CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

 

 

A plan is a great comfort.

At least, that is, until the dying starts.

—General Ichavian, famed military strategist

 

“Mae, is it too late to say I don’t love this plan?”

Maeve’s nerves were high, and she nearly screamed at the unexpected voice, then turned to scowl at Challadius where he stood behind her in the alleyway. Priest was next, the historian Petran Quinn in the back, looking like he’d rather be just about anywhere than standing less than a hundred feet from the castle gate. Maeve couldn’t blame him. After all, the castle was full of people who would no doubt be thrilled to find them—and then proceed to make a game of killing them terribly.

“Maybe it’s a bit late,” she hissed.

“Anyway, what part of the plan don’t you like?” Petran asked, his eyes wide and terrified.

“Well,” Chall said consideringly, “I won’t lie to you, Petran—the whole dying horribly bit has given me a little pause.”

The historian practically turned green at that, and Maeve wished, not for the first time, that she hadn’t brought him along. The problem, though, was that they needed him. No one else knew the layout of the servants’ quarters—their best, and likely only chance of making it even remotely close to Matt’s bedchambers. Without him, they’d likely stumble around blindly until one servant or another alerted the guards to their presence and then came the whole dying horribly bit, as Chall put it.

“Maybe…maybe we had best go over the plan one more time, Lady Maeve,” the historian managed in a dry croak.

“Fire and salt but I hate you,” she whispered to Chall.

The mage raised an eyebrow. “What happened to all that love talk?”

“I’m complex,” she said dryly. “I can do both.” Then she turned back to Petran. “Anyway, Petran, once more, it’s simple enough. Chall will create an illusion to get us past the gate and into the castle. From there, you’ll lead us through the servant corridors and get us as close as you can to the king’s bedchamber.”

“And…then?”

Maeve fought back the urge to hiss in frustration. They’d gone over the plan at least half a dozen times before they’d left Ned and Emille’s home, but she knew that Petran was just afraid, that was all, and the fact was, he had a right to be. After all, it wasn’t often a person tried to break into a castle to kidnap a king and far less often that they succeeded.

“Then you can stay in the corridors,” Maeve said. “If you’re alone, it’s likely the guards won’t bother you. Meanwhile, we three will get to the king’s chambers—”

“Far easier said than done,” Chall interrupted.

She did her best to ignore him, still looking at Petran. “There, Priest and I will watch the door while Chall does…well. Whatever it is he does. Besides bitching, that is.”

Priest nodded. “Simple.”

“Sure,” Chall said, “but then so’s dying. In case anyone’s forgotten, there are guards outside the king’s chambers, and somehow I doubt they’re likely to just let us by without a question or two.”

“You just worry about figuring out what’s going on with Matt,” Maeve said, then met Priest’s eyes. “We’ll handle the rest.” For as long as we can, anyway.

Priest gave a nod, making it clear he understood that if things went badly—which they seemed very, very likely to do—then their mission, such as it was, could only end one way.

“Alright then,” Maeve said, “everyone ready?”

Chall gave a snort, Petran trembled, and Priest nodded. Not a resounding vote of confidence, maybe, but then she thought it likely the best she was going to get, so she turned to the mage. “Alright, Chall. We’re good. Are you…that is, are you sure you’re okay?”

He grinned. “Sure, Mae. Fit as a fiddle—one that’s been trampled by horses anyway. Still…” He paused, his smile widening. “The rest helped.”

Maeve felt her face flush with heat at that. “Just get on with it, you bastard,” she said, trying for scolding and not quite making it.

He laughed softly. “Alright then. No one move any more than you have to, and for the gods’ sake don’t talk.”

He closed his eyes, and Maeve suddenly felt her skin break out in gooseflesh. One moment, she was staring at Challadius, her longtime companion, and the next, she was looking directly at the features of Rolph, the man from Two Rivers and now bodyguard to the king.

She turned to check on the other two and saw that they, also, had changed. In the place of Priest and Petran stood two women, the faces of which Maeve recognized from the “advisors” that had been gathered in the audience chamber. Maeve looked at her own hands and saw that they were still a woman’s hands, though ones, it had to be said, much younger than her own.

She frowned at Chall. “We’re all women.”

The mage cleared his throat. “They’re the only ones I could remember well enough.”

Maeve rolled her eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

He winced. “Anyway, how do I look?”

“Fine,” she said. “Except the nose.”

He frowned at that. “What about the nose?”

“Well, it’s a bit…mushy, isn’t it?”

He sighed. “Always the damned nose.” He closed his eye again, waving a hand in front of his face and despite the fact that Maeve had seen the mage work his magic dozens, likely hundreds of times, it was disconcerting to watch the mashed nose shift and change. “Better?” he asked.

“Good enough anyway,” she said.

“Good,” he said, “then let’s hurry—I can’t hold this for long.”

Maeve glanced at the others, giving a nod. Priest returned it, and she waited for another moment until the woman that was Petran gave a shaky nod of her own. Then they started toward the gate.

It was odd, for while the mage’s magic might change their appearance, she still felt like herself, and so it was difficult not to imagine that the guards would cut them down as soon as they neared the gate. But as they approached, none of the four men stationed there rushed forward with swords drawn and in another minute they were standing before them.

“The gate,” Chall barked. “Open it.”

The four guards glanced oddly at each other, likely wondering at the change in the man’s voice, for though Chall had clearly made an effort to sound different, Maeve could recognize his voice just the same.

“Well?” Chall demanded, and while the guards might have thought it strange that he sounded differently, they apparently didn’t want to risk Rolph’s ire, for they hurriedly went about the task and in moments the gate was swinging open.

“Well,” Maeve said as they approached the castle door, “that was easy enough.”

“For you, maybe,” Chall responded in a strained voice, and she glanced over to see that he was sweating. Only, the sweat looked odd, out of place, as if it was embedded in his skin, and it took her a moment to realize that what she was seeing was the skin on Chall’s face, not the illusion’s.

“Chall,” she said softly as they neared the door, “you’re sweating.”

“Shit,” he responded, his voice still stounding strained as if he moved under some great weight. “We have to hurry, I’m losing it.”

They approached the guards at the door and thankfully these, at least, opened it without a word. Then they were through, the door closing behind them.

Maeve glanced around, making sure no one was in ear shot, then turned to the woman that was Petran. “Well? Where’s the nearest entrance?”

“Just…that is, just a moment,” he said.

“We don’t have a moment, Petran,” Chall hissed. “Any second now, I’m going to lose the spell and then…”

“Easy,” Maeve said in a soothing tone to the historian, “just take it easy. You can do this, Petran—the entrance. Where is it?”

The historian took a slow, deep breath, visibly trying to gather himself. “This way.”

He started past her at a walk, and Chall grunted. “Better move faster, Petran, unless you want to feel a headman’s axe for research purposes.”

The historian didn’t need anymore encouragement than that, and luckily no guards or servants waited between them and the entrance to the hidden corridors, for if they had, they would have no doubt been curious why a group of four were running down the hallway, king’s advisors or not.

Petran stopped in front of a statue, pulling on one of its arms, and a moment later it slid away revealing a corridor. They hurried inside, and Chall collapsed as Priest pulled the lever to close the door once more.

Maeve hurried to the mage’s side where he sat propped with his back against the thin corridor’s wall. “Chall,” she said, unable to keep the panic from her voice, “are you okay?”

“Fine,” the mage rasped through gritted teeth, though she needed only look at his face—and it was his again, thank the gods—to see that he was lying.

“How bad is it?” she asked, glancing worriedly at the hand he had over his stomach where he had taken the wound. She lifted his fingers and saw that they were sticky with bloody. “Oh gods, Chall, you’re bleeding again.”

The mage gave her a weak grin. “Just a little blood, Mae. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“What choice do I have?” he asked. “Priest, why don’t you help me up, eh?” The man stepped forward without comment and between him and Maeve they managed to get the exhausted mage to his feet.

Chall swayed for a moment then met Maeve’s eyes, but she didn’t like the way his pupils seemed to swim in their sockets. “Alright,” he said, “let’s go—if given a choice, I’d rather die in a king’s chambers than a servant’s corridor.”

Maeve wanted to call it off then, but she knew that to do so would be to doom the kingdom, and no doubt them as well. After all, they were too far in now, so she gave a grim nod, turning to the historian. “Lead on, Petran.”

The historian complied without comment, and then they were moving through the corridors. They passed several servants on their way who marked their passage with curious, nervous stares, and Maeve watched as a serving man rushed off, no doubt to tell the nearest guards. She winced, knowing there was nothing they could do to stop him, nothing, at least, short of killing the man who for all they knew was innocent. Their only choice, then, was to count on speed, and so they did, jogging through the corridors as quickly as they could while helping the dizzy mage along.

Soon they came to a wall, and Chall hissed. “A dead end. Damnit, Petran, I thought you knew—”

“If I am correct,” the historian said, “this entrance should open up two halls over from the king’s own chambers, near the guard station.”

“Near the guard station?” Chall wheezed. “Fire and salt, historian, do you want to get us killed?”

“It is the closest exit!” the historian said defensively.

“We’ll have to backtrack,” Chall said, turning to Maeve.

Maeve considered for a moment then shook her head. “No. We don’t have time. The guards will know we’re here soon, if they don’t already. We have to go—now.”

“Maeve’s right,” Priest offered. “One of the servants will tell them.”

“Fine,” Chall said, waving a hand toward the door. “After you, Priest.”

The man nodded, moving toward the wall and pulling the lever. A moment later, part of the stone wall slid away, revealing the hallway beyond.

Priest stepped forward, looking both ways before turning back to Maeve, nodding. “Clear.”

“Sure,” Chall said, “but for how long?”

“How about we don’t stick around to find out?” Maeve asked, taking his arm and following Priest back out into the hallway. She turned back to the historian, standing there with a lost look on his face. “Petran…if we don’t make it—”

The man swallowed, nodding. “I will find the truth if I can, Lady Maeve. It is all I have ever done.”

She met his eyes. “Good luck, historian.”

“To you as well.”

They were moving then, hurrying through the hallway as much as Chall’s exhaustion and wound would allow until Priest paused at the intersection that Maeve knew led to Matt’s chambers. The man glanced around then back at Maeve. “Two guards.”

“Damn,” Chall said. “Suppose it was too much to hope that they decided to take the day off. What do we—”

“I’ll take care of them,” Priest said, and before either Maeve or Chall could say anything else the man turned and stepped into the hall, moving in the direction of the guards.

Maeve heard the guards say something, though she could not make out the words and didn’t need to in any case as it was obvious to her that they would be asking after why Priest had come. Just as it was obvious by the abrupt grunts and a cry—quickly silenced—that Priest had chosen to let his fists answer for him. In another minute, the man appeared from around the corner again, looking as composed as he had before. “The door’s clear.”

Maeve nodded, readjusting Chall’s arm on her shoulder then turning into the hallway to see the two guards lying unconscious on the ground, neither of them having managed to draw their blades.

“You know, Priest,” Chall said matter-of-factly, “you really are frightening.”

The man said nothing to that as they continued on, stepping over the fallen guards to reach the door. Priest tried the handle and turned back to Maeve. “Locked.”

“It’s alright,” she said, “I’ve got this.”

She took out a knife—the smallest she carried—and began to work it into the gap where the door met the frame, trying to catch the latch.

“Come on, Maeve,” Chall said.

“I’m trying,” she snapped. “It isn’t as if I sit around practicing, is it?”

“Well, maybe you should.”

Maeve chose not to respond to that—mostly because her most likely response would be to commit murder in the hallway—instead gritting her teeth and continuing her efforts.

“Maeve,” Chall said again after a moment.

“Damnit, Chall,” she said, turning to look at him, “I’m tryi—” She cut off as she noticed that the mage wasn’t staring at her but was, instead, looking down the hallway. Maeve followed his gaze and saw a woman dressed in servant’s garments standing at the end of the hallway. She appeared to be middle-aged and was cradling an armful of what appeared to be candlesticks, no doubt meant for cleaning.

For a frozen moment in time, the woman stared at the unconscious guards and the three of them, the knife Maeve held still stuck in the doorway. That moment stretched and stretched, a thousand thoughts—panicked ones, mostly—running through Maeve’s mind in an instant. Then, like a bubble grown too large, burst. The woman dropped the candlesticks she was holding, screamed, and ran.

“Guards!” she shouted.

“Well,” Chall said grimly, “there’s that.”

Maeve didn’t waste time on words, for she knew that any minute the woman’s screams would summon the guards. Guards who, finding them standing over two of their unconscious comrades and trying to break into the king’s bedchamber, likely wouldn’t bother with any questions. Instead, she turned back to the door, hissing and cursing as she worked at the latch.

Finally, it gave with a metallic snap, and she heaved a heavy sigh of relief. “Quiet now,” she said, turning back to the others, then she slowly pushed the door open.

The three of them stepped inside, and Maeve was surprised to find that the room was dark—apparently, Matt slept hard. He must have been, to not have been awakened by the woman’s shouts or the sounds of fighting outside in the hallway. She glanced at the bed and saw that indeed the young man’s form was there, underneath the blankets, his back to the door.

“Sleeps like the dead, that one,” Chall whispered.

Maeve shot a scowl at the mage, holding a finger to her lips, then started toward the bed.

“Ah, Maeve the Marvelous,” a voice said, freezing her in her tracks, “welcome back.”

Maeve thought she knew that voice. She hoped, prayed, that she was wrong, but light bloomed in the darkness, and she turned to see the assassin, Felara, sitting reclined in a chair, her feet propped up on the table, the lantern she had just lit sitting on its surface. The woman eyed her, raising an eyebrow as she picked at her fingernails with a knife.

“What…how did—” Maeve began, but the woman waved a dismissive hand.

She sighed. “Truly, I am disappointed. The world’s best assassin, they call you.” She rolled her eyes. “It seems like in this, as in so much else, the bards have exaggerated. You see, Lady Maeve, I thought you might be back, you and your friends. And I, being a loyal citizen of the Known Lands, could not stand idly by while you killed our king.”

Maeve looked over at the bed and saw Matt sitting up, a grim expression on his face, one that looked alien on his youthful features. “Matt, we didn’t come to kill you,” she said, “we came to help—”

Loud laughter from the woman drowned out her words. “Come now, Maeve,” she said, shaking her head. “You show up in the dead of the night, holding a knife, and we’re to believe you came for some nice chat, is that it?”

Maeve glanced at the blade in her head and winced, turning back to Matt.

“Maeve,” Chall said, warning in his tone, “the guards are coming.”

“Bar the door,” she said, “hold them for as long as you can. Listen, Matt—”

“Your Highness,” the assassin snapped.

“There’s something wrong with you,” Maeve spoke on, aware of the sound of booted feet coming down the hallway. “Back in Two Rivers, the creature, Emma, she…she possessed you, somehow and—”

The woman laughed, but Matt held up his hand, silencing her. “P-possessed me?” he asked, his eyes wide and frightened. “A-are you sure?”

“We…we’re pretty certain, yes,” Maeve said.

“Sire, I really don’t think we should let her—”

“Silence,” Matt shouted, his voice shaking with fury, and the woman quieted. That done, Matt turned back to Maeve. “You…you said I’m possessed?”

“We believe so.”

“Oh, gods,” he breathed, then he buried his face in his hands and began to sob. There was a strange quality to those sobs, one Maeve couldn’t put her finger on until a moment later, for then he wasn’t sobbing any longer but laughing as he raised his head. “Oh, Maeve, but you really are a fool, aren’t you?”

There was a strange, almost feminine quality to the young man’s voice, and Maeve frowned, looking at him. “Matt?”

The youth gave a cunning, cruel smile then. “Not anymore.” He waved his hand. “Anyway, I’m bored. You may finish with them.”

It was clear he was talking to the assassin, and the woman smiled as she rose. “Thank you, Majesty.”

“Matt, please,” Maeve said, moving toward him, “don’t do this. We care about you, your father cares about you. We only want to help.”

He looked at her, shaking his head again. “Pathetic,” he sneered, and that was alright, for Maeve was close now, falling on her knees before him, her hands grasping desperately at his trouser legs.

“Please, Matt, we need you, and you need us. Please, let us help you,” she said, her head down.

“No,” the king said, slapping her hands away. “I don’t think so.”

“Y-you’re sure?” she said.

“Yes, I’m sure, damn you!”

“Very well,” Maeve said, giving up the pretend sobs. “Then I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for wha—”

He never got to finish the sentence, for Maeve slammed the handle of her knife into his temple in one smooth motion. Fey-possessed or not, the human body was still the human body and so this one did what they all do when struck in such a way—it promptly went unconscious.

Matt collapsed to the bed in a heap, and Maeve rose, turning to the assassin. “Priest, watch the door,” she said, eyeing the woman. “Chall, do what you can. I’ll take care of her.”

The woman, Felara, shook her head, her small smile well in place. “Clever,” she said, “but you know it makes no difference in the end. You cannot best me—that, I believe, we have already discovered.”

A moment later, Maeve heard the sound of the guards banging on the door, trying to break their way in. It wouldn’t take them long, but she couldn’t think of it. Instead, she thought only of the woman standing before her, that and nothing else. She had been distracted before—she could not allow herself to be distracted now.

She drew a second knife, twin to the first and the woman did the same, grinning all the while. Then, slowly, she stepped away from the table and they began to circle each other. “You know,” Felara said, “I’m going to enjoy this.”

“That makes one of us,” Maeve said. Then she charged.

 

***

 

Chall glanced at Maeve and the woman in awe, watched their blades flashing out again and again, too fast to follow. He wanted to move forward, to help her, but he knew that he would only get in the way and likely get them both killed. Besides, he had a job to do.

He turned back to where Matt lay, unconscious, on the bed, then started toward him. Seeing him there, without the cruel sneer on his face, he looked like the young, innocent boy he had first met in the Black Wood with the prince. He had been naïve, that boy, but there had been a goodness about him, and Chall thought, looking at him then, that there still was. He sat beside the boy, slowly reaching his hand toward his forehead.

Going looking then, with no idea of what he was looking for. He’d tried to tell the others that what they’d asked of him wasn’t like a healer excising a boil, but they had not understood, had counted on him, the mage, to understand. He only hoped that they hadn’t been wrong to do so.

As soon as his fingers touched the boy’s forehead, he pulled them away with a hiss. There had been something disgusting, something revolting in that touch. It had given him the same feeling a man might get when preparing to take a bite of food only to find his spoon swarming with maggots.

He flexed his fingers, not wanting to touch the boy again but knowing that he had no choice. The others were counting on him, even now fighting, risking their lives so that he would have an opportunity to do this. “Lucky me,” he mumbled. Then, “Sorry, lad, but I think this is probably going to hurt…for both of us.”

Then Chall took a deep breath and reached out again. The feeling was as strong as it was the first time but this time he did not pull away. This time, that sickening feeling washed over him in a great wave, one that seemed to want to carry him away. And so Chall did the only thing he could think to do—he let it.