CHAPTER NINE

 

 

I am fire

And all I touch turns to ash.

—Prince Bernard, known as “The Crimson Prince.”

 

Half an hour later, Cutter stood with Maeve and Chall, watching as the same healer that had seen to him so recently—and who had given him a disapproving frown as he saw him up and about—examined Guardsman Nigel.

For his part, Nigel offered no complaint, mostly because he had fallen into sleep or unconsciousness practically the moment his head hit the bed’s pillow. For reasons Cutter could not understand, the man seemed to be doing worse than he had been hours before, and by the time they’d made it into the room, he’d been wheezing for breath, a green tinge to his skin that Cutter did not like.

So he and the others waited tensely as the healer performed his examination. And why not? The guardsman was in a bad way, a man didn’t need to be a healer to see that much, and should he die, not only would they be forced to watch the passing of a good man, but they would also lose their best chance—perhaps their only one—of rooting out the conspiracy in the castle and learning what guards, if any, were still loyal and which had been seduced by the Fey.

And so they did not speak as they stood near the door of the room they’d appropriated for the guardsman. They only stood and waited. And hoped, that most of all. Finally, the healer let out a heavy sigh, rising and knuckling his back as he turned.

“Well?” Chall said, sounding practically as if he were about to burst with impatience. “How is he?”

“Well,” the old man said, his voice unmistakably surly, “he’s been stabbed enough a man might think someone intended to make a kebab out of him, and I’d say he’s lost more blood than he’s got left. Fire and salt how do you think he is?”

“Uh…not good?” Chall asked.

The man rolled his eyes, walking away from the guardsman’s unconscious form and moving to Cutter. “From what I’ve seen, Prince—and from what I hear if the rumors of assassins in the castle are true,” the man said, “it seems to me that folks that get around you have a habit of dying.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Chall said. The three of them turned to regard him, and he fidgeted. “Well. I mean. The guardsman isn’t dead…is he?”

The old healer gave another sigh. “No, not dead. And if the fates will it, he might yet pull through. The poison has had some time to work its way through his system. I have taken measures to stop it, but whether or not I was in time…” He shook his head.

“Poison?” Chall asked. “But how could—”

“The assassins,” Cutter said, frowning with anger. “Back at Nigel’s house. I thought I saw a strange sheen to their blades, but I didn’t stop to think on it.”

“Damn,” Chall hissed. “That’s the last thing we need. But then…how didn’t…” He cut off, glancing at the healer before turning to Cutter and Maeve, whispering. “How didn’t Emille see it when she examined him?”

The healer cleared his throat. “Because Challadius, such poison as this is detectable only by its symptoms. Whoever this Emille is, she might be the most skilled healer in the world and still it would have gone unnoticed until those symptoms began to present themselves.”

“Shit,” Cutter said. “What can we do?”

The healer shrugged. “I’d say that you should get some rest, but as you seem bound and determined to refuse common sense, Prince, then…for the guardsman…pray. The rest is in the hands of the gods now. If we are lucky he’ll pull through but I warn you that, even if he does, he will be weak for some time.”

“Great,” Chall muttered.

Cutter nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he said to the healer.

The man raised a bushy gray eyebrow. “You want to thank me, listen to my advice and get some rest. You dying isn’t going to help the guardsman’s chances any.”

Cutter nodded. “Thanks for the advice.”

The old man shook his head slowly. “But you won’t listen, will you?”

“Soon,” Cutter said. “Only, there’s something I need to do first. Will you come back and check on him again?”

The healer glanced back at the man in the bed then frowned at Cutter again. “Why not? Maybe if I’m careful I might even be able to keep him from doing anything foolish—you know, like getting up and walking around and getting into another scrap…” He paused, eyeing Cutter’s bloody, smoke-stained clothes. “Unless, of course, I completely miss my guess.”

“You don’t.”

The man gave another disapproving shake of his head. “Well. There’s some medicines in my shop I’m going to go grab. I’ll be back soon. Think you can keep that big axe of yours in its sheath until then?”

“I’ll try.”

The man heaved a weary sigh then turned and left. Cutter and the others watched him go.

“Have I ever told you, Prince,” Chall said once the man was gone, “that you’ve got a way with people?”

Maeve snorted a laugh. “He isn’t wrong, Cutter. Anyway, what now? I imagine we’ll all be going to see Belle?”

“Not all of us,” Cutter said, meeting her gaze.

She watched him for a minute then sighed. “You mean for me to stay here.”

“I do.”

“Oh, don’t look so upset, Maeve. It only makes sense,” Chall said. “The gods know if I was needing babysitting, I couldn’t think of a better one for the job than you.”

“I don’t guess you would,” Maeve said, “considerin’ I been doing just that for more than fifteen years. Anyway, are you sure?” she asked, turning back to Cutter. “Why not leave Chall? If anyone knows how to rest, it’s him.”

“And what if an assassin comes?” Cutter asked.

Her frown deepened at that. “You think they will?”

Cutter shrugged. “Maybe. What I think is that it would be better not to take any unnecessary chances. Don’t you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll stay. But you might regret that choice if an assassin comes for you instead—with the way you’re barely able to stand up, your best hope’ll be that Chall talks long enough and they decide suicide is preferable to listening to his blather.”

Cutter didn’t bother answering that. After all, if he ended up regretting the choice, it wasn’t as if it would be the first time. Instead he nodded. “Thanks, Maeve. Lock the door behind us.”

She nodded. “Just…be safe, alright? Both of you.”

“Of course!” Chall exclaimed. “Safe as a kitten in its mother’s paws.”

As they walked out, the mage leaned in, muttering low so that Maeve wouldn’t hear as the door closed, “Assuming, of course, that the mother is a cannibal and the kitten in question has been very, very bad.”

Cutter offered the man a distracted smile, but he could spare no more than that. Now that Guardsman Nigel was safe—or, at least, as safe as Cutter could make him—he needed to talk to Belle. The woman had promised to tell him more of what she knew regarding the conspiracy in the castle and the assassins who had come for him as soon as he’d pardoned her. He didn’t like the idea of setting a known crime boss loose on the streets once more, but the simple fact was that the woman’s crimes were small evils when compared to the threat the Fey represented. No matter how much he hated the idea of setting her free, he had questions that needed answers, answers that only she possessed, and so he started down the castle hallway heading toward the dungeon.

The castle’s corridors were surprisingly silent, even given the time of night, and what few servants they passed shied away from him and the mage as if they were wild animals that might choose to bite at any moment. Cutter was used to such treatment of course, had earned it in one bloody battle after the other, in one cruelty after the other, but they seemed even more scared than usual, a thought echoed by Chall as they walked.

“Skittish bunch, aren’t they?” the mage asked as another servant’s eyes went wide at their approach and the servant in question, a young woman barely in adulthood, disappeared through the nearest door, obviously fleeing at their approach.

“Yes,” Cutter said, “yes they are.”

The door slammed shut an instant later, and Chall glanced at it as they passed. “Think they heard rumors about the assassins? That old crotchety healer knew about them.”

“Maybe,” Cutter said, frowning at the door as he walked by. Another problem, then, one he would have to deal with and soon. After all, the kingdom was in a bad way if even those who worked in the castle, in the very heart of the Known Lands power, didn’t feel safe. He promised himself that he would look into it. But first, there was Belle to see to.

They turned a corner in the hallway, and Cutter nearly stumbled over a woman knelt in the floor, wiping at it with a rag. He let out a grunt of surprise, thrusting an arm out to stop Chall from trampling over her.

A moment later, the woman realized her danger and let out a squeak of fear and surprise, sliding her backside across the floor.

“Excuse us,” Cutter said, “we mean no harm.”

The fear on the woman’s face did not fade, though. Instead, if anything, it grew worse as she gazed upon them. “I—forgive me, Prince. I’m a foolish old woman, please forgive me for—”

“It is we who should be asking to be forgiven,” Cutter said. “We were moving in haste and not watching where we were going. Are you alright?”

The woman, who appeared to be in her fifties, her gray hair pulled into a tight bun, met his eyes for only a moment before her gaze drifted back to the ground. A moment later, she was on her hands and knees, bowing so low that her forehead practically scraped the floor. “I…I’m fine, Highness, yes, thank you.”

Cutter watched her trembling with fright and glanced at Chall. The mage met his eyes with a frown, and Cutter turned back to her. “Please, rise,” he said, offering her his hand. She glanced up slowly, carefully, as if she suspected she might be struck, looking at his hand as if it were a snake preparing to bite.

Cutter only continued to stand with his arm out, doing his best to not look threatening, a job no doubt made significantly more difficult by the blood-stained bandages wrapped around various parts of him.

Yet he remained still, his arm out, making no sudden movements the same way a man might act when dealing with a frightened animal, for that was what the woman seemed then, like a hare preparing to flee. An image only enhanced when, looking at her, Cutter saw that she had a swollen lip, as well as a long scratch along one side of her face, one which appeared recent, not to mention the fact that one of her eyes was black.

Finally, though, the woman timidly reached out, taking his hand, and he pulled her gently to her feet. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked softly.

“Y-yes, Highness, I-I’m fine,” she said, offering him a shy smile.

“Good, and look—” He paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

She blinked, as if shocked to be asked. “M-my name?”

“Yes.”

She blushed then, and the smile she gave was a little less timid than the one before it. “I-it’s Claudette. If it pleases you, Highness.”

“Claudette,” he repeated. “A good name.”

She smiled again, and despite her battered appearance, the expression transformed her face into something fine. “T-thank you, Highness.”

He returned the smile. “Claudette,” he said, “if you don’t mind my asking, what happened? To your face, I mean.”

The smile immediately vanished from the woman’s face, and she grew pale. “Th-this? I-it’s nothing, Highness. I’m just an old fool who fell, that’s all.”

“You fell?”

“Yes, Highness, that’s right. Nobody’s fault, just my own at least,” she said, offering a soft, breathless laugh.

“Claudette?” he asked, waiting.

“Y-yes?”

“People don’t often get black eyes from falling.”

“N-no?”

He gave her as gentle of a smile as he could muster. “No.”

“Oh. Well…maybe…I ran into a door?”

“You can tell me the truth, Claudette,” he said. “Who did this to you? Was it a guard? Another servant? Whoever it was, I can promise you that, if you tell me, you won’t have to worry about them any longer. Whoever it is will have to find employment elsewhere.”

She gave a weak snort at that. “Kicking a king out of his own castle, that’d be a tri—” She cut off suddenly, her eyes going wide, her face paling even further as she realized what she’d said.

Cutter tensed, feeling as if he’d been struck by lightning. Slowly, he turned and looked at Chall, the mage staring at him in disbelief.

“Wait a minute,” the mage said to the woman, “do you…that is, do you mean to say that the king did this to you?”

The woman shook her head furiously, a look of horror on her face. “I—that is, please, sir, I didn’t, I meant—”

“The truth, Claudette,” Cutter said, doing his best to keep his anger from his voice. “Please.”

The woman fidgeted, clearly wanting nothing more than to turn and flee. “I-it was my fault, Highness. His Majesty is a busy man, none busier, and I was in the way. My fault entirely and—”

“No, Claudette,” he interrupted. “No. Violence is never the victim’s fault. That is a truth it took me a long time to learn…or, perhaps, to accept. But it is true for all that. Have you seen a healer?”

She winced. “N-no, my lord, forgive me but the price—”

“Will be covered by the castle treasury, of course,” Cutter said. “Now, go and see the castle healers—tell them I sent you. And Claudette? I promise you that this will never happen again.”

The woman nodded. “As you say, Majesty,” she said, bobbing her head in a low bow, then she turned and hurried away.

“A promise you can keep, do you think?” Chall asked quietly from beside him.

Cutter watched the departing figure of the woman until she turned down an intersection, then he looked at Chall, frowning. “A promise I mean to.”

“But…she…she must have been lying. Right?” Chall asked, a desperation in his voice. “I mean, the lad, he would never…”

“No,” Cutter said quietly, “no, I do not think she was lying.”

“Then what?” the mage asked. “Surely you can’t think that Matt would do such a thing?”

“Not the Matt I knew in Brighton, no,” Cutter said. “That boy cried every year come slaughtering time.” He gave a small smile as the memory came over him. “One year—not so long ago at all, really—he ran to my house demanding that I save the hogs as they were prepared for slaughter.” He shook his head, remembering the tears streaming down the boy’s face, remembered thinking, at the time, that the boy was too soft. Too soft for a world that seemed to Cutter made only of hard, sharp edges, edges he couldn’t help but run into no matter which way he turned. He remembered thinking that the lad would make a poor butcher indeed, that perhaps it had been a mistake to come to Brighton in the first place, the boy not being cut out for the rough life of living on the edges of the kingdom.

And now he had taken that same boy and made him king. Foolish, perhaps? Was the bloodied lip of the serving woman no more than proof that Cutter had thrown the boy in far over his head and that, in his flailing, not dissimilar to those desperate struggles of a drowning man, she had been struck? Were those wounds indeed the lad’s fault or were they, like so many others before them, to be laid at Cutter’s feet? More blood to add to the river that followed in his wake.

“So…what should we do then?” Chall said after they had stood in silence for over a minute.

He sighed heavily. Perhaps it had been a mistake to make the lad king. It had seemed smart at the time, when Maeve had recommended it, but then, when coming out of the clever woman’s mouth, most things did. And if it had been a mistake, it had not been hers but his, for he had known the lad his entire life while she had only been with him for months. “We do the best we can,” he said finally. “I’ll speak to Matt but first we need to see to Belle. Come on.”

He did his best to ignore the aches and pains of his abused body as they set off once again, now with a greater sense of urgency. They had set out to make Matt king, and against all odds, they had managed it, but instead of making things better for the kingdom and for Matt, somehow, they seemed to have only made things worse. He had to speak to Belle, to figure out just how bad the corruption in the city was. After all, to defeat his enemy, a man first had to find him.

 

***

 

They arrived at the dungeon entrance a short time later. It took them no more than half an hour to navigate their way there, yet by the time they’d arrived Cutter was out of breath, exhausted. Worse than that, his body was covered in a cold sweat, and he felt feverish.

The two guards assigned to the dungeon must have seen some of his suffering on his face, for they shared a glance before looking back at him. “Prince Bernard?” one asked. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Cutter managed. “Show us to the cell of the crime boss, Belle.”

The two men shared another glance. “Prince, are you sure that—”

“I’m sure,” Cutter interrupted, his pain and exhaustion making his words come out harsher than he intended. “Sorry,” he said, “but…yes. I’m sure. Forgive me but I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Of course, sir,” the man who’d spoken said, then met his companions eyes before retrieving the keys and starting down into the dungeon.

Cutter looked at Chall who frowned, giving a small shrug of his shoulders, and then they were following behind the man.

It didn’t take them long to reach the crime boss’s cell which was a good thing as Cutter counted it a victory that he was able to keep his feet under him. But whatever relief he felt at that small victory was quickly destroyed as he gazed into Belle’s cell. Or, at least, what had been the woman’s cell. He doubted it could be counted as much now considering the fact that she was no longer there.

“I-I don’t understand,” Chall said. “I thought…I thought she was here?”

Frustration and fury suddenly roared through Cutter and, before he knew it, he’d spun and lifted the dungeon guard off his feet by the front of his tunic, slamming him against the wall. “Where is she?” he growled. “What have you done with her?”

“H-Highness?” the man asked, shocked.

“Are you part of it?” Cutter demanded. “Did you think to be rid of her and steal from us whatever knowledge she might have given?”

“I-I don’t understand, Prince,” the man said. “Honest, it wasn’t me who ordered the woman removed from the cell, I swear it!”

The man was sweating, his face pale with fear. Cutter studied him, aware that his lips had pulled back from his teeth in a silent snarl. He knew this anger, knew it well, but he had thought himself rid of it. The anger demanded that he hurt the man, kill him, but Cutter had promised himself long ago that he would not be ruled by his anger, not anymore. He had been, once, and the consequences of that were ones not suffered by him alone but by the entire kingdom of the Known Lands. So he took a slow, shaky breath, his eyes never leaving the guardsman. “Then tell me who was it that ordered her release? For I swear to you that the man responsible for this will suffer before he dies.”

“Why, but Prince, it was…it was the king.”

Cutter rocked as if he’d been struck a blow, and he blinked. “What…what did you say?” he managed, his voice a thready whisper.

“I-I thought you knew,” the man stammered. “I had thought, perhaps you wanted to look over her cell to see if anything was left behind, perhaps to send to her family or…or…”

Cutter’s thoughts were a jumbled mess of confusion, but his mind latched onto the last bit of what the guardsman had said. “To send to her family?” he asked. “Why would we do that?” he finished, suddenly terribly certain that he knew the answer already.

The guardsman cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Majesty, but isn’t…isn’t that how it’s done? After…after executions, I mean?”

And there it was. Some part of him had known that must be it, but the realization that he was right was ill comfort. “Where?” he demanded. “Where was she taken? The town square?”

It was the usual place, where all executions had been held since his father’s time. His father had believed that the townspeople should be given a chance to lend their voices to the proceedings, so that, should any feel the execution was in error or unjust, they might be given opportunity to say as much.

“N-no, Prince,” the guardsman said, “sh-she was taken to the king’s courtyard, here in the castle.”

“His private courtyard?” Chall asked, the tone of his voice making it clear that he was as surprised by that as Cutter himself.

“Y-yes, my lord,” the guardsman said.

“But why would she be taken—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cutter interrupted the mage. “When was she taken?”

“Highness?” the guard asked.

“When?” Cutter demanded.

“N-not half an hour ago,” the guardsman said. “F-forgive me, Prince, but I thought you knew.”

Cutter let go of the guardsman’s tunic, allowing the man to drop, then turned to Chall. “Half an hour,” he repeated. “If we hurry, maybe we can stop this folly before it’s too late.”

Had someone asked Cutter, before that moment, if he had it in him to run, he’d have told them there was no chance. And he’d have been wrong.

 

***

 

As they hurried through the castle corridors, blood began to seep through the bandages Emille had wrapped around Cutter’s wounds, dripping from his fingers and leaving a bloody trail behind him. But Cutter was all too aware of what was at stake, so he gritted his teeth against the pain and, in time, they came to the hallway leading to the king’s private courtyard.

Cutter took a deep, ragged breath, and started in the direction of the two guards stationed at the courtyard’s entrance and the familiar figure—currently standing with his back turned to Cutter and Chall—who appeared to be speaking with them.

“—I’m your king, damnit!” Feledias was shouting as Cutter and Chall drew closer.

The guards winced, clearly embarrassed. “Forgive me, Prince,” one said, “but that is no longer true. I was present for King Matthias’s coronation and—”

“Fine,” Feledias growled, “but I’m still your prince, and I demand you let me through!”

The guards looked apologetic—that Cutter saw on their faces—but he also saw that they didn’t look in any danger of moving from where they blocked the door to the courtyard.

“Feledias.”

His brother turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Bernard,” he said, exasperated, “these, these men won’t allow me—” He cut off, eyeing Cutter and, more specifically, his wounds, closer. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, brother, but you look like shit.”

Cutter gave him a small, weary smile. “Must be improving then. Anyway, what’s going on?”

“What’s going on,” Feledias said, “is that these guards—” he gestured angrily at the two men—“think to tell me where I can and cannot go in my own castle!”

“Well,” Chall offered, “I mean, it isn’t exactly yours anymore, though…is it?”

Feledias turned an angry frown on the mage but before he could say anything Cutter held up a hand, glancing at the guards. “Listen,” he said, “a woman has been taken through here to be executed—Belle is her name. We need to speak with her. It’s important.”

The guard who’d spoken to Feledias winced, shaking his head. “Forgive me, Prince Bernard, but I’m afraid that’s out of the question. As I was telling your brother, Prince Feledias, His Majesty was very clear that the proceedings should not be disturbed except by his order and his order alone.”

“Fire and salt man, it’s a mistake!” Chall said. “That woman whose head you’re about to lop off is the key to fixing the problems with New Daltenia! You do want to fix those problems, don’t you?”

The apologetic expression left the guard’s face at that to be replaced by one of anger. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said in a tone lacking any contrition, “but what I want is irrelevant. His Majesty has given his orders, and I mean to see that they are carried out.”

Chall let out an angry huff, opening his mouth again, no doubt to venture some scathing comment, but Cutter put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s right, Chall,” he said wearily. “These men have their orders. Now come on—let’s leave them to it.”

“But, Prince,” Chall said, shocked, “you can’t be serious, it—”

“I am serious,” Cutter said. He turned to the guards. “Sorry for the trouble, Guardsman…”

“Alec, Prince,” the man said, surprised.

“Guardsman Alec,” Cutter said, nodding. “Come,” he said to Feledias and Chall, then he turned and walked away.

A moment later, the two followed, obviously surprised and more than a little angry. No one spoke until they got out of ear shot of the guards then Chall let out an angry huff. “Forgive me, Prince, but as I understood it, it was imperative that we talked to this Belle, woman. You can’t seriously plan on just letting them kill her!”

“No, Bernard’s right,” Feledias said wearily. “What choice do we have? If we tried to force our way through, we’d have to hurt those guards, maybe kill them, and even then we wouldn’t make it far. I saw more escort the woman through the hall—a dozen at least. Enough even to cause my dear brother here problems were he at his best and…”

“And I’m far from it,” Cutter finished.

“So what then?” Chall demanded. “We’re just going to let her be killed?”

“No,” Cutter said. “That we also cannot do. Still…” He turned, glancing meaningfully at the mage. “Where the direct approach fails, sometimes a more…indirect method might better serve.”

Chall blinked. “You mean some sort of…trick?”

Cutter gave the man a small smile as they turned a corner in the hallway then halted. “Or an illusion.”

Chall winced, and Feledias gave a grunt. “The Crimson Prince recommending subtlety,” he said, shaking his head. “What would your fans think?”

“Doubt I have any of those,” Cutter said, then turned to Chall. “Can you do it?”

Chall sighed heavily. “You should pay me more.”

“Chall? I don’t pay you at all. Now, can you do it?”

The mage gave a huff. “Just give me a minute, alright?” he asked. “It isn’t as if I can just wave my hands and create an illusion, is it?”

“I’m no expert,” Feledias said, “but it seemed to me, on those occasions when I saw you use your magic, that that was exactly what you did.”

Chall scowled. “Trust me, Prince, there’s more to it than just muttering some words and making something appear—anyone can do that.” He noted their two incredulous looks and sighed. “Fine, not anyone, but the thing about illusions is they’re only as strong as the belief of those they are used against. It wouldn’t do, for example, for me to spot a likely wench and suddenly appear a hundred pounds lighter and like the most handsome man in the world, would it? Because it wouldn’t be believable. The mind wouldn’t be able to accept the change, what it was seeing, and the illusion would fall apart.”

“Plus,” Cutter offered, “it seems that such a thing would be…well, a bit morally suspect.”

“Interesting words coming from you,” Chall snapped, then winced. “Sorry. Anyway, a man—even a fat one—has needs, doesn’t he?”

“Do you mean…do you mean to say you’ve tried it?” Feledias asked.

“Wouldn’t you?” Chall demanded. “Now, quiet, both of you—let me think.”

The mage closed his eyes, lost in thought, and Cutter waited impatiently, fighting back the urge to tell him to hurry. After all, the mage knew their situation as well as he did, and while Chall might make a mockery of most things, Cutter knew that, beneath his flippant exterior, the man hid a concern and empathy for his fellow man that was greater than most.

Still, he felt a heady sense of relief when the mage looked up. “Alright,” he said, “I think I’ve got it. You two, stay here. And whatever you do, stay still, damnit.”

Before Cutter or Feledias could respond, Chall walked back to the corner of the hallway, glancing around it at the two guards still stationed some distance away. Then the mage took a slow, deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Follow orders, do you?” Cutter heard him mutter. “Let’s just see.”

The mage continued to stand there, nothing happening so far as Cutter could see, and Feledias let out a quiet, angry hiss. “We don’t have time for this,” he whispered. “We need to—” But he cut off at the sudden sound of shouting from somewhere down the hallway.

A moment later, a figure in a guardsman’s uniform rushed past the opening to the hallway in which they stood, yelling as he did.

“To arms!” the figure roared in a voice that thundered in the hallway, “The king is attacked and calls for aid! Assassins in the castle! Come on, damn you!”

The figure turned then, hurrying back the way it had come, deeper into the castle. For several seconds, nothing happened, and Feledias let out another angry hiss, starting forward, “This is ridiculous, we need—”

“Quiet,” Cutter said, catching the man by the arm, “don’t move.”

A few seconds later they heard the sound of footsteps, and the two guards they’d spoken with were hurrying past. One of them, the one named Alec, glanced in their direction but seemed to look through them, proof of the mage’s magic, then he hurried on with his companion, the two men drawing their swords.

Cutter stood listening to the sounds of their departing footsteps until Chall let out a weary sigh, turning back to them. The man’s face looked pale and, when he spoke, he did so in a dry croak. “That ought to…do it.”

“You alright?” Cutter said, moving forward.

“Me?” the mage asked. “I’m fine, never been—” He cut off as the strength seemed to leave his legs, and he would have fallen had Cutter not reached out and steadied him with an effort that nearly made him fall instead. Feledias was there a second later, steadying them both.

“A yelling soldier conjured out of thin air. I must admit,” Cutter’s brother said, “that was damned impressive.”

“Sure,” Chall muttered, “and without so much as a single farmer’s daughter here to see it.”

Feledias grunted. “All in all,” he said, glancing at Cutter, “I find I much prefer being on this side of his illusions.”

Cutter nodded in agreement. “Come on—we have to hurry.”

And so they did, rushing down the hallway as quick as Cutter’s wounds and Chall’s exhaustion would allow. Less than a minute later, they were at the door to the castle courtyard. Cutter didn’t hesitate, slamming the door open and walking inside.

The smell of grass and flowers struck him immediately as he stepped through the door. The king’s courtyard was so different from the stone castle hallways that it almost seemed as if he walked into another world. Green grass swayed in a slight breeze, flowers, planted and maintained by the castle servants, rose in a profusion of color all around, and a small fountain bubbled beside a bench.

The courtyard was meant to be a place of relaxation and calm, where the city’s ruler might find a quiet moment in the demanding schedule of a king to meditate and find some solace from the many decisions and problems which plagued him. Cutter could count on one hand the times he’d visited the place, for during the time before his exile from the city, the man he had been had cared nothing for calm or relaxation. What solace, what peace he had found had only been that which came from defeating his enemies, from hewing them down with his axe.

The half a dozen guardsmen who now stood in a circle in the center of the courtyard also seemed immune to the tranquility the place offered. They paid no attention to the carefully maintained grass and flowers, nor did they seem to take any notice of the fountain’s gentle burbling. Instead, all their attention was focused on a figure who knelt at their center, her head placed on a headsman’s block. A figure Cutter recognized immediately as Belle, despite the fact that judging by the woman’s bloodied, bruised face, she had been ill-used since last they’d spoken.

A mixture of emotions ran through him then. There was relief, yes, relief at finding the woman alive, at discovering that they had not been too late. But mostly, as he stared at her bruised and battered face, there was anger. An old, familiar anger, one that had ruled him for most of his adult life. Yet as dangerous as he knew that anger was, he could not let it go. The woman had been set to be executed but, apparently, that had not been enough. Someone had given her a bad beating, so bad that the one administering it could only have enjoyed it. True, Cutter had a reputation for violence—one he’d earned a thousand times over the years—but even he had never sunk so low as to beat a woman in chains.

And while that anger was the greatest of what he felt, there was something else too…shame. He had promised the woman his protection in exchange for her help, and even a blind man could see that, whatever she had been through in the last hours, it had not been protected. As he hurried forward, he found himself thinking of the time he’d first met her.

So what are you then, Prince? she had asked him. Are you fire or are you ice?

He had not answered her then, had been unwilling to play her game, but he had considered her words, later, and now he knew the answer. I am fire, he thought. I am fire and all I touch turns to ash.

“—and so, Belle Eskral, criminal known in the city as ‘The Scorpion,’” said one of the men, marked as a captain by the badge on his uniform, “for your crimes against the city of New Daltenia and its people, for your trespasses against the kingdom of the Known Lands and King Matthias, its rightful ruler, you are hereby sentenced to—”

“Wait!” Cutter yelled as he half-ran, half-shuffled forward.

The guardsmen turned, several of them drawing their swords as they did. “What is the meaning of thi—” the captain began, then his eyes went wide. “Prince Bernard?” he asked, confused.

“It’s me,” Cutter rasped as he came to stand in front of the man.

“B-but Highness,” the captain asked, “what are you doing here?”

“There’s…been a mistake,” Cutter panted.

“Mistake, Prince?”

“This woman,” he said, gesturing at Belle who was staring at him with an unreadable expression on her bloody face. “I offered her a pardon for her help. She is to be released into my custody at once.”

The captain glanced at his guardsmen then finally turned back to Cutter. “Forgive me, Prince, but I can’t do that.”

“Can’t?” Chall demanded from beside Cutter. “Listen, Captain, I don’t know if you’re aware how all of this works, but your prince just gave you a direct order. Now, release her and—”

“I will not,” the captain said, staring at Chall with disgust before turning back to Cutter. “I am sorry, Prince,” he said in a voice that indicated he wasn’t sorry in the least, “but I have orders from His Majesty King Matthias himself to execute this prisoner.”

“No, listen,” Cutter said, “there’s been a mistake, alright? This woman—”

“This prisoner,” the captain interrupted, “has been the bane of New Daltenia for many years, a disgusting individual who has well-earned the king’s wise sentence. Now, if you will excuse me—”

The man cut off at the sound of high-pitched, rasping laughter, and they all turned to regard Belle where she sat with her neck still placed in the headsman’s block. “I am a bane, is that it, Captain Revan?” she rasped. “I wonder, did you say as much these last five years? Surely I was not too disgusting for you to refuse the coin my men bribed you with each month.”

“Shut up, wench!” the man growled, and the woman let out a cry of pain and surprise as he slapped her hard across the mouth.

Belle hocked and spat out a mouthful of blood. “Oh, a big man aren’t you, Captain? Hitting a woman while her hands are chained and—”

“Enough!” he roared, rearing his arm back to strike her again but, before he could, Cutter grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

“Don’t do that,” he growled. The anger was close now, so very close, and he felt his chest rising and falling in labored, rapid breaths.

“My, my,” Belle said as the captain stared at Cutter, a mixture of emotions—anger chief among them—chasing their way across his features. “I wonder, is this what the princess feels like as she watches the valiant knight charge toward the castle on his horse, intent on slaying the dragon therein and rescuing her from her imprisonment?”

Cutter ignored her, watching the captain instead and, after a moment, the man jerked his arm away with a look of disgust. “You overstep yourself, Prince,” he said. “This execution will take place, on order of the king himself. Or…” he went on, his eyes narrowing and a small, humorless smile coming to his face, “would you defy the king’s own order?”

The threat was clear enough in the man’s tone, but he chose to emphasize it anyway, glancing at the other guardsmen meaningfully before looking back at Cutter.

“What do you want to do, brother?” Feledias asked quietly from beside him, and Cutter glanced at him to see that his brother’s hand was on his sword.

Bloodshed was close, then, so very close. Cutter had seen enough of it, after all, to recognize its coming. And the truth was that part of him, the angriest part and, likely, the largest part, welcomed it. Violence. Blood. Victory. A struggle in which there were no doubts or worries to plague him, where who was in the right was determined only by the one left standing when the thing was done.

Still, he fought against the temptation, taking a slow breath. “Of course I would not defy the king,” he said quietly, meeting the captain’s eyes, “but, as I told you, there has been a mistake. The crime boss Belle is working with the crown and so has been pardoned. If you would but wait, I will speak to the king of it—he will send an order for you and your men to stand down.”

The captain stared at him for several seconds, thinking it through and, by the expression on his face coming to a conclusion that would not be to Cutter’s liking. But it was Belle who spoke. “Oh, Prince,” she said, and he turned to see her give him a humorless smile, “do you not see? Life is no storybook, and I am no princess. As for the dragon…well, it is real enough, but it is the world itself. And even you, for all your talents, cannot slay the world.”

“Shut up, you filth,” the captain growled.

“Or what?” Belle asked. “You’ll kill me?” She gave a soft laugh then winced as if in pain. “I am reminded, Prince,” she said, turning to Cutter, “of the time we first met. Do you remember?”

Cutter frowned. “I remember.”

“In my own castle, was it not?”

“So you called it,” Cutter said, wondering what she was getting at.

She inclined her head. “You thought me a dragon then, didn’t you? And perhaps you were right. A dragon in her den, nesting on her hoard. Coins, yes, but not just that, for in this world of doubt and fear, coins are not the finest of treasures, are they?”

Cutter glanced at Chall, and the mage gave a small shrug of his shoulders as if to say that he had no idea what she was talking about either. “What is, then?” he asked.

“Oh, but you know, don’t you?” she asked. “It is what all men seek—you as well. It is what brought you to my cell and what, in turn, has brought you here, to my grave. Do you understand?”

And then, Cutter did. What could be more valuable to a crime boss than coin? Well, that was an easy enough question to answer—information. Information regarding which guards could be bribed and which could not, the dirty secrets of men and women, used to blackmail them to her own gain, information used as a shield to keep her safe. “Yes,” he said finally.

“Good,” she said. “Perhaps not so big a fool as I thought. And I know what treasure it is that you seek, Prince, know it better, perhaps, than even you know yourself.”

“And what treasure is that?”

She favored him with a bloody smile. “Why, the most important of all, of course—the truth. They call me criminal, Prince, and no doubt they are right to do so, but I have spent my life dealing with truth. It is, after all, far more…marketable than lies. And I know some truths that you might find…most interesting.”

“What truths?”

She glanced at the guardsmen surrounding them then gave a shake of her head. “Come, Prince. Do you know nothing of dragons? They do not carry their hoard with them—they keep it some place safe.”

“In their den,” Cutter said.

“Just so. Now, if you—”

“Enough!” the captain growled. A metallic ringing filled the air as he drew his sword and Cutter braced, mustering what little strength he had left as he prepared to defend himself. But the man did not rush after him, as he’d first thought; instead he took several quick steps forward, raising his blade.

Cutter realized then, what the man meant to do. He lunged forward, but his wounds slowed him, and even had they not, he doubted he would have been fast enough, for the blade seemed to move with its own deadly imperative, little more than a metallic blur cutting through the air. Then, before anyone else could react, it cleaved into the woman’s neck in a crimson spray.

Cutter stared in disbelief as the headless body slumped to the ground. Behind him, he heard a gasp, heard someone else—likely Chall—growing sick, but he barely noticed. All his attention was on the woman. The woman who had held the answers to the many questions plaguing him. The woman he had promised mercy.

“There,” a voice said, “now that nasty job’s finished, by the king’s order.”

The voice pulled him out of his stupor, and his eyes drifted up to the captain who was running a rag down the crimson-stained blade of his sword, a look of faint disgust on his face.

“You,” Cutter growled, the word, even to him, sounding barely understandable, as if it came from the throat of some wild beast.

The man paused in his labors, turning to Cutter. At first, he looked annoyed, but he must have seen something in Cutter’s face, for he paled. “I did what I did by the king’s order,” the captain said hurriedly. “I cannot be faulted for that, for I am only showing my loyalty to—”

Wounded or not, exhausted or not, Cutter found himself moving forward, lumbering toward the man.

“N-now you just wait a minute—” the man said, backing up then letting out a startled cry as he fetched up against one of the ornamental statues placed in the gardens. “I—”

The man managed nothing else before Cutter’s hands were on him, jerking him up in the air. “I promised her mercy,” he growled.

“Mercy is for the innocent,” the captain said and a moment later, hot, sharp pain blossomed in Cutter’s side, and he stared down to see that the man had plunged a dagger into him. It hurt, but even that pain was a distant thing next to his anger. Cutter remembered, later, looking at the statue, made of hard stone, meant to last for generations. He remembered, also, grabbing hold of the back of the man’s head. But that was all. Then a red haze descended upon him, and he knew nothing else.