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Matteo pretended a glare down at Sheth while they strolled through their favorite haunt, the most ancient walled garden in Arimna palace. They were halfway through the garden’s main rose terrace—its formal pavilion set with a long table for their feast—and Sheth hadn’t said a word about Dalia. On the way home, he’d undoubtedly stopped off at Tragobre Fortress, Dalia’s lord-father’s magnificent primary residence, to rest and catch up on news while returning from Belaal. Yet Sheth’s thoughts were evidently wandering amid unknown realms. And he was hacking at the bushes with his ceremonial dagger, testing its gleaming edge amid a shower of fallen roses and scattered petals.
Matteo shoved his third brother and then snatched the dagger, bidding for his absent attention. “Give me that! I know you must have stopped at Tragobre. Where’s my letter from Dalia?”
Sheth’s golden eyes widened in the afternoon light. “Be patient! And don’t cut yourself on those edges—I’ve just had that blade sharpened.”
Matteo snorted, rolled the blade in an edge of his light mantle, and tucked it safely beneath his filigreed sword belt. “Am I a child that you ought to warn me? No! I’ll return this when you hand over my message. Don’t make me thrash you for it!”
Sheth retaliated, swiping Matteo’s hair. “What if I thrash you? Ever since you surpassed me in height, you’ve become far too belligerent. All the same, your future is as sealed as any note.”
“So you say.” While Matteo smoothed his hair, Sheth fished a sealed parchment square from the leather pouch slung from his belt, then dangled it just beyond Matteo’s reach. Dalia’s silver-gray wax stamp gleamed, impressed over a slender green cord.
Matteo lunged for the long-desired letter, but before he could open the seal, Sheth raised a warning hand. Servants entered the garden, lugging serving ware, pitchers, and trays of food toward the pavilion. Clearly wary of being overheard, Sheth motioned to a vine-screened arbor at the far side of the garden.
The instant they were hidden by the shadowed vines, Sheth scolded quietly, “Matteo, seriously, this flirtation must end. What could you two possibly hope for? Your marriage petition would be refused by the lords of the First Forum and Dalia would be punished for overreaching her rank, never mind how high her lord-father’s placed. You’ll both suffer!”
Matteo mentally shoved away the thought. “Sheth, no lectures. Not yet. I love her. You know I do—as she loves me. It’s no flirtation, so please allow us to hope. I might yet persuade Father to approve the marriage petition.”
Sheth shook his head. “According to the law, you’re no mere lovesick boy. You’re a bargaining tool. A game-piece to be moved about by Darzeq’s will.”
“I’m no boy, and I’m certainly not a game-piece. If I’m involved, shouldn’t I have some say in determining the game’s moves? What if I wish to dictate the bargain on my behalf?”
“Matteo, you have no voice! No wish of your own. You’re merely an instrument. Everything you possess is granted to you by the First Forum, and every lord in Darzeq will vote against you through the First Forum if you rebel. And, unless he wants to risk inordinate fines, so must Tragobre, regardless of how much he loves Dalia as his only child. Live with that understanding as best you can. We’ve all been forced to accept this, believe me.”
“Which is why you’re not married—the First Forum can’t even decide whom Tarquin should marry, much less agree on wives for the remaining six of us.”
Sheth grimaced at the truth of Matteo’s observation, then shrugged. Matteo couldn’t blame him, considering some of the candidates nominated by the First Forum for Tarquin and Alvir. Who wanted to be bartered off to some foreign land that might turn hostile? As for bringing foreign princesses into the country... Darzeq was understandably wary after years of dealing with Queen-Grandmother’s caprices.
All the more reason to consider domestic marriages. If only the lords would finally agree on something! Matteo scowled. Never mind. Sheth might be mulish, but Matteo and Dalia could win over Father, and he could deal with the lords of the First Forum.
Shaking off his aggravation, Matteo broke the silver seal and opened Dalia’s note.
Love, Sheth’s promised me on his honor to deliver these words, though he’s warned me it will be the last time he serves as our messenger. Know that all my thoughts are with you and I look forward to visiting with you at the winter festival this year. I’m now dragging myself off to more studies with Master Tredin and our beloved Sophereth in Kiyrem, though Sophereth writes that the city is overrun with riotous men rumored to be mercenaries.
My lord father has sent inquiries to Kiyrem’s authorities and to the other members of First Forum concerning the probable mercenaries, but has received no reply, and Sheth—being newly returned from Belaal—has no idea why mercenaries would suddenly swarm a dull academic town on the eastern border. Has our lord the king heard anything of this dissolute invasion? I pray that you and all your brothers are well. Please wish Alvir a blessed naming day for me. I’ll send his gift as soon as I’m permitted to visit the Kiyrem markets—you know how unpleasant Sophereth is when she suspects mischief.
Send me word of your wellbeing as best you can with help from your servants, or bribes. Do not leave me stranded in Kiyrem with no letters from you for the next six weeks, or I’ll surely go mad for lack of your promises that you love me still.
May the Infinite bless and protect you until we meet again.
Written this day by my hand at Tragobre,
Yours forever, Dalia.
Matteo frowned down at Sheth, who was brooding, leaning against a wooden pillar. “Sheth, what about the mercenaries? Is Dalia in danger?”
“I don’t believe so. However, it’s worrisome. Why would anyone would be recruiting mercenaries in Darzeq? I wrote to Father from Tragobre, and I’ve sent an inquiry to the First Forum.” Sheth shot a wary glance at Matteo. “It’s odd that I haven’t heard from Father. Has anything else happened while I was gone? Anything that concerns you or the family?”
“No. Why?”
“Because the god-king of Belaal now has a pretty new diversion. Araine, Prophet of the Infinite—or so she claims. While I was visiting the king, she prophesied against me.”
Indignation and a whisper of dread raised Matteo’s defensive hackles. “What? How dare she!” Matteo hesitated as a worse prospect came to mind. What if this young woman was indeed a blessed voice for the Mighty One? “Do you believe she’s a true prophet?”
Snapping a leaf off a nearby vine, Sheth tore at it, scowling. “My impression was of a lovely, sheltered young woman who believes her own visions. Moreover, she was beset with hiccoughs for half of the time I saw her, and Bel-Tygeon treated her like an amusement more than a true attendant. It was difficult to accept her as a prophet. And yet....”
“Yet you wonder?” Matteo resisted swatting the shredded leaf from Sheth’s hands. “If she’s the Infinite’s own prophet ... what if her visions are true?”
Sheth exhaled and scattered the shreds over the walkway. “I hope her visions aren’t true. I admit I’m uneasy.”
“Well?” Matteo prompted, though Sheth’s expression was so disturbed that he feared to ask, “What did she predict?
“Disaster. My death. Danger for our entire family. She begged me to remain in Belaal. To send warnings to you all, commanding to you flee. To hide.”
Hide!
The silent word resounded within Matteo’s thoughts as if spoken by another, and his very soul seemed held, encased in chilling, unyielding ice. He sucked in a sharp breath, ignored the chill, and forced his voice to work, to tell off Sheth. “If you’d sent a warning, we would have left Arimna days ago. Why didn’t you?”
Straightening, Sheth shook his head. “I refuse to believe the girl is a prophet. She was about your age—too young for a prophet—and she was peculiar!”
“Too young?” Matteo’s chill vanished, heated by indignation. “No prophet’s ever too young if the Infinite’s Spirit is present. Anji told me that Parne’s prophet wasn’t much more than a girl, and she ever predicted the truth, including the downfall of her own people.”
Even as he spoke, Matteo suppressed a shudder. The city-state of Parne had been founded by a particularly devout sect of the Infinite’s followers, which had departed from Darzeq generations ago and crossed the mountains to the east—pledging to be permanently rid of Darzeq’s corruptions. Yet Parne, despite its former purity and fervor, had fallen. Was Darzeq next? Had the Infinite abandoned His faithful, including Darzeq, despite His pact with Ancient Darzeq?
Sheth tore at another leaf. “Parne’s prophet is now exiled to another country for her pains, if she’s still alive. Our traders have returned from beyond the mountains, declaring Parne’s a poisoned ruin. All the same, Anji’s too wrapped up in her high-priest husband’s thinking. As much as I like Ekiael, he’s got some far-fetched ideas. I trust the Infinite—the One-Who-Sees—and you know it, Matteo. But when a strange girl predicts the ruin of your family and foretells your own death, you might question her judgment!”
Matteo comprehended his viewpoint and his agitation. Perhaps it was safer to back out of this debate. “I apologize for ranting at you. I’d...”
Voices interrupted from the garden. With laughter and beckoning whistles. Matteo peered through the curtain of vines and glimpsed their remaining five brothers—all dark-haired and richly garbed—as they approached the garden. A pack of happy troublemakers on a search mission. Tarquin, Alvir, Efraim, Boas, and Melkir were clearly prepared to feast and celebrate Sheth’s return and Alvir’s naming day. Loudest of the five by sheer force of his age, twenty-eight years, Tarquin bellowed, “Sheth! We know you’re here—you’ve been slaughtering the flowers again!”
Melkir, nineteen, thin and slouched as a tree-pruning hook, yelled, “Don’t make us hunt you to ground!”
“Go on,” Matteo urged. He grinned at Sheth, and then sat on one of the arbor’s sheltered stone benches. “I want to read Dalia’s note again.”
Sheth swiped at Matteo’s shoulder. “Don’t run away. We’ll talk later.”
“Ask the others about the mercenaries,” Matteo urged. “It’s odd that we haven’t heard of them here in Arimna.”
Matteo frowned at Dalia’s letter. Was she in danger? Unease chilled Matteo again, prompting him to pray. “One-Who-Sees-Me, watch over her!”
Why would mercenaries gather in such a remote town as Kiyrem?
***
Abandoned by her servants and the guards who’d escorted her safely to Kiyrem, Dalia Hradedh of Tragobre overturned her leather backpack onto her fleece bedroll within the narrow confines of her whitewashed cell. She’d best settle in and make this place home again, so why delay unpacking? It wasn’t as if she had much to do except wait for classes to begin. Dalia shrugged and looked around. With the exception of some dust and spiders, the place was as clean as she’d left it seven weeks past. And quiet. In truth, all Kiyrem had seemed peaceful this afternoon while she and her servants rode through the town.
Had the supposed mercenaries departed?
Perhaps her lord-father’s messages, threats actually, had somehow aided Kiyrem.
According to the locals, the renegades had poured into Kiyrem the past month and proceeded to drink the city dry and bash countless doors and quite a few citizens. Dalia growled beneath her breath, irked by the thought of such pointless destruction within Kiyrem’s ancient and revered city walls.
A sharp rap sounded on her cell’s oak door. Visitors already? Dalia turned and flinched.
Tall, gaunt, linen-swathed, and so cleanly shorn that Dalia was convinced that the man polished his scalp, Master Tredin glowered at Dalia from the doorway. Formidable as ever. And soft-footed. Dalia hadn’t heard a whisper of noise at the master’s approach.
She bowed, accepting her role as mere student—particularly when she noticed Tredin’s wife, the equally tall and ever-feared Sophereth, standing just behind him.
Sophereth’s bronzed face puckered thoughtfully and her keen, dark eyes flicked criticizing glances from just over Tredin’s shoulder at the thin, impassable window and the whitewashed wall of Dalia’s cell.
Oh, scaln’s breath! Inspections so soon...
Dalia cleared her throat and addressed her visitors. “Sir. And lady. Good afternoon.”
His tone dry and crisp as old parchment, Master Tredin asked, “Have you declared it good, young lady of Tragobre?”
Dalia held back a grimace. She should have known better. Master Tredin usually challenged even the most polite and banal statements. Not daring to smile at the cold-faced master-scribe and his wife, Dalia shook her head. “I only wish your afternoon to be pleasant, sir. Yet you dictate the actual state of your current mood, therefore I await your decree.”
“As if I rule the universe.” Tredin scanned Dalia’s cell for infractions that would undoubtedly be noted in Dalia’s formal records. Dalia could almost see the elaborately detailed report now, written in Tredin’s exacting scribe lettering: Spider on the wall—an ordinary garden gray. Two grains of sand on the floor. Needle-sized splinter in the window’s narrow shutter. The air sullied by dust motes from Dalia’s overturned pack.
Tredin’s thin brown nostrils flared. “We received your lord-father’s ... expressions of concern. You will write to him this evening and assure him that the mercenaries have departed, and that his precious lady-heir is safe in Kiyrem. But first, put away your gear. After which—!” Tredin rapped his knuckles fiercely against the door. “You will polish this oak until I can see my reflection. You’ve no servants here, young lady.”
Dalia bowed her head. “As you say, sir. It will be done.”
“As if I rule the universe,” Tredin repeated, drier than before.
Had she actually heard self-mockery in the master’s tone?
Sophereth cut through Dalia’s wonderment with a snap of her long fingers. “Get that spider off the wall.”
Dalia slapped her curved hand over the spider and glanced back at the doorway just as Tredin and Sophereth departed, their footsteps silent as air in a tomb. Cautiously, Dalia lifted her hand and peeked at the now-skittering spider. “Your humble heritage has saved you,” she murmured as the tiny creature made its desperate zig-zag charge for the open window. “If you’d been poisonous, I’d have smashed you flat. Be gone!”
She smiled and walked her fingers along the wall, hurrying the gray toward open air and safety. Perhaps this final year would be an improvement over the last three years. Master Tredin had actually scoffed at himself—an unheard-of occurrence. Better yet, the mercenaries had departed.
To where?
She must write to her parents, and then to Matteo. But first, she’d polish the door.
Dalia rummaged through her gear and hauled out her required supply of rags and oily beeswax polish. Donning appropriate solemnity, she went to work on the massive oak door while continuing her prayer. Infinite, Most Holy, by Your will, let my winter here pass quickly.
Let me leave this place and marry Matteo. Somehow...
***
Finished re-reading Dalia’s letter for the tenth time, Matteo sighed, folded the parchment neatly, and tucked it behind his wide, gold-studded belt, near Sheth’s dagger. He ought to return the dagger to Sheth. Indeed, he ought to go join his brothers. The Dreaded Seven, as the servants called them—a title they’d supposedly never heard, but of which they all approved.
Dark haired, brown-skinned, and royally attired in white, gold, and variants of Darzeq’s purple, Matteo’s brothers were indisputably princes of the realm and true sons of Jonatan. Matteo was proud to be numbered among them. Even if they were laughing without him, hovering near the pavilion-shaded table and picking at the food—all their favorites. Jellied fruit lozenges, leaf-wrapped marinated cheeses, black rice fried with olives, cold relishes, massive portions of grilled meats, and enough soft bread to pave the entire garden if the Dreaded Seven chose to do so. As they might.
Matteo and his brothers rarely ate quietly, and a private family feast such as this one promised every breach of formality and etiquette frowned upon by Queen-Grandmother. Alvir flung a dark leaf-wrapped chunk of cheese at Sheth, who got even by striking him with a jellied lozenge—which was sludgy from the day’s warmth. Boas yelled, “What are we waiting for?”
Sheth turned toward the arbor, obviously planning to fetch Matteo. Sighing, Matteo stood. Just as Anji ducked through the wall of vines on the arbor’s opposite side. Matteo glanced at her—his usually joyous and pretty cousin, the ever-present bane and blessing of his childhood.
Even from this distance, Matteo noted his cousin’s swollen eyes, and her dark curls spilled from her wide headband, as if she’d been tearing at them in despair. Worse, Anji’s gait was furtive. A wary, fearful pace as she hugged her mantle close. The last time Matteo had seen Anji in such a state, Great-Aunt Pinni had just died.
In her delicate condition, Anji must be protected. Matteo frowned. “Anji—?”
Anji shushed him with a silent, imperious upraised hand, and tears slid down her pregnancy-softened face. She snagged Matteo by the arm and whispered, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Be brave....”
Sheth sidled into the arbor, halted, and stared. He’d always been fond of Anji. Protective as if she’d been their own sister. Anji hesitated, then motioned him nearer. “Sheth, how can I even speak? The king’s dead. He’s been dead for days, and no one’s said a word to the family. ... I saw his body! He’s robed, crowned and embalmed, in his own chamber!” Sniffling moistly, her voice almost squeaking with panic, Anji pleaded, “Who’d do such a thing and simply not tell us! Why? What’s happening?”
Matteo recoiled, actually leaning away from his cherished cousin. This could not be true. It was a joke. Some elaborate jest of wax and wood created to terrorize the family, and Darzeq. He glanced at his brother, then stared. Sheth seemed immobilized, his face shock-drained to grayness—a man living a nightmare. He swallowed, then rasped, “Anji, you’re very sure?”
“Yes. Don’t you think I recognize our dear lord-king? Not to mention the scent of embalming spices from royal funerals!” Her hands trembling, Anji plucked a formally sealed parchment from her embroidered money purse and confessed, “Forgive me! I broke the rules and went through the secret corridor from Great-Aunt Pinni’s rooms, thinking the king was gone. I meant to leave this petition from the priests in his empty chamber. But it’s not empty! Four of his servants are dead and embalmed on the floor beside him—all sealed within the chamber!” Fresh tears welled in Anji’s dark eyes and slid down her face. “Why would the king be dead and no one told? Did someone kill him?” She pressed one hand to her belly, and whispered, “Even the baby knows something horrible’s happened—it’s fluttering wildly, as if it’s trying to escape!”
His voice horror-laced, Sheth whispered, “Araine of Belaal’s prophecy... ‘Save the youngest!’”
Sheth grabbed Matteo’s shoulder and Anji’s shoulder, shaking them so fiercely that Anji stopped weeping. “Matteo, Anji, listen to me! We’re all in danger, and I’m going to warn Tarquin and the others to flee. You two—you three—are the youngest! Warn Mother! Disguise yourselves and leave Arimna now. Hide in some obscure, defensible city—Eshda! Take Mother. Go to Eshda and stay hidden until you know it’s safe to return! If I survive, I’ll send a letter to Dalia with instructions. Do you hear me? Go now, Matteo, promise me!”
He shook Matteo again, his grip bruising, his golden eyes so huge that Matteo nodded despite his shock. Before Matteo could protest, Sheth departed, sidling through the arbor’s sheltering curtain wall of vines and shrubs. Debating the wisdom of following his older brother, Matteo stared hard through the obscuring curtain of vines and hedges, while Anji hugged him, sniffling again. Together, they watched as Sheth dashed to the pavilion and spoke to Tarquin, Alvir, Efraim, Boas, and Melkir.
Different as they were, Matteo’s brothers reacted the same. All turned ghastly with shock, then recovered, their hands flexing over golden dagger hilts and sword hilts, ready to fight, Sheth among them. Tarquin, Darzeq’s acknowledged heir, snarled, “Whoever did this, we’ll kill them!”
Matteo nodded silent agreement, one hand shifting to his own sword. Before he could excuse himself and join his brothers, Anji whispered, “It’s obvious they didn’t know either! Matteo, what does this mean?”
Even as Anji spoke, the garden’s gates were flung open, north and south. Soldiers—more than twenty strange warriors, with swords and spears drawn—charged inside, their dissimilar plate armor and chain mail clattering in heavy unison.
Led by Gueronn, Grandmother-Queen’s personal guard. Ready to kill.
Matteo gasped. “Assassins!”
And his brothers were badly outnumbered. He started to shove away the vines, to enter the garden and join his brothers. But Anji dragged him back with all her might, half-sobbing, whispering fiercely, “No! Remember the prophecy! We’re obeying Sheth!”
Matteo hissed, “Stop!” He tried to shake off his cousin. But Anji clung to him, and they both stared, aghast as the renegades surrounded the pavilion. Gueronn and two other soldiers aimed spears at Tarquin.
The heir dashed away the first soldier’s spear with his sword as his brothers yelled and rallied to Tarquin, sides and back, struggling to protect him against the onslaught. Gueronn himself ran Tarquin through with a spear, though Sheth landed his sword against Gueronn’s forearm, gashing it—just as another guard ran Sheth through.
Sheth... Tarquin...
Anji dragged at Matteo as his brothers fell one by one in the massacre, their blood spilling over the garden’s pavings and the feasting table.
Alvir... Efraim... Boas... Melkir... He must warn Mother. Save her...
Hide!
Snatching his cousin by the arm, Matteo fled through the arbor and out the other side, while Gueronn bellowed his triumphant battle cry over the royal slaughter.