Me and Ned got to talking and…well, you know how these things go. One thing led to another, and I realized that I’d been wrong, that, as it turned out, I could love again after all.”

She sighed. “Ned was funny, you understand, but he’s more than that. He’s…he’s a good man, a kind one. One of the few walking the face of the world, you ask me. Kind to a fault, I sometimes think. Still, it was his kindness, his willingness to do what was right no matter the consequences that made me love him so. Made me love him so much that I wanted nothing more than to have kids with him. Only…after we tried for a time, we went to see a healer and she told us that we couldn’t. That I couldn’t.”

She cut off for a moment at that, her head hung in what might have been shame. “I’m…I’m sorry,” Cutter said.

She looked at him, gave him a small, pained smile. “Me too, Prince. Me too. Anyway, I felt so ashamed at the time, so…useless. But Ned…” She shook her head, the pain, the sadness in her face replaced with a deep love. “Well, Ned was how he always is. Funny. And kind. That most of all. And I thought maybe it would be alright. That if the gods saw fit to keep us from having children then that was alright, just so long as I had him. Have you…have you ever felt something like that?”

Cutter considered the brief time he’d spent with Layna. He had thought, at the time, that he loved her, but he knew now, looking back, that the man he’d been had not been capable of love, not really. To love, a person has to be willing to put something or someone before themselves, and that man had not been capable of that. Not love, then. Lust, perhaps, not just for her body but for her, lust to have something that was coveted by others, his brother included.

My real mother.

Cutter shook his head, banishing the thought. Later, perhaps, he would seek out Petran Quinn in the castle, would ask him if he knew anything about Layna. For now, though, Emille was watching him. “No,” he said finally. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever felt something like that.”

She nodded. “Not many have, I think, and the world would be a far finer place if that weren’t true. Anyway, I loved him then, and I love him now. And miracle of miracles and for reasons I cannot begin to understand, he loves me back. And so, now, as then, I count myself the luckiest person in the world, possessed of something fine that I did not earn, that I could never earn. And so when Ned showed up, a bloody guardsman and half-dead prince in his carriage…well, perhaps you can understand some of the fear I felt. Or not fear, so much, as it was a certainty that the world had finally realized I had been given something I did not deserve and had come to even things out. To take it, to take him away from me. And that…that I would not allow,” she said. “I would rather die first, for without him I’d be worse than dead. I’d be some walking corpse with nothing and no one in all the world. Do you…do you understand?”

I begin to, Cutter thought, watching her, noting the conviction in her face. He wondered what it must be like to love someone like that, to be loved like that. Terrifying, yes, but also amazing. “I have done a lot of bad things in my life, Emille,” he said. “A lot of things I’m not proud of. But I promise you this—whatever I can do to keep your family safe, I’ll do it.”

Her eyes widened at that. “It almost seems like you mean that.”

“I do,” Cutter said, meeting her eyes.

“But…why?” she asked.

Cutter shrugged. “Because you’re right. Ned is a good man, and in a world full of evil, that which is good has to be protected. Otherwise, what’s the point of anything?”

She let out a heavy, shaky sigh and nodded, wiping a hand across her eyes. “Seems…seems we understand each other then.”

Cutter inclined his head. “It seems we do.”

She smiled then, and it was a beautiful smile, transforming her stern face, and he saw why Ned had fallen in love with her. “You know what I think? I think maybe the stories I heard about you weren’t true after all.”

“No,” Cutter said, wincing. “They were likely true, Emille. I would not lie to you about that.”

She nodded slowly. “Well. True or not, they don’t fit you. Maybe they once did, but they don’t now. Time to make some new stories, I guess.”

He gave her a small, grateful smile. “I’m trying.”

Just then, the door burst open, and Chall stepped inside, followed closely by Maeve. “Everything okay, Emille?” the mage said. “We thought we heard voices—” He cut off, his eyes widening as he saw Cutter. “Prince!” he exclaimed, grinning wide. “You’re alive!”

“Mostly anyway,” Cutter said, “and that thanks to Emille.”

“Gods be good,” Maeve said, and then she and the mage were rushing forward, embracing him so tightly that it hurt. Still, Cutter said nothing, for while it might have hurt, it was exactly what he needed.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Emille’s voice came, amused and stern all at once, “you keep goin’ at him like that you’re liable to undo all my hard work.”

Cutter felt at once disappointed and relieved when the two pulled away, both of them grinning widely.

“We weren’t…weren’t sure you were going to make it,” Maeve said.

Cutter gave them a smile, doing his best to hide the pain the embrace had caused. “Oh, you know. It’ll take a little more than assassins, more assassins, a burning building and a suffocating bearhug to kill me.”

Chall laughed at that. “Well, Prince, I don’t mind telling you it’s good to see you up and about.”

The woman, Emille, snorted. “Not ‘about’, not if I can help it.”

Chall winced. “Well, up anyway.” He leaned forward. “She’s terrifying,” he whispered to Cutter.

Cutter laughed. He couldn’t help it. They were still in danger, true, and not just them but the kingdom itself. And yet, they were alive and as long as there was life, there was hope.

Maeve opened her mouth to speak but, just then, there was the sound of a door opening, and she froze, her face going pale.

“Stones and starlight they’ve found us,” Chall whispered, “we have to—”

“Hello, the wench!” a familiar voice called from the other room, and Cutter glanced at the woman, Emille.

She rolled her eyes, but he saw that she was grinning. “Hello, the arse!” she shouted back.

In another moment, Ned appeared at the doorway, the driver smiling from ear to ear as if he’d just found a fortune instead of becoming embroiled in something that could have easily ended in his death. “Hello all,” he said, stepping into the room. He glanced at Cutter and grinned wider before turning to his wife. “Well. Seems you didn’t kill him after all.”

She sighed. “Not for lack of trying.”

“Gods, but you’re a terrible healer.”

“And you a terrible husband.”

They both grinned then, and in another moment they were embracing tightly.

Chall frowned, glancing at Cutter. “Did I miss something?”

“Oh, Challadius,” Maeve said, smiling, “I think maybe we all have.”

“So, how’d it go at the livery stables?” Emille asked.

“Oh, you know how it is,” Ned said, giving her cheek a kiss before pulling away. “Had to battle a few assassins, save a few princes, but all in all it went off without an issue.”

Emille, still grinning, rolled her eyes. “My husband, the hero.”

He winked. “Don’t tell anyone, eh? Wouldn’t want to spoil my reputation.”

“As a wife-hating lech?”

“Exactly.” He sobered then, turning to look at Cutter. “So, Prince, how are you feeling?”

Cutter grunted. “Like you ran me over in your carriage.”

The driver grinned. “And here I thought you were unconscious for that part. I been meanin’ to get straps in the carriage, you know, specially designed for securing unconscious princes, but more’s the pity I’ve been puttin’ it off.”

Cutter laughed, shaking his head. “Thank you, Ned. For everything.” He turned and looked at Emille. “Thank you both.”

The driver fidgeted, the praise making him uncomfortable where a dozen assassins could not. “Ah it weren’t nothin’ anyone else wouldn’t have done in my stead,” he said, avoiding Cutter’s gaze. “Anyway, the she-wench here is the one to thank. Like most fools I’ve got fair enough practice at takin’ stuff apart. She’s the one knows how to put it back together again.”

He gave her a fond look at that, one she returned, and Cutter and his companions only watched them in silence. Then, Ned seemed to become aware of their gazes and cleared his throat. “So what have you got fixed for dinner, woman? Gruel, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“That’s right,” she said dryly, “and yours with extra spit.”

He laughed. “Just the way I like it.” He turned to Cutter. “Think you could stomach some food, Highness? Or you just going to lie around all day?”

Cutter glanced at Emille, not prepared to be scolded by the woman again quite yet, and she smiled, inclining her head.

“I suppose you can move as far as the table, but take it slow, mind. You’ve got enough holes in you that if you were a water skin you’d have been tossed out. Why, I imagine there’s more thread keepin’ you together than bones and tendons just now.”

Cutter nodded preparing to perform the unenviable task of sitting up, but before he could start Maeve and Chall each grabbed one of his hands, grunting with the effort of pulling him to a sitting position.

“Gods, but you’re heavy one, Prince. Might want to think about going on a diet.”

Cutter raised an eyebrow at Chall. “I’ll…give it some thought,” he panted, weary even from that small exertion. “Here, help me stand.”

They did, draping his arms over their shoulders, and Cutter made it to his feet. Each step was a trial, but in time they made it through the door and into the small dining room where Cutter breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he took a chair. A moment later, the others were sitting save Ned and his wife. Emille began laying out plates and bowls of a rich-smelling soup. Cutter winced.

“Here,” he said, “I can help—”

“You can help by staying just right where you are,” the woman said, not unkindly. “I normally work on animals, not people, Prince. Anyway, if you test those stitches enough I can’t guarantee they’ll hold. Besides, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

Cutter didn’t argue with that, mostly because he felt like he was about to pass out, and so he remained seated as Maeve and Chall helped set the table.

“What did I tell you, Prince?” Ned asked, grinning at his wife and staring at her with what could only be deep affection. “A real ball-buster, this one.”

Emille snorted. “Why don’t you make yourself useful, and go and get our other guests? Before you end up wearing this stew.”

“Better than eating it, I imagine,” Ned quipped, but he left quickly enough through another door.

A moment later, he reappeared and, behind him, the frightened woman Cutter had briefly spoken to in the burning house, and then after her shuffled the swordsman, Guardsman Nigel. The man looked exhausted, and there was a bandage wrapped around his stomach, as well as another on his head, but his eyes were alert, his gaze clear, as he started toward the table, his wife busily fussing over him as he did.

The man’s eyes alighted on Cutter, and his gaze went wide. “Prince,” he said, then he started to one knee, meaning to bow.

“Relax,” Cutter said, “there’s no need for that, really.”

The man nodded, settling for bending at the waist in a deep bow. “As you say, Highness. Only…I would like to thank you. For saving my wife and me. It…” He glanced at her, smiling. “I do not know what I would have done had I lost her.”

“And thankfully you don’t have to,” Chall said. “Now, can we eat? The food smells delicious.”

Maeve rolled her eyes. “Fire and salt, Chall, do you ever think about anything besides food?”

“Well,” the mage said, making a show of thinking it over, “there’s ale. You know, to wash the food down.”

“Anyway,” Cutter interrupted before the two devolved into an argument, “you really shouldn’t be thanking me.”

“Right,” Chall said, “anyone can lie down in a burning building and take a nap. It was Ned who pulled you out of that inferno.”

Emille frowned, glancing at her husband who began to whistle in mock innocence. “You didn’t mention traipsing around in a burning building.”

“Wouldn’t really call it traipsing,” Ned said. “Traipsing implies without purpose.”

“And the gods know you’ve got a purpose—scaring your wife half to death.”

“On account of you love me so much and you can’t imagine your life without me?” he asked, grinning.

She scowled. “On account of it’d be a shame to lose my poison-tester before I’ve perfected my recipe.”

The driver tipped his head back and roared with laughter at that, then started toward a chair.

“Prince,” Guardsman Nigel began, “not that I don’t appreciate your saving me and all, but might I ask why—”

“No, no you may not, Guardsman,” Emille said. “Not during dinner. No doubt whatever matters you might have to discuss will keep for an hour, at least. After all, even conspirators and murderers have to eat, don’t they?”

Cutter wasn’t so sure that she was right on that, but he saw by the expression on her face that she would not be deterred, and he thought he understood. She was scared, terrified, maybe. The danger she had feared for so long had seemingly found her and her husband at last. She had spent the night patching up a bloody prince, one known for attracting violence—or perhaps for running to it. As far as she knew, she was watching her world fall apart, and in the midst of that collapse she was searching, desperately, for something normal, something familiar, some way of reassuring herself, convincing herself that life would go on.

The guardsman and the others were glancing at Cutter, and he gave them a nod. “Of course,” he said, “we will do as the lady of the house demands.”

“I’d be careful with that,” Ned said, leaning back in his chair with a grin, “she comes to expect it.”

They all laughed at that, Emille as well, and Cutter noted her shooting her husband a grateful look. Glad, he suspected, to have the man bring some levity to their situation.

Soon, they were all eating, helping themselves to a meal of beef and potatoes, the best meal Cutter could ever remember having. And, based on the amount of appreciative noises coming from the others—Chall in particular—he didn’t think he was the only one who was impressed. There was more than enough to go around and save for the compliments tossed in Emille’s direction—some words, some only noises—they ate in appreciative silence.

Finally, seeing that everyone appeared to be finished with their meal, Cutter leaned back in his chair. “Well. Best we discuss our options.”

“A-are you sure?” Emille said, glancing nervously at her husband. “I mean, that is, does anyone want seconds?”

Ned gave her a small, sad smile. “Everyone’s had seconds, dear. It’s time.”

“B-but what about dessert?” Emille said, a quiet desperation in her tone. “Surely everyone would want some dessert. I have a pie made and—”

“Later, dear,” Ned said softly, putting a hand on hers. “Later, okay?”

She took a slow, shuddering breath then nodded, rising and beginning to pick up the plates from around the table.

“Oh, we can help—” Maeve said, starting to stand, but the woman waved her down.

“No, no,” Emille said, “you have your talk. Assassins and conspiracies, that’s your business—cleaning the table, that’ll be mine.” And with that, she scooped up an armful of plates and retreated into another room.

“Is…is she okay?” Nigel’s wife asked.

“Oh, don’t mind her,” Ned said, though it was clear by the troubled look he gave the door through which she walked that he was minding her well enough, “my wife worries, that’s all.”

Cutter figured that if now wasn’t the time to start worrying there never was one, but there was much to discuss, to decide, and little time in which to do it, so he let it go. “Well, Guardsman Nigel, I guess you’re probably wondering why I came to visit you.”

“Begging your pardon, Highness,” the man said, inclining his head in a bow, “but…well, the thought had crossed my mind.”

Cutter nodded, opening his mouth to speak, then hesitated. He didn’t know how many people knew about the conspiracy, and it wouldn’t do much for the city’s morale if they knew assassins had made it—seemingly with little difficulty—into the castle itself. But he needed the guardsman’s help, assuming he could help, and a quick glance at Maeve and Chall, where they inclined their heads in reluctant nods, showed that they agreed.

Cutter took a slow, deep breath. “Very well, Nigel. Best settle in—there’s a bit of a story to tell.”

Cutter spent the next half hour—with regular interruptions from Chall, mostly curses—recounting the events in Two Rivers and then the events which had led them to discovering the regent’s true identity and him and the others confronting the Feyling within the castle and, past that, to the assassins making an attempt—very nearly a successful one—on his life. He also told the man about their encounter with Belle and his conversation with her in the dungeon.

When he was finished, he sat back in his chair, the guardsman and all those others present staring at him with wide eyes.

“That’s why you left the castle,” Maeve said.

Cutter nodded. “Yes.”

She shook her head angrily. “You could have been killed, Prince, going out on your own like that, wounded as you were. You should have come and got me and Chall. If you had—”

“If he had, then the assassins would have taken my wife and I,” Guardsman Nigel said. “Forgive me, my lady, for interrupting, but…thank you, Prince. I do not know what help you wish from me but…” He reached over, holding his wife’s hand, the woman pale with fright. “But…thank you. For saving us.”

Despite everything, despite the many dangers they faced, Cutter felt a satisfied warmth suffuse him at that. Years ago, before his exile, he had saved people before, of course, but he had never really cared. The man he had been had enjoyed only the killing, only the fighting, and had given little thought to those who happened, by coincidence, to be helped by it. He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

“Still,” the man said, fidgeting, “forgive me, Prince, but while I’m very grateful for what you did, I’m afraid I’m not sure how I can help.”

“You can help by telling me what you know of the other guards in the city,” Cutter said. “There’s a reason, Nigel, that those assassins were sent to your house. We killed the regent, yes, chopped the head off the snake, but even in its death throes a serpent’s teeth are still sharp, might still hurt the unwary. And there is no way for us to know how many more people might be involved. No way, at least, except you.”

“Me?” the guardsman asked, surprised. “But…why me?”

Cutter shrugged. “Because—”

“Isn’t it obvious, man?” Chall said. “You’re honest. If a crime boss like Belle wants you dead then that’s about as good a vote of confidence as we’re likely to get.”

Cutter nodded. “We’ll need to get you to the castle. We’ll want you to go over all the guardsmen you know…Belle said that you had been investigating the corruption in the city. Is that right?”

The guardsman nodded. “Yes, Prince, I have, but most of my theories are only that—theories. I am afraid I do not have as much proof as I might like.”

“You heard what’s happened,” Chall said. “Theories, guardsman, are as good as we’re likely to get.”

The man nodded, glancing at his wife and taking a deep breath. “I will do what I can to help, of course.”

Cutter inclined his head. “Thank you,” he said. “I know what we ask is no small thing.”

Chall snorted. “Not small? That’s a bit of an understatement isn’t it, Prince? Anyway, how do we even start going about it?’

Cutter winced. “I’ve been thinking about that. And first we need to go back to the castle.”

The mage grunted. “You mean the same castle where a group of assassins tried to kill you? That castle?”

“That’s the one.”

“The same castle,” Chall went on, “that lies across the city? A city full of the gods alone know how many men and women who would like nothing more than to see us dead?”

“Well,” Maeve said, “you’re the one that’s been complaining about being bored.”

The mage frowned. “Pretty sure I never said that, Maeve.”

“No?” the woman asked, then shrugged. “Sorry. You complain so much, sometimes it’s hard to remember it all.”

Chall scowled, but it was Cutter who spoke. “Still, Chall’s right. We’ll have to be careful. There’s no way of knowing how many people are out looking for us now.”

Chall sighed. “Suppose it’d be too much to hope they all got tired and went home.”

“Yes,” Cutter said, “I believe it would.”

“Fine,” the mage said, “so we have to make it back to the castle. That still doesn’t explain how we’ll do it. I mean, do you not think it would be better to stay here for a while, Prince? I mean, stones and starlight, you can barely walk and the guardsman here isn’t much better off.”

“I don’t see that we have a choice,” Cutter said. “We can’t stay here. Sooner or later, the men looking for us will find us and when they do, they’ll no doubt mean to punish Ned and his wife for giving us shelter.” He shook his head grimly. “And I won’t have them getting hurt because of us.”

Chall frowned. “Well, she is a damned fine cook.” The mage pointedly avoided looking at Maeve who was scowling at him. “Anyway, do we have any idea of how we might make it back to the castle? You know, with all our parts in their proper places?”

Cutter glanced around at the others but no one seemed to have any answer for the mage’s query, so he sighed. “Not ye—”

“Might be I can help you with that,” Ned said, walking back into the room. “Sorry,” he said, smiling and not looking sorry at all, “couldn’t help but overhear—mostly because I had my ear pressed to the door. Anyway, if it’s the castle you need to make it to, there might be a way we can do that. After all, I’m a carriage driver, ain’t I?”

Chall snorted. “Unless you’re a carriage driver whose carriage is maybe made of iron, impervious to arrows or assassins trying to break their way in, then I don’t think that’ll help much.”

“Iron?” Ned asked, frowning, then shaking his head. “No, no just a regular carriage. You see—” he paused, leaning in and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper as if divulging some great secret—“were it to be made of iron, the horses wouldn’t be able to bear the load.”

Chall sighed, rubbing a weary hand across his eyes. “You know, people hate jokes made in poor taste.”

“Do they, Chall?” Maeve said. “Do they?”

The mage frowned. “Fine, fine, but my point still stands. In a carriage, why we’d be sitting ducks for anybody who took it in mind to put a few arrows in us. We only made it away from Nigel here’s house because they expected us all to be too busy being dead to think much on escaping.”

Cutter grunted. “Chall’s right, Ned. I appreciate the offer, but a carriage won’t work.”

“Not a normal carriage, maybe,” Ned admitted, “but what about one running a plague banner?”

Chall let out a snort. “Look, Ned, I don’t want to get hacked to pieces by angry assassins, but I don’t much care for the idea of catching the plague either.”

Ned laughed. “Well, we wouldn’t actually be transporting plague victims, would we? Instead we’d just be carrying a prince and his…housekeeper?”

“Mage,” Chall growled.

“Huh,” Ned said. “Alright, mage, then…they don’t have any physical requirements for that sort of thing?”

Cutter laughed at that—he couldn’t help it. Soon, the others joined in, and Chall was left scowling until, finally, he too grinned. “Fine, fine, I deserve that,” he said. “But do you really think it’d work?”

Ned shrugged. “Well, it ain’t a perfect plan, maybe, but I figure it’s better than the others on offer. Mostly because, well, you know…there aren’t any others.”

They all turned to Cutter then, and he frowned, thinking it through. He remembered the plague banners, of course, for they had been used only shortly after he and the rest of the people who’d fled their homeland arrived. Their time on the ships had not been easy. Poor, overcrowded conditions, not enough food to go around, it was no wonder that a sickness had begun to transfer among the people. When they arrived in the city, the banners had been one way they’d undertaken to fight the plague and thankfully they, combined with the other measures, had worked, finally getting the sickness under control.

“Are any of those banners still around?”

Ned grunted. “I’ll admit it’s been a bit since they were used, but I imagine I could scrounge one up. Delilah—the sour-faced woman you met—might not be a sweetheart, but she’s nothing if not organized. A proper place for everything and everything in its proper place, or so she loves to tell me. Anyway, I figure if anyone in this city knows what became of those old banners, it’ll be her.”

Cutter nodded, thinking it through. It would be dangerous, of course, but then, unlike the other ideas that had flitted through his mind, it, at least, had the added benefit of possibly working. “And these banners…won’t someone know you shouldn’t be running them, or…”

“Well,” the driver said, “there’s just one thing, of course. The banners can’t be run except for on express permission from one of the royal line. Luckily…” he paused, grinning—“we’ve got us a prince handy.”

Cutter scratched at his chin, examining it further, looking for holes. He found plenty, of course, but then when a man only had one option it was, by default, the best one. He looked back up at Ned and then saw, beyond him, the man’s wife, Emille.

She stood in the doorway, staring at her husband’s back, an unmistakable expression of concern on her face.

Cutter watched her for a moment, wondering again what it might be like to love and be loved in that way. Thinking, too, that such a love ought to be protected. Otherwise, what was the point of anything? Finally, he shook his head. “No.”

The carriage driver raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, Prince, but…why?”

Cutter glanced at Emille, and the woman met his eyes for a moment, then he turned back to her husband. “It’s too dangerous, Ned. You and your wife, you have done enough for us—more than enough. I can’t ask anymore of you. It wouldn’t be right. Besides, we have no idea how bad it is in the city. Already the two of you might be in danger.”

“Excuse me, Prince, if I’m out of line,” the driver said, “but every man or woman walkin’ this earth with breath in their lungs is in danger. That’s sort of the deal with life. You can’t have it without the danger that comes along with it. And, beggin’ your pardon, Highness, but New Daltenia ain’t just your city. It’s our city. Our home. And if a man won’t risk himself to protect his home…” He paused, glancing back at his wife. “To protect his family…well, then he ain’t no man at all, least so far as I’m concerned.”

Cutter grunted. “I understand, Ned, really I do. But it’s out of the question. We’ll find another wa—”

“No, you won’t.”

He cut off, and they all turned to regard Emille who had come to stand beside her husband, one of her hands, seemingly of its own will, coming to rest on his shoulder. The woman gazed at her husband for a second and give a heavy sigh. “You won’t find another way, Prince, because there isn’t one. You know it, my Ned knows it, and gods forgive me but I know it too. The plague banners aren’t the right choice—they’re the only one.”

Cutter shared a glance with Maeve and Chall then turned back to the woman. “Are you sure? Because we can find another way, there’s still time.”

“Forgive me, Prince, but no, there isn’t. If things are as bad as you say, then every moment that passes puts everyone in the city at risk. The king himself is at risk, and though I don’t know much about this King Matthias, what I’ve heard is good. Besides, we’ve tried princes—I think it’s high time we tried a king.” She gave him a small smile to take the worst of the bite away, and Cutter sighed.

“You’re sure?”

Emille and Ned met each other’s eyes for a moment and, finally, the woman nodded. “I’m sure.”

Cutter gave her a moment, gave them both a moment, to change their mind, but they only turned to him, and finally he nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

He started to his feet, then a wave of dizziness overcame him, and he was forced to catch himself on the table.

“You need to take it easy,” Emille said. “You’re alive—though the gods know how—but if you keep overdoing it…well, I think there’s even a limit to what the great Crimson Prince can endure.”

Cutter grunted. “Right.”

“Well,” Ned said, “if I’m not going to have to hold you down lest you go tryin’ to do cartwheels, Prince, then I’d best be off.”

“Off?” Emille said, spinning to look at him.

The driver gave her a smile. “Well, sure, wife of mine. All well and good outfitting the carriage with plague banners, a damned fine plan if I do say so myself, but it’ll prove a bit tricky if we don’t have the banners. Or…well, you know, the carriage to put them on, seein’s as I left the other with Delilah back at the stables.”

Cutter could see the worry in the woman’s face, and he nodded. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

Ned winced. “Prince, I don’t mean to argue—the gods know I’ve no wish to see the angry end of that axe of yours, but it seems to me that…begging your pardon, in your current state, well, you’d prove more of a burden than a boon, if you understand my meaning.”

“It’s out of the question,” Emille said. “What you need, Prince, is rest. A good month of it, if I had my way, but since you all seem intent on getting your fool selves killed, you’ll at least take a few hours, the time it takes Ned to get the carriage and come back.” She turned on Ned, her expression dangerous, challenging. “And you will come back. Won’t you, husband?”

He cleared his throat. “Of course, dear.”

“As for you,” Emille said, turning to gaze at Guardsman’s Nigel’s wife then frowning. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

The woman shifted in her chair, clearly uncomfortable being the center of attention. “It…it’s Paula, ma’am.”

“Paula then,” Emille said, smiling. “Now, tell me, Paula, are you as set on getting yourself killed as these damned fool men are?’

Paula hesitated, clearly unsure of what to say, glancing at her husband for support. “I…that is—”

“Good,” Emille said. “That settles it. You’ll be staying with me until the prince and the rest of this lot deal with the…well, the vermin infestation they seem to have acquired back at the castle.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Guardsman Nigel said, “but are you sure she…that is we don’t want to be a burden—”

“I’ll hear no more of it,” Emille said. “It’s decided. Besides, what burden? It’ll be good to have someone to talk about my wayward husband to.”

“Complain, you mean,” Ned grumbled.

“Oh, sweet one,” Emille said in mock affection, running a hand along his face, “as it comes to husbands, don’t you know that they are one in the same?”

The man winced but nodded. “Very well,” he said, “seeing as it all seems settled, I suppose I’d best be off. If I’m lucky, I can catch Delilah before she goes off shift—you know, have a nice chat. Or, well, I’ll chat. Mostly, she’ll scowl and scold, but then that’s life, isn’t it?” He turned to his wife. “A kiss before I go, my dear?”

“I think not,” Emille said, pulling her face away.

Ned watched her for a moment, an almost pained look on his normally amiable, jolly face. “Very well then. I’ll return shortly.”

He walked toward the door and paused as Emille called out. “The kiss—it’ll be waiting for you. When you get back.”

Ned grinned at that, giving her a wink, and then he was gone. Cutter watched him go. No soldier or warrior this, and certainly he had not been in as many battles as Cutter himself had. And yet…in many ways, at least in all the ways that counted, Cutter thought the man was far braver than he was. And not just braver—better.

“Alright you lot,” Emille said, a strained sound to her voice that made it apparent she was struggling to hold back tears, “well, let’s not just sit around idly, eh? There’s empty plates and dishes need cleaning. You lot get to work—if you ate, you clean.”

They all rose to follow her orders. Cutter rose, too, but Emille hurried forward, putting a hand on him before he could rise. “Not you, Prince,” she said. “You come with me.”

“But I can—”

“What you can do is follow me, Prince. You need to lie down before you fall down.”

“It’s fine, Cutter,” Maeve said. “We’ll keep watch. You get some rest—I imagine you’ll need it.”

Cutter put up no more argument than that, for he didn’t have the energy. “Very well, Emille,” he said. “Lead the way.”

But as it turned out, Cutter was barely able to stand under his own power, exhausted from his wounds and lack of sleep, and the woman snorted, draping one of his arms over her shoulders before starting to guide him back to the room in which he’d awoken.

“Cutter, huh?” the woman asked in a strained voice as she helped him into the room. “Well, can’t say it doesn’t fit. Bit on the nose though, isn’t it?”

Cutter grunted. “I didn’t choose it.”

She sighed. “Well, no I suppose not.” She led him to the small cot he’d woken on and after considerable effort on both their parts, he was laying down. “Hold for a moment—I’ve got something that will help you sleep.”

“I really don’t—”

“I’ll hear no more argument out of you, Cutter, prince or not,” the woman snapped.

He watched as she moved to a side of the room, opening a cupboard and retrieving a glass and a flask containing an amber-colored liquid. She poured some of the liquid into the glass, replaced the flask, then moved toward him.

He frowned, looking at it. “What is it?”

“Does it matter?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Cutter gave her a small smile. “I suppose it doesn’t.” He took the glass, drinking it, and no sooner had the liquid gone down his throat than a pleasant numbness began to spread through his body, taking away the worst of the pain, the worst of the exhaustion.

“Better?” she asked, her voice seeming to come from very far away.

“Better,” he said, blinking eyelids that felt impossibly heavy.

The world began to slowly blur then, and the blur that was Emille nodded, glancing around. “Not much of a room, is it?”

“It’s…fine,” Cutter said muzzily.

“No, it’s not,” she countered. “Still…it might have been. You see, before…before we knew that I couldn’t have children…this was going to be the baby’s room.”

Cutter didn’t know what to say to that, thought that whatever he said could only be the wrong thing, and so he said nothing.

“I love that man, Prince,” she said. “I love him more than all the world. Love him more than all the princes and all the kingdoms in it. Do you understand that?”

“I…I think I do.”

“Then understand this,” she said, leaning in close, and though her face was only inches from his own, it, like the room behind it, was still little more than a blur. “I would do anything to keep him safe,” she hissed, “anything. And gods help the person who brings him to harm. I am a healer, Prince, it is true, but remember, I am not only that.”

“I promise you, Emille,” Cutter said, having to force the words out past a tongue that felt numb, “I don’t mean Ned any harm.”

“I believe you,” she said. “But the truth of this cruel world, Prince, is that in our lives—and in our deaths—intent has very little to do with it.”

“I’ll keep him safe, Emille,” Cutter said, his own voice sounding as if it came from very far away as he slowly sank further toward unconsciousness. “You have my word.”

She might have said something then or perhaps she did not. Either way, Cutter was beyond it, beyond the sights and sounds of the mortal world, and whatever words she might have spoken did not follow him into the darkness. The only thing that did was a memory of another promise he had made to another woman, long ago, a promise to protect her child, to protect his child, though at the time he knew it not.

The same child who had grown to the age of fifteen before he’d lost his entire village and everything he called home, before he was forced to flee into the Black Woods, the heart of the Fey power. There to be attacked by a gretchling only to flee to the burned-out shell of another village, to be forced to kill to protect himself and then, after all of it, to be made king of a kingdom so very close to the brink of destruction.

He had promised to keep the baby safe, and by any accounting, he had done a poor job.

His last thought, then, before the darkness took him, his last hope, was that this time perhaps his promise might mean something.