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Emmerich arranged the tea service and stepped back to admire his work. The small pitcher containing milk on Paula’s side was within easy reach. There was also a small dish containing precious sugar and its tiny spoon, the handle pointed toward Paula’s chair. He took his tea black but she didn’t. He only ever requested sugar and milk once or twice a week.
Someone knocked on the parlor door.
“Enter,” he called.
Paula came in, smiling. “Good morning, Your Majesty.” She curtsied.
“Good morning. I just finished setting out the tea.” He gestured at the table between the armchairs.
She paused at the little bed where Niall lay curled, and gave the aerial a scratch on the neck. Niall purred.
The same shiver of pleasure that went through Niall also slipped over Emmerich. He sat, turning away from Paula, in case his face betrayed him.
Paula took her seat and poured tea for the two of them. He immediately took up his cup.
“Thank you,” he said, sipping from it.
“You’re very welcome.” She sprinkled a little sugar into her tea and added milk. The spoon made sharp, tapping sounds against the porcelain. “You have dark circles under your eyes, Emmerich.”
“You always say that.”
“And it’s always true.”
He set the cup back into its saucer. The memory of the dream—of the blood slick on his hands—lingered. He stood over Monica’s body once more, only it wasn’t Monica. Clara’s lifeless eyes stared up at him. In the distance, a child wailed.
“The same dreams?”
Emmerich jerked a little, returning to the moment. He focused on her in an attempt to banish the dream’s lingering memory.
Paula was a bony woman, with hair barely under control in its plait, but her eyes were always soft with compassion. If it had been another time, another place, he could see himself courting her. And the very thought of it turned his stomach, as if it alone betrayed Clara.
“Aye,” he replied. “Same dreams.” He sipped his tea.
“I’ve told you I can make you a medicine to help you sleep deep and dreamless.”
“And I’ve told you that if there was an emergency, I want to be able to wake up quickly.”
“But one good night’s rest is worth the risk.”
“Perhaps. Until Clara improves, I don’t think I’ll be sleeping well even with draughts and tonics.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve had a surprising visitor. A prince from Galeen.”
“Galeen? Isn’t that the kingdom that ceded from Tier?”
“The same.”
“And what did this prince want?”
“You must not tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, or that there is an ambassador from Galeen here.” The only reason why he was bringing it up was because he needed another ear.
“Of course.”
Emmerich set his cup and saucer back onto the table. “The kingdom isn’t truly free. The Prince wants to renegotiate its treaty with Tier but that will most certainly mean war. He wants an alliance with Lorst.”
“An alliance could mean war with Tier. Again.” She sighed. “You’ve said often enough that Lorst can’t have another war.”
He grunted. “Tier likes to throw its weight around. Because of their Seers, they can plot decades ahead and win their battles before they begin. They could have seen me meeting with the prince, in fact.”
“If you start worrying about everything they could see, you’ll lose your mind.”
“True. I have to take that risk, though, and weigh the possibility. At the moment, Tier is trying to force me into a marriage I don’t want, perhaps put us in a similar situation to Galeen. Perhaps for another reason only their Seers know.” He rubbed his eyes. “But we can’t afford a war. Bertrand is only just rebuilding. The lords to the North don’t want to be bothered with another call to arms. The lords of the Eastern Forest are fighting monsters. The lords on the coast are the only ones I could possibly talk into this mad scheme, but only because they would benefit from having access to Galeen’s coastline. The lords to the south and in Bertrand have the same mind as those in the Larkspurs.”
“What would happen if you demanded support?”
“I could have another rebellion on my hands. Barkeley has certainly been working to strengthen his faction. Bruin says he’s all talk but it doesn’t take much for a man who isn’t talk to take control.”
“I see. Do we know if this Gentius is who he really says?”
“Bruin will test that possibility soon. If he is the prince, well—I don’t know what to do.” He gazed at the palms of his hands, as if the answer was etched into the lines. “I would talk to Clara about this but she gets dizzy or weak at a moment’s notice. Sometimes, it’s as if she’s hearing a conversation I can’t. I feel like the slightest burden could break her. She’s not—” The back of his throat thickened. He swallowed. “Tell me truly, Paula, is she dying?”
Porcelain clattered as she set aside her cup and saucer. Kneeling before him, she took his hands in hers.
“Lady Clara is strong,” she said.
“It was a yes or no question.”
Now it was Paula’s turn to study his upturned palms. “I don’t know.”
He pulled away and stood. The tears were threatening and he didn’t want her to see him cry. It was hard enough keeping a barrier between them. This was one of the last.
“You should go,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “I have to prepare for my day.”
Cloth rustled as she stood. “I wish I could be of more help.”
“Just cure her, dammit.”
A long pause and then Paula left, closing the door behind her. Bracing one hand against the mantel, he covered his eyes with the other. Shaky sobs escaped him as he gave over to grief. Claws tapped against the floor and Niall pressed against him. Love and reassurance washed over him. Emmerich clung to it like a raft in a storm-tossed sea.
***
Jarrett, as much as he wanted to check on Clara first thing, decided to see Thalia first. He woke up thinking about the assassin.
Photine answered the door, told him to wait, and firmly closed it again. Jarrett tried not to bounce on his heels to shake off fatigue. Last night, after returning from the dungeon, had been a bad night. Once, he awoke from the salamander attack. The second time, he woke with Serilda’s name on his lips. It was a long time before he fell asleep after that one.
He wondered if Emmerich ever had problems sleeping and what he did. Once upon a time, Jarrett could have asked him.
He remembered Emmerich as Captain of the Royal Guard, strutting around the Palace in his scarlet and gold surcoat. He was dashing, charismatic, and appeared to possess a boundless amount of confidence. Emmerich carried an easiness about him, as if he knew the location of a mountain of gold in the world but he didn’t need it. Rumors circulated Emmerich’s family had been slaughtered, by whom depending on the version, but if true, the shadow of that stayed far from him. All the women loved him. Princess Monica coveted him.
Her death at his hands sent shock waves through the Palace and made it easier for Marduk to make him the villain. Jarrett always believed that, if his Captain had committed the murder, he had a good reason for it.
Long months passed between Emmerich’s fleeing and his triumphant return. On the first day of Emmerich as King, Jarrett presented himself for duty, anticipating the resumption of a good friendship. However, he didn’t see the former captain who laughed and brazenly courted a princess. He saw a tougher and older man, less inclined to mirth and preferring to let his temper get the best of him. At least, that’s what it appeared to Jarrett.
Clara loved Emmerich. What she saw, exactly, Jarrett couldn’t see. Perhaps she saw a resilience and strength forged by fire. Jarrett always thought women preferred gentleness.
The door opened again and Photine stepped back to allow him in, curtsying as he passed her. Lady Thalia sat in an armchair with her hands folded in her lap. The lines around her mouth had deepened and the darkness around her eyes suggested Jarrett hadn’t been the only one struggling for sleep last night.
He bowed. “My lady. Thank you for seeing me.”
“This is the first I’ve seen you so armored, Captain. What’s wrong?”
Today, Jarrett chose to don the normal uniform of a Guard which was plate armor over chain mail. He had eschewed the visor-less helm.
“That’s what I’ve come to speak to you about,” he explained. “An assassin recently entered Bertrand. My source says he comes from the assassin guild in Tier.”
Thalia went still. Jarrett could see her mind churning behind her cool, hazel gaze.
“Do you know anything about that guild, my lady?”
Her attention snapped back onto him. “Only rumors. I’ve never known anyone to deal directly with them. Well. No one who ever admitted to it.”
An organization of assassins was unheard of in Lorst and one of the many differences between the two countries. Tier considered it a natural part of their politics. He didn’t need to explain to Thalia that once a contract had been issued, the guild was honor bound to fulfill it. As honor bound as a guild that thrived on blood and death could be, anyway.
“You should remove your armor,” she said.
He raised his brows. “My lady?”
“It’s not your usual mode of dress. The assassin may know that and, if he sees you armored, may suspect that you’re aware of his presence. You should change right away.”
“I need to be ready to defend her ladyship.”
“I will spend the day with my daughter. I will be her last line of defense.”
An old woman the last line of Clara’s defense? Thalia sounded mad. But Jarrett knew better than to argue. Perhaps she had magic she could use to protect Clara. He could hardly know. And he couldn’t imagine how he could argue that without sounding condescending.
“My lady, Clara’s safety is my priority.”
“And if that’s true, then you’ll wear what you always wear. Your advantage is not only that you know he’s coming. It’s also that he doesn’t know. If he changes tactics, you may not anticipate it. No, it’s best that you behave as you always do.”
He had to admit to the wisdom in that. He didn’t like it, however. Preparation answered his immediate instincts and he prepared by donning armor.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
“Think quickly.”
Jarrett resisted the urge to scowl at the woman. “If you don’t know anything about the guild, my lady, I should attend to Lady Clara.”
“You only called her ‘Clara’ earlier.”
He hadn’t realized he’d done that. “She and I are friends. I didn’t intend to be too familiar.”
“I’m sure.” Her lips pursed into a smug expression.
Bowing, he left her and walked to where Antony and Philip, her daytime guards, flanked Clara’s door. As he approached, he could see the question in their eyes. Maybe there was weight to Thalia’s suggestion. Making a last minute decision, he ducked back into his room, where he quickly changed into his normal wear.
He did feel better in his regular kit. As a good soldier, he could wear armor for hours and had done so while in the Eastern Forest. But that didn’t mean he liked it. As he opened his door, a page stood there, hand half-raised to knock.
“Yes?” Jarrett asked.
“Captain,” the boy replied, “the King requests your presence.”
***
The King stood in his study, reading a book in front of one of the cases. Jarrett bowed low.
Without raising his head, Emmerich said, “Bruin told me about what you found last night.”
Irritation flashed through him. “The assassin or the gambling ring in The Siren?”
“Both. I will order the Questioners to take care of that man today.”
“They won’t learn anything useful. Let the man hang there until we decide what we’re going to do with him. Please, Your Majesty.”
What Jarrett said to Bruin about going through with threats had been bluster at best. Or, maybe he had meant it at the time, but a night of tossing and turning made him rise out of bed with a different point of view.
“Are you sure?”
“A man will say anything to make the pain stop.”
“I can’t argue with that. Very well. He’ll remain as he is until his trial.”
“I’ve doubled her ladyship’s guard. And I’ve a tip on where to find the Black Arrows. My conversation wasn’t completely pointless.”
“Good.” Holding the book open, he walked over to Jarrett and proffered it. “When Bruin told me about the assassin’s guild, I knew I had read about them before. This is an account of the guild carrying out a contract on Prince Cyneric.”
Jarrett took the volume. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“He was the eight-year-old second son of King Hrothgar, who reigned four generations after the founding of Lorst. His eldest son, Godric, was sick at the time. The chronicles don’t say what, exactly, but I think he had a leg wound that brought on fever. What is important is that everyone expected Godric to fully recover.”
“Why go after Cyneric? It wouldn’t be hard to kill Godric and make it look like the result of his injury.”
“Tierans don’t know how to do anything head on. They pick any direction other than that. The guild fulfilled the contract. Cyneric died after eating a bowl of berries. A few poisonous berries had been mixed in and there was no antidote.”
Jarrett furrowed his brow. “How did they know that the assassins did it? That it wasn’t only carelessness?”
“It was only suspicion for a long time until a noble defecting from Tier confessed to being a witness to the contract. He said one of Tier’s dukes signed it but he never named a specific one. That was after Godric became king.”
“So he did recover.”
Emmerich nodded. “Godric immediately demanded compensation or at least an admission of guilt. Neither came. Lorst suffered under a famine at the time, so Godric wasn’t about to declare war. Instead, he withdrew his diplomats from Aphos and exiled the Tieran diplomats.”
“What did Tier have to gain from that?”
“Nothing at first. Lorst struggled through the famine until one day, a message from Tier arrived. Tier offered to open its surplus grain supplies to Lorst but under the condition that they reinstate diplomatic relations. Godric was desperate so he accepted the deal. Lorst survived the famine. His reign did not. Many considered him a failed king because he capitulated to the people who killed his little brother. One of his own guards killed him for being dishonorable. He didn’t have a clear successor after his death, so Lorst fell into a brief period of civil war. While we were distracted, Tier took a few of our cities.”
“How could Tier possibly know that would have happened?”
“Seers are revered there. No doubt that twenty or more years before Godric died, maybe before he even fell ill, whoever the Court Seer was had a vision. And they used it to end the reign of what could have been a good king and gain land for their own.”
“Mother’s tits.” He closed the book and gave it back to the King. “What do you think their goal is concerning Lady Clara?”
“No idea. However, I’m concerned that this assassin may not be after her. This may be another sideways move.”
“Another Cyneric.”
Emmerich nodded and ran a hand through his hair. Jarrett noticed the King’s waist had thickened since Jarrett left for the Eastern Forest and that white peppered his hair. A new wrinkle presented itself to Jarrett.
“Or,” he said, “this has been all about you. From the beginning. And they’re only using Lady Clara. You are Godric and she Cyneric.”
“If Tier thinks that harming Clara will somehow weaken me or help them in their aims, I have several hundred thousand soldiers to prove them wrong.” Fury filled his face and he straightened his spine. “I’ll burn Aphos to its foundations and then salt the ground.”
Fear clenched Jarrett’s gut. “Sire, with all respect, we’re coming off of a civil war of our own, not to mention the damage that Remus wrought. Can we afford another full-fledged conflict with Tier?”
“You don’t need to remind me. But some costs are worth paying, Captain. How is Clara?”
“She seemed well enough when I left her earlier. Her mother is going to remain with her for the rest of the day.” Jarrett smirked. “Lady Thalia called herself the last line of defense.”
“Never underestimate a witch.”
“A quote from your father, sire?” Jarrett smiled. It had been an ongoing joke, years ago, that Emmerich quoted his father on a daily basis.
Emmerich grinned. “My grandmother.”
They fell silent for a time. The moment of humor and camaraderie cooled.
“Have you made any headway with the slavers?” Emmerich asked.
“I have a lead on where the Black Arrows are hiding. I want to take soldiers and, with the help of Captain Tarsus, bring an end to their organization. We can stop the slavery and maybe discover who purchased the slaves that were in the Palace. I’m hoping doing so will bring us closer to whoever ordered Clara to be poisoned.” Jarrett arched a brow. “If the Tieran assassin is connected, we might learn who the assassin wants and why. Unfortunately, I have to wait until tomorrow. They won’t be at their warehouse until then.”
He nodded. “I heard about your fight the other day. How do you feel?”
“I’m fine, sire.”
“Good.”
“There is one other thing.” He had struggled with it last night and had only come to the conclusion after much tossing and turning. “When I was questioning Cillian, the man stopped talking on seeing Bruin.” His stomach turned. “I think Bruin may know more than he’s saying.”
Emmerich stared at Jarrett, a frown crinkling his brow. “Do you have any evidence?”
“No. But I think it odd that Cillian grew quiet the moment he saw Bruin.”
“We must be careful with the wizards, Jarrett. We can’t afford to alienate or anger them. That means we can’t throw around accusations lightly.”
“I’m not being light about it, at all.” He considered mentioning the succubus but decided against it. That whole situation felt oddly intimate and Jarrett was loath to share it.
“Keep an eye on Bruin. If you find any evidence linking him to the slaves, let me know. Do you think he poisoned Clara?”
“No. I’ve known Bruin a long time and he isn’t a murderer.”
“I don’t think any of us can say we really know the man. Keep a watchful eye.”
“Yes, sire. If there’s nothing else, I should return to my duties.”
“Be cautious, Jarrett.”
“Yes, sire.”
Emmerich walked away, to where Niall lay sprawled on a cushion. The aerial slept on her belly, limbs splayed out and tail twitching in time with her breaths. Jarrett left the pair. Despite the confidence he expressed, he needed to see if Bruin had been right about the warehouse.
***
A strange sensation fell over Clara. She didn’t feel quite awake anymore. Harmony and Melody movements sounded far away. An icy lattice of fear fell over her. What was happening? The sensation swept the fear away, making the terror distant and unclear.
The curtains were pulled back to admit the morning sun. One of her ladies must have finally gotten tired of them being closed. However, the light barely cut through the darkness. When did the dark press in so closely?
The murmur of a voice. Clara turned. Melody frowned and her lips moved. Clara heard nothing. The lady-in-waiting touched her arm. Sound came rushing back and the shadows fell away. She swayed, unsteady on feet she once again felt attached to. When did she stand? Clara slowly realized she stood by the window, the curtain gripped in her hands. She dropped the fabric and stepped back.
Melody helped her to the couch, where she sank gratefully into the cushions. Harmony closed the curtains.
“Lady Thalia will be here soon,” Melody said. “Shall I get you something?”
“I’m fine.”
“Would you like the book you were reading last night?”
“Aye. Thank you.”
Harmony went to answer a knock at the door while Melody went back to the bedchamber. Harmony stepped back from the door. One of Emmerich’s pages entered, bearing a sheathed sword.
The page bowed. “My lady, His Majesty sent this to you as a gift, in case you need to defend yourself.”
Clara took the sword. Turning it over, she recognized the hilt and crossguard. It was the same sword Emmerich gave her when he was still a general, after he felt she had progressed enough in her sword training. She traced the pattern of leaves on the crossguard.
“I thought this was lost,” she mused aloud.
“The new baron in Orlind sent it a few months ago,” the page explained. “He found it in an armory and a soldier recognized it.”
“Tell the King thank you,” she said.
The boy bowed and departed. Clara stood. Harmony hurried forward and caught her on the arm, steadying her while she buckled the sword around her waist.
“Good morning,” Thalia said, coming through the door. Her brows rose at the sight of the sword. “Is that Jarrett’s doing?”
“No,” Clara replied. “Emmerich sent it.”
“I wouldn’t have told you. You need to rest.”
“Wouldn’t have told me what?”
“Captain Jarrett hasn’t told you of the new assassin?”
“No.”
As Clara listened to the news, her mouth went a little dry from fear. She’d hoped her enemies would give up when the poisoning failed, though it was a foolish hope. She gripped the hilt of her sword.
“An assassin from Tier is a little beyond your capabilities at the moment,” Thalia remarked dryly.
“Maybe. But if the assassin has come to finish the job, then I want to give him a fight to remember.”
“This assassin may not be connected to your poisoning. You could have more than one enemy. And we don’t know what my countrymen are doing.” She walked over to the sideboard and began putting together Clara’s morning tonic from the bottles there. “When you first fell ill, I sent letters to Tier’s Splendid Court to see if anyone had heard any rumors. But, no one has replied. Or, they have, and the letter is still on its way.”
“You’ll tell me what you’ve learned?”
“Of course, dear.”
Thalia brought over the cup. She watched Clara closely as her daughter drank it and Clara remembered the goblet of water she’d barely been able to hold a few days ago. This morning, her grip felt firmer. The tonic normally tasted peppery but today, she detected an odd little tang.
“What is in these drinks?” she asked.
“Healthful herbs. When you’ve recovered, I’ll teach you.”
“We should try a different approach. Mother, I know you mean well, but these aren’t working. Maybe Healer Paula—”
“Your illness takes time to cure. Trust me.” Thalia sat and took her hand. “Have you had any visions, dear heart?”
“Not exactly.” Clara described the odd feeling of disconnect after Jarrett left.
Thalia listened with a blank face. When Clara finished her description, her mother bowed her head. Her thumbs rubbed the back of Clara’s hand.
Cold, quiet apprehension curled around her heart. “Am I going to be all right?” Clara asked.
“Yes. Of course. You’re going to be fine. It’s only a little longer and everything will be well. I promise.”
“I hope so. Tell me again about your home in Pathos.”
“Pathos is one of the three large cities of Tier. It resides in the kingdom’s southwest, on the edge of the great Black Forest. The buildings are painted in every color you can imagine. And the temples are adorned in murals. Because it’s on a trade route, traders from Arvent, the Sunstruck Islands, Galeen, and other lands pour through it in a stream of spices, gold, jewels, and fabrics. A grove of citrine trees grew in my family’s courtyard and when they bloomed, they filled the courtyards with their delicate, sweet scent.”
“And Aphos?”
“You’ll see Aphos soon enough.”
“I know.” She took a deep breath. “I guess I’m a little afraid.”
“That’s natural. And good.”
Clara scoffed. “How can fear be good?”
“Fear keeps you vigilant. Fear keeps you alive.”
She laid her head back against the couch. The shadows darkened again but she didn’t say anything. Clara didn’t want to worry her mother. If they didn’t lighten again soon, she would speak up. “When were you afraid last?”
“As long as you’re sick, I will be afraid.”
“But fear is good.”
“Yes. It’s good.” Her voice sharpened. “As long as it doesn’t keep you from doing what needs to be done.”
“There must be a better way.”
“We can talk more of that when you’re better.”
The shadows thickened and pressed close. But as long as Thalia held her hand, the fear stood aloof. Clara acknowledged its existence but thought, you will not control me.
***
Bran stood in an underground chamber, lit only by a beam of sunlight breaking through the ceiling. A large, bulky figure moved beyond the shadows beyond the edge of light. The rustle of wings and the slide of scales over stone. Taloned claws, hard and sharp, clicked on the floor.
Bran.
With a gasp, he jerked awake with a cry. His classmates turned to stare at him. Mistress Lorraine frowned over her spectacles.
“Bran, are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine, mistress.”
“Do I need to speak to General Asher about the importance of a good night’s sleep?”
He felt a flush come to his cheeks. “No, mistress.”
“Good. Now. We will continue our discussion of the Tieran Wars.”
Bran barely listened as the history mistress began talking about wars that happened far away and long ago. He stared out of the window and over the walls of the Palace to the city. He could see the waters of the Lyn Tone River sparkling in the distance.
He pondered the dream. It hadn’t been a dream of the future. It resonated through him like a familiar voice calling his name.
The lecture ended but before Bran could make his escape, Mistress Lorraine called him to the lecture platform.
“Everything all right, Bran?”
Bran gripped his satchel strap with both hands. “Yes, mistress.”
“If you’re troubled, you can tell me. We are here to help you.”
Bran wasn’t sure who ‘we’ was supposed to be. He wasn’t a wizard or a noble. He wasn’t a servant or even a page. His chest constricted at the realization that he didn’t belong anywhere. The room became too small, the air too stale, and it felt as if he was separating from himself.
“Bran?” Mistress Lorraine’s voice came from far away.
“I have to go,” he gasped.
Turning on his heel, he ran out of the room and into the hall. A great many other apprentices were walking to their next lecture halls or laboratories in a sea of grey. Bran pushed through them, elbowing to get through the crowd as quickly as he could.
Apprentices yelped and shouted. One of them tried to grab him. Bran bit the offender’s hand and slipped away. A dark shape reared in front of him at the end of the hall. Panic and tears blinded him. Bran hurtled toward the shape, intent on getting past somehow. He only needed to get outside.
Strong hands grabbed him. Bran floundered and fought.
“Bran!”
A part of him recognized Bruin’s voice but it came from all too far away in his bid to get free.
A harsh word in a language Bran didn’t know dashed a cold sensation over him. It didn’t calm him, only deadened his limbs. Bruin hoisted Bran into his arms. Inside himself, Bran screamed and struggled, but his body did not move.
Mistress Lorraine ran forward. She told Bruin what happened.
“I’ll take care of it,” Bruin replied. She ran a hand through Bran’s hair and walked away.
Bruin took him to the infirmary. Neat rows of beds partitioned the room in a double row. Bruin laid Bran in a bed furthest from the door.
He laid a hand on Bran’s chest. “I’m going to release you from the spell. Do not attempt to run, Bran. I’m only here to help you.” Bruin spoke another word in the strange language. It sounded like tzat.
The cold sensation shattered and Bran sat upright, shoving Bruin’s hand away. Bruin stepped back to give Bran a bit more space.
Bran, for his part, coughed and gasped and trembled under the weight of his terror. Bruin didn’t say anything, only folded his arms and watched. Eventually, Bran drew a full breath but he still trembled. His heavy head begged to be rested on the pillow.
“What happened?” Bruin asked.
“Nothing.”
“Do not lie to me, Bran.”
Tears rose to his eyes. “Nothing, my lord. I swear. I just needed to—to leave.”
“Leave? Where were you going? Home?”
“I don’t know.” His voice pitched into a whine.
“Mistress Lorraine said you fell asleep in class and had a nightmare. When she asked you after the lecture if everything was all right, you told her no and ran away.”
Bran stared hard at the toes of his boots. He wanted to leave. He wasn’t sure where he wanted to go, only that anywhere would be better than there.
“Go home,” Bruin directed. “If you’re going to have fits in the halls and then not tell anyone what is wrong, then you’re no use here.”
Bran’s felt his heart rate tilt into a gallop again. “I can’t go home. I’ll be good, my lord. I promise. Don’t send me home.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
It felt like a hand clamped over his tongue. Bran stared at Bruin, wanting to tell him, but feared being sent away. Feared being alone on the streets without family or friends. He’d seen other street orphans, willing to do anything for a crust of bread.
Bruin shook his head. “No one can help you if you don’t talk, Bran. Go home. Come back tomorrow.”
Bran pushed himself off the bed and, head held low, passed through the curtains. He didn’t raise his head again until he exited the Academy. Tears dripped from his cheeks and he scrubbed them away.
He couldn’t go home. Lady Giselle would be there and he couldn’t explain why he returned so early. If General Asher returned early, he’d also expect an explanation and he wouldn’t let it go. If Lord Greenwood—Bran’s stomach cramped so badly, vomit rose in his throat.
Bran.
The voice wafted through him. It occurred to him that it could be an aerial. What other scaly animal with claws lived in Bertrand and could call to him?
Excitement shot through him. If he found the aerials, then he could prove that he belonged. That he was worth loving. People would stop watching him as if he was all wrong. He’d have a role. He’d be the keeper of the aerials. That title appealed to him: the keeper of the aerials. It could be his quest, like how Lady Clara had a quest last year. Captain Jarrett even said he wished he had a quest he could go on.
He would need provisions.
Bran jogged toward the Palace buildings, moving with a sense of purpose he hadn’t had since his time as a page. And his old job as a page came in handy because he knew how to slip in and out of the Palace without anyone paying much attention.
He found the kitchens in a high state of frenzy. It was closing in on the dinner hour and the servants were doing their best to prepare. Bran entered through the back door, keeping to the wall.
Realizing he would need a pack, he pulled the books out of his satchel and shoved them onto a nearby shelf, behind a basket of radishes. After that, it became a matter of timing.
Bran slipped in between two cooks fussing over the right way to season beef and snagged two handfuls of meat rolls. He plucked apples from a passing basket. Moving like water, he passed through the crowd, adding carrots, cheese, and two small loaves of bread to his burgeoning bag. Finally, he completed his circle and returned to the back door.
“Stop, you!”
His breath hitched in his throat and Bran whirled around. A maid caught a small serving boy by the ear and boxed him in the other.
“You can’t steal from the tables,” she scolded him.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Bran escaped and turned toward the back of the Palace. He would go out through one of the servant gates and then, well, he wasn’t sure. But that was part of it, wasn’t it?
A true quest is one where you have to figure it out as you go, he decided. Otherwise, you aren’t proving anything.
That sounded right to Bran.
***
After leaving the Palace, Bran used backstreets to reach the Middle Quarters. While he wanted to go in search of the aerials, he also didn’t want to be recognized and sent back home. Bran wouldn’t go back unless they dragged him; it would be easier if no one saw him. In the Middle Quarters, he could easily get lost in the crowd until he decided where to start his search.
He came out of an alley into the Spice Market. Baskets of colorful spices, from dark red cumin to brilliant yellow saffron, stood on display. Merchants haggled with wives, cooks, and maids over the price of five-pound bags or smaller chests. He gaped in awe at the salt merchants, their wares guarded by mercenaries, hired men who sold their swords to the highest bidder. Bran remembered his mam saving money for months to buy a little bag of salt. If one of her clients paid her in the precious mineral, that made for a happy day.
Bran navigated the crowds. As amazing as all this was, he couldn’t be distracted.
Beside the Spice Market, he found the Courtyard of the Mermaids. A fountain decorated with statues of the lithe figures of the fish-tail maidens dominated the center. Men milled around, standing in groups to talk. One man stood on a box on one end and talked to a small crowd.
Curious, Bran walked closer.
“We live in most perilous times.” The man pointed a bony finger toward the Palace. “Our King keeps a monster on a leash and consorts with Tierans, our ancient enemy. He wants to bed the daughter of a witch, that so-called seer—”
The crowd around him booed and hissed. A woman shouted, “Long live the Lady Seer!”
His mouth moved but other men drowned him out with the chant. Red-faced, the man descended from his box and hurried away. One of the onlookers lobbed a piece of rotten fruit in his direction but it missed, splattering red against the smooth stones.
Bran wished the fruit hadn’t missed. No one should talk about Lady Clara in a bad way. He sat on the edge of the fountain and pulled out a few meat rolls. As he munched on them, he thought about his dream. Where were there caves in Bertrand?
With a sinking feeling, he realized he took it for granted that the aerials were in the city. But the aerial called his name. They wanted him to come to them. They had to know he couldn’t travel far on his own.
He finished his roll and left the courtyard. Habit drew him toward the Low Quarters. He hadn’t been there since his mother died. No, since before then. He last saw Mam when they admitted him to the Academy. He’d said goodbye to her on the steps to the main Academy building and promised he would come home as soon as he could. But he got so busy with classes that he never did.
Pain, a familiar feeling to him, dragged through his heart. He should have tried harder to see his mother. Why didn’t he have a dream about her dying? What was the point of having this stupid gift if he couldn’t save the people he cared about?
The crush of people grew heavier the closer he got to the city gates. With a rush of gratitude, he escaped them and entered the Low Quarters.
He passed through a side street to a tiny shrine. An old statue, the features worn to nothing, stood under the shrine’s cedar roof. Its shape suggested a person holding an object. But everyone in the Low Quarters loved it. Only the presbyters didn’t like it. Bran wasn’t sure why.
Beside the shrine stood a bucket of water and a small ladle. He filled the ladle with water and poured it over the statue. Everyone did so for luck.
He replaced the ladle into the bucket and turned away. As he did so, he noticed a chained cellar door. It brought to mind a memory of playing in an old mineshaft outside of the city. Bran had been pretty small. When his mother found out, she’d been furious and forbade him from going there ever again or playing with the boys who took him there.
It was the only cave Bran knew about. But where was the old mineshaft? He couldn’t remember.
Resettling the satchel’s strap onto his shoulders, he started on his search. It was the first time he had seen all the burned houses and buildings. There were a lot of men repairing homes and putting the Quarter back the way it was. As he went, he kept seeing his mother, trapped in a burning building and dying. Tears stung his eyes but he swallowed back the hurt.
If he was going to prove himself, he couldn’t let himself get distracted, not even by the memory of his mother.
***
Evening drew shadows over the Low Quarters. Despite the chill, sweat soaked Bran’s grey apprentice robes. His legs and feet ached. He entered a part of the Quarters he wasn’t sure he’d ever been in. Nothing was familiar. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat felt dry. It hadn’t occurred to him to bring a water skin.
He walked past a knot of boys a few years older than him, playing a game of dice and bone.
One of them noticed him. “Hey! It’s one of them mages from th’Academy.”
Bran stopped and turned. “I’m not a mage.”
The boys left their game to face him. The one who yelled at Bran asked, “What’s in yer bag?”
“Nothin’.” He clutched it to himself, the precious lumps of food pressing against his ribs.
“Give it!”
Bran ran away. The boys gave chase but his short time as a page gave him an advantage. Stretching his legs, he gained enough ground to dash around a corner and into an alley. At the end of the alley stood an old well.
Bran.
The name slithered over him. He shivered.
“Where’d he go?” yelled the leader of the boys. “Check the alleys.”
Bran.
Was it coming from the well? Bran approached it and hoisted himself onto the lip. Careful not to fall in headfirst, he leaned over the edge but only saw darkness.
“There he is!”
Bran gasped. One of the boys stood at the mouth of the alley, pointing at Bran. The small thunder of the rest of the gang rushing to the alley brought a chill down Bran’s spine. The boy who found him started to move toward him.
Bran!
Bran grabbed the rope that held the bucket. The bucket had been lowered and the rope vanished into the black. He wrapped his legs around the rope. Hand over hand, he inched his way down the rope.
Hands grasped at him. Startled, his grip loosened and he slid down a few feet. The rope burned his hands. He cried out, tears stinging his eyes as he held on for dear life. The well’s smooth sides surrounded Bran. He hung out of reach for the boys.
“Turn the lever,” said one of them.
Bran felt a jolt as they tried to crank the winch. The crossbeam groaned. Icy fear chilled Bran’s heart.
“No, stop!” he cried.
The crossbeam snapped and Bran fell downward into the well. His arms flailed out, scratching at the smooth stone. The boys watched with horror as Bran fell into empty air.
He vaguely noticed the walls falling away into nothing and then the ground caught him. Pain lanced through his whole body, shoving the air from him.
Then, nothing.
***
Bruin visited the Academy kitchens long enough to grab a quick supper before he left for the Middle Quarters. With everything going on, he only now was able to get away to meet the mysterious Gentius.
While Bruin prided himself on knowing the goings-on of much of the city, and had an ear in several Royal Courts, there were two places that eluded him: Tier and Galeen. Not having an ear in Tier’s Splendid Court continued to be a source of concern for Bruin. The animosity between most Tierans and Lorstians made it difficult to find anyone willing to work as a double agent. Tierans enjoyed being secretive and guarded, often over the strangest of things.
Galeen was a mystery to Bruin because of the kingdom’s closed borders. There were supposedly smugglers willing to get people in and out of the tiny country but Bruin had yet to make contact with them. If he had, it would make confirming this Gentius’s identity so much easier. Truth spells were an option. However, they were notoriously fickle and unstable. And anyone—magic user or normal person—who could lie very well could lie around the spell, negating the entire point.
The Dancing Yeoman sat on a quiet street in the Middle Quarters, tucked between a hatter and a cobbler. Across the street, a butcher plied his trade. Inside the Yeoman, the common room was beginning to fill with people eating, mostly local men on their way home or to work.
Bruin caught the arm of a passing maid. “My dear, I was hoping you could help me find a friend.”
She smiled at him, a cute little dimple in her left cheek. “Who are you looking for, sir?”
“My friend is a foreigner. Red hair. Tall. I think he’s traveling with a companion who might look a touch dangerous.” Most people had a sense when it came to mercenaries and hired swords, though it usually didn’t go beyond being afraid or wary.
“I know that man,” she said. “He’s over there.” The maid gave a pointed look toward a corner table, where a red-haired man in rough worker’s clothing ate with a woman. The woman was surprising, as Bruin had expected Gentius to be accompanied by a man. Unless he had lied to the King about having only one companion.
“Thank you.” Bruin kissed her hand, as delicately as if the maid were a princess. She blushed.
The pair looked up as Bruin approached. Without asking for permission, he took an empty chair. The woman sat back, hand disappearing under the table. She was built like a wolf: sleek and muscular without a spare ounce of fat on her. Her straight, dark auburn hair was short, coming down to her jaw, and she surveyed the world through cool, brown eyes.
Bruin smiled at her before turning to Gentius. “We have a mutual friend,” Bruin said.
“Do we?” Gentius replied.
“The one who works in the Palace.”
“Ah.” He sipped his ale. “And you are?”
Bruin had dressed like a merchant. His black wizard’s robes would have only drawn unwanted attention. “I’m a concerned party. And your friend? I was told you were traveling with only one companion, a sword-arm.”
Gentius smirked. “This is my sword-arm. Allow me to introduce Zenobia.”
Zenobia inclined her head slightly. Bruin returned the gesture, trying to hide his surprise. However, some of it must have been evident in his eyes, because the woman smirked.
“Don’t you think a woman capable of protecting a man?” she asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Bruin replied. “It’s only in Lorst—”
“I’m well aware of the position women have in this country.” Zenobia’s voice dripped with contempt.
Clara would probably like this woman, Bruin thought. “My sincere apologies for offending you.”
Gentius, grinning from ear to ear, patted his bodyguard on the shoulder. “Enough. What brings you here, friend of our friend?”
“There’s concern you aren’t who you say,” Bruin remarked, switching his attention back to Gentius.
“I thought he might, once he’d had time to think on our meeting.” He reached into a belt pouch and drew out a ring. He held it out over the table. Bruin took it, tilting it to better see it in the lamplight.
It was a signet ring. A spreading tree surrounded by flowering vines was etched as a relief on the pewter. Bruin had seen the sigil of the House of Galeen in a book once and he thought it looked like this.
“Anyone can have a ring made,” Bruin noted. He passed it back.
“True,” Gentius replied. “Did it look familiar to you?”
“It did.”
“And do you know the story about the ring?”
“Legend has it that it’s bespelled and will burn into anything. It’s only used on vellum and wood, however. But that ring contains no magic.” Bruin would have known when he touched it.
Gentius pressed the ring onto the tabletop. For a brief moment, nothing happened. Magic swelled, sharp and hot. He removed the ring, revealing the sigil burned into the wood. Bruin stood and leaned forward. Carefully, he rubbed at it. His finger came away sooty but the image remained clear.
Slowly, Bruin sat back down. He studied the mark, letting the ramifications filter through his mind. He raised his eyes to meet Gentius’s. “Not very smart to leave that there.” He gestured, murmuring a spell under his breath to call upon the element of wood to swell and grow. Wood filled in the mark. “Perhaps you stole it from its owner.”
“It will only work for the Heir Apparent or the Prince-Steward.”
“So you say.”
“You try it, then.” Gentius slid it across the table toward him.
Bruin picked it up with the tips of his fingers but the metal was cool, with no sign that just a moment ago it was hot enough to scorch wood. He pressed it down into the tabletop. Nothing happened. He sent out tendrils of magic, trying to sense the spell set into the metal. For a moment, he felt it, like a bright ray of light escaping an overcast sky only to be gone as quickly as it came. He saw it long enough, though, to sense magic, ancient and very powerful.
Spells had caveats and loopholes. However, the more powerful the spell, the fewer of those there were. A powerful spell needed to be exact in every detail, with nothing vague or left to chance. If only the Heir or Ruler could use that ring, then Bruin was inclined to believe that.
“A magic user come to question me?” Gentius said.
“How—”
“I’ve had enough training to recognize the sensation of magic on the air. I know who you are. You are the mysterious Lord Bruin. I’m surprised. Why would the King entrust this task to someone who failed to unmask a traitor until it was nearly too late?”
Bruin tried not to feel the slice of guilt at the reminder. But Gentius’s words gave strength to the niggling doubt that Bruin stood, again, on the precipice of another mistake. “Heard of that, have you?” He glanced around. The room had been filling up and enough ambient noise covered their words. No one sat close enough to properly eavesdrop.
“I talked to people on my way here,” Gentius replied. “You also served King Marduk.”
“To his face.”
“Is that how you serve your new King now?”
Indignation snapped down Bruin’s spine and he sat up straighter. Everything I do is for his good, even if it doesn’t appear as such, you bastard.
Zenobia watched him closely, as if sensing his emotion. Her shoulders were tense and he wondered what weapon she gripped under the table. Bruin could kill Gentius, or harm him, with magic, but then he’d have this woman to fight. Bruin knew she would make him pay, even at the cost of her life.
Gentius leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “If you truly cared about your King, then you want the best for him. You want to protect him. You want to make sure that an impostor doesn’t slither his way into his confidence. You want him to prosper.”
“Are those your aims? Because I thought you were here for help.”
“Bringing Tier to its knees will bring prosperity and safety. It—” His face flushed scarlet as the passion in his voice momentarily choked him.
Bruin reined in the cold anger simmering in his gut. It wasn’t good for a magic user to let his emotions get the better of him. Furniture tended to catch on fire when that happened. He looked down at the ring and thought about strong magics with few loopholes. Perhaps not just anyone could wield it. Doubt beat at him even as his magic and intuition raised no alarms.
Bruin gathered magic into his breath and blew over the ring. The metal came alive in his fingers, alive with an answering power. Then, it faded away, but not before it confirmed to Bruin the strength and age of the magic. He leaned forward and held out the ring.
Bruin said, “I will talk to Emmerich about a second meeting.”
“Thank you.” The words came out low and heartfelt. Zenobia looked at her prince and an emotion flashed over her face, too quick for Bruin to interpret.
Bruin left the inn, his mind full of the Prince who could change everything. When he returned to the Palace, he intended to inform the King straight away. However, there were other errands to run that night.
***
Asher arrived home after twilight gave way to true night. His lower back ached from hours of sitting. The weekly Council meeting ran long that day. Reports came in describing raiders in the far north harassing Lorst’s more remote villages. They also bore word of a new king uniting the disparate warlords. With concerns regarding Tier, the Council divided on whether to send troops north or a diplomatic mission. Asher was of a mind to send soldiers to guard the villages until they knew if they had a new King as a neighbor. He yawned as he passed over his threshold.
The footman closed the door behind him as Giselle rushed out of the parlor.
“Asher, something terrible has happened,” she said.
“What? Is the child all right?” He grasped her upper arms. Asher didn’t know much about women or childbearing but he once heard women could lose their babes in the early stages.
She laid a hand on her lower belly. “Everything is fine. No. Bran didn’t come home from the Academy.”
“Maybe he’s studying and lost track of the time? Lord Bruin said he needed Bran’s help. He could be doing that.”
“But wouldn’t his lordship send a message?”
Bruin could be forgetful, even callous, but Asher couldn’t see the man forgetting to send a message if he planned to keep Bran late.
“I’ll go back to the Academy,” he offered. “He’s probably in the library.”
Giselle bit her bottom lip, the worry remaining in the crease between her brows, but she nodded. “Perhaps.”
A servant had already taken Asher’s horse to the carriage house behind their home, so he set off on foot back to the Palace. The chilly air nipped at his nose and he pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders. Leaves crunched underfoot and, in the distance, crows cawed on their way home.
Instead of going through the main entrance, Asher chose a smaller, servant’s back gate, startling a few maids in the process. They curtsied as he passed. He gave them a reassuring smile.
Asher visited the Academy library first. The room easily reached three stories in itself. Shelves upon shelves stretched across the walls, filled to the brim with books, maps, and scrolls. Several apprentices sat at the study carrels and he paced the aisles. A few of them perked up curiously, only to duck down when they recognized him.
A bit of worry curled in his gut when none of the carrels yielded Bran.
Next stop took him to Bruin’s office but he found the door locked. Asher knocked, waited, and listened. No sound came from the other side. He peeked into the keyhole but saw only blackness.
The worry grew larger, reaching to his heart.
He went from there to Bruin’s quarters, on the same level as the other masters and mistresses of the Academy. That, too, was locked.
When Asher came downstairs, he heard the clattering of cutlery. He almost smacked himself on the forehead. It could be the dinner hour for them here. Even Bruin needed to eat.
The refectory, however, was half-empty. No teachers sat at the elevated dais. Those apprentices still there were either finishing their meals or cleaning.
He stopped a passing apprentice with an armload of dishes. “Can you tell me where the masters are?”
“It’s a study evening, my lord,” the girl replied. “We don’t have a formal supper. Apprentices come in as they want. The masters and mistresses eat in their rooms or in the Palace.”
“Thank you.”
The girl curtsied as best she could and continued to the kitchens.
Asher strode over to the Palace. In the Palace’s dining hall, evening meals tended to be elaborate, with entertainment interspersed between the courses. Bruin didn’t care for them much but Asher didn’t know where else to go.
The sound of laughter and music reached him as he approached the main doors of the refectory. Three pages loitered in the hall. They snapped to attention as he approached.
“Go in and find Lord Bruin,” he told one of them. “Tell him General Asher needs to speak to him immediately.”
Asher could have gone in himself but he would have been announced. Everyone would have stood, bowed, making more than he wanted to bother with. The worry pinched his gut and turned his chest to ice.
It took a small eternity before the page returned. “General, sir,” he said, “his lordship is not dining with the nobility tonight.”
“Did anyone say if they knew where to find him?”
“I did not wish to disturb their lordships at their meal, sir.”
Of course not. And they would have ignored the lad if he had. Asher tried to think of what next to do when he saw Jarrett walking down the hall.
“Captain,” he called, jogging toward the man.
Jarrett paused, raising his brows. “What is it, General?”
“Have you seen Bran?”
“Not since yesterday evening. I walked him home.”
“Do you know where Lord Bruin could be?”
“That wizard? He could be in Tier for all I know. Maybe ask Healer Paula?”
“Lady Clara’s healer? Why would she know?”
Jarrett raised a brow.
It took a second for realization to dawn on Asher. “Oh.”
“I’ll walk with you. If Bran is missing, Clara would want me to help. He is her apprentice, after all. Why would Bruin know where Bran is?”
“Bran is helping Bruin on a hunt, as he called it. They were working with others but I can’t remember who or if Bruin ever told me.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t.”
Asher grimaced. Sometimes, that wizard’s opaqueness caused more problems than it solved or prevented.
***
They found Healer Paula eating with other healers in the refectory. Unlike the Palace or the Academy, their dining hall resembled a tavern with round tables and servers.
“Oh, I like this arrangement,” Jarrett remarked.
Paula sat at a corner table, having a lively conversation with another, older man over the use of leeches. Paula appeared to be for it.
“I beg pardon,” Asher said.
The occupants of the table got to their feet to make obeisance. Asher waved them back down. He didn’t have time for all of these niceties.
“What brings you here, General?” asked Paula. “Is everything all right? Jarrett, this isn’t about your father?”
“Father is well,” Jarrett replied. “We’re trying to find Bran and we hoped that by locating Bruin, we would find the boy.”
“I’ve seen neither. But Mervin did say he was going into the city on business tonight.”
“Who’s Mervin?”
“That’s Bruin’s birth name. Bruin is only a family name he goes by.”
“Mervin, eh?” From Jarrett’s face, it was obvious he’d tucked away that information for later teasing.
Asher asked, “Do you know where in the city he could have gone?”
“Only that he wanted to check on a friend.”
“Jarrett, any ideas?”
The humor slid away from the captain’s face. “I might. Thank you, Healer Paula.”
She nodded. “I hope you find them both.”
When they left the refectory, Jarrett said, “He might have gone to the Red Hare.”
“That filthy place?” Asher raised his brows in surprise. “Why would he go there? If he’s spending time with Healer Paula, as you’ve suggested, surely he wouldn’t bother with any brothel, much less the Hare.”
Jarrett’s face hardened. “He meets several contacts there.”
Asher was beginning to hate this search more and more.
***
Asher wouldn’t want to be seen in the Red Hare even if he had been injured on the street and this was the closest open establishment. He would rather die outside in the gutter. From what others told him, it would be cleaner.
The inside of the brothel did not disappoint, being as smoky and disgusting as he imagined. And there, at a table and sipping an ale while watching a naked woman dance with veils, sat Bruin. Asher marched over and yanked the man out of his chair by the robe.
“What is going on?” Bruin demanded.
Ignoring him, Asher half pushed, half dragged the wizard out of the brothel and around the corner. Then, he released him. “Jarrett suggested I be rough, so that your contacts would still feel comfortable going to you.”
“Did he?” He shot Jarrett a glare.
Jarrett grinned. “All in good fun, Mervin.”
Bruin stiffened. “Who told you—?”
Asher interrupted, “I need to know where Bran is. He didn’t come home this evening.”
Bruin’s eyes widened. “He didn’t? I dismissed him from classes earlier today. There was an altercation at the school.”
“What kind of altercation?”
The wizard described Bran running away from a teacher, only to fight and bite at Bruin when he tried to restrain him.
“And you didn’t escort him home?” Asher demanded.
“I assumed he would obey, General. I don’t have time to nursemaid children. I planned to address his behavior the next day, once Bran slept and thought about what happened. Has no one else seen him? Have you checked with Lady Clara?”
“Clara,” Jarrett explained, “is not allowed visitors at this time.”
Asher noted Jarrett stood straighter, as if the situation hadn’t seemed so dire until that moment.
“Then I am at a loss,” said Bruin.
The trio fell silent. Asher’s mind worked but he couldn’t imagine anything else to do. He knew of no friends or even distant relatives Bran might turn to if upset. If he went to watch the soldiers in their evening practice, one of them would have sent him home once the sun tended toward the horizon. He hoped that Bran considered their house a sanctuary.
“Let’s go back to your sister,” Jarrett said. “Maybe he’s returned.”
Asher rubbed at his bottom lip. Bran had been acting oddly of late but Asher attributed it to the boy feeling out of place in his new home. Or perhaps the classes at the Academy were getting to be too much. During the next three-week break, Asher planned on taking Bran on a hunting trip. He doubted the boy had ever left Bertrand and it would give them a chance to talk away from responsibilities and eavesdroppers. And hunting trips were the only times Asher had ever bonded with his father, so he wanted to share it with Bran.
But had that been too late? Had Bran been in trouble? If so, why didn’t he tell Asher? Why hadn’t Asher noticed?
He never thought he would be a father, though he wanted to be one, as well as have a partner to share his life with. The impediment to that, however, was that he didn’t want the sexual relationship required to produce a child or keep a marriage happy.
When he’d been younger, and his friends paired off with wives and lovers, he felt cold and apart. It was as if his friends heard a tune he was incapable of comprehending. It wasn’t that he missed carnal love. One cannot miss what hasn’t been experienced or even desired.
Even though he didn’t want to bed a woman, he still longed for love. There was a hole in him that, in the deepest parts of the night, ached for companionship. However, he couldn’t trap a woman in a marriage where her husband came to her bed solely out of duty, if Asher was capable of even that much. So, instead, he focused all the more on soldiering and being a good older brother. When Bran came along, he tried to focus on being a good adoptive father, but it appeared he might have failed at that.
Asher believed it to be his duty to take care of Bran. No matter what anyone said, he still felt partially responsible for the fire that killed Bran’s mother. Asher had come to see Bran as the answer to at least part of the ache within him. He thought he finally had a son. But what if, even in this, he was incapable?
***
Giselle stopped her pacing when Asher, Jarrett, and Bruin entered the parlor. “Did you find him?”
“No,” Asher said.
The front door opened again and Lord Greenwood stomped inside. Asher did not consider Greenwood his favorite person. His sister had fallen in love with him and in a moment of weakness, Asher permitted the match. Every other day, Greenwood gave Asher cause to regret his decision but the lord was harmless. A bunch of aristocratic bluster tempered with a few endearing qualities.
As Giselle fell into Greenwood’s arms, her husband folded her into his embrace. He appeared uncomfortable, glancing over at the three men, but he didn’t push her away. Asher hated the man slightly less.
“What’s going on?” Greenwood asked.
“Bran is missing,” Giselle replied. “Asher just returned from searching.”
“Let’s get you in a chair. All this fussing about cannot be good for you.”
Jarrett touched Asher’s arm and leaned close. “I need to talk to you. And Bruin.”
Asher followed the captain into the dining room. Bruin closed the door behind them. An oil street lamp outside spilled yellow light across the wooden, rush-covered floor and cast the corners in shadow.
“I’ve learned a troubling bit of news,” Jarrett said. “An assassin from a guild in Tier entered the city recently. The King and I have reason to believe that he could strike at anyone associated with Lady Clara. Bran’s disappearance may be connected.”
Asher ran a hand over his face. “Are you certain?”
“I am.”
Bruin said, “If an assassin took Bran, he would leave the body in a place to be found. It does no good if we don’t know if he’s dead.”
“True,” Jarrett agreed. “The fact that Bran only appears to be missing makes for a good sign.”
Asher clenched his jaw. “If he’s dead, I will have my revenge.”
“You’d have to beat Emmerich to it. Clara, as well. They both are fond of Bran as well. Do we know what could have set Bran off to make him run away?”
“Bruin told me that he was upset at the Academy today. And he’s been acting strangely for a while.”
“Would Greenwood know anything?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t have much to do with Bran.” He sighed. “But I have been away at the Palace a lot.”
“We should talk to him.”
Asher called Greenwood away from comforting a crying Giselle. The man’s lips were pressed in a grim line as he closed the door behind him.
“This could hurt the baby,” Greenwood said. “We need to calm my wife soon.”
“We will,” Asher assured him. “Has Bran said anything to you about running away or about anyone harming him?”
Greenwood shook his head. “The boy barely speaks to me. He skitters around this house, frightened of shadows.”
This did not sound like Bran, who once confronted one of Marduk’s panthers during Remus’s attack on the city.
“He’s low born,” Greenwood continued. “Chances are, he returned to the Low Quarters.”
“His lordship may have a point,” Bruin said. “If Bran felt threatened, the Quarters would be where he would feel safe.”
Asher’s stomach curdled. This house was supposed to be where he felt safe. “I don’t know if we would be able to find him there at night.”
“We couldn’t. However, with an article of his clothing, I could try a location spell.”
“Let’s waste no time, then.”
They left the dining room. While the men waited with Giselle, he went upstairs to Bran’s bedchamber. The room was neat and the bed made. He didn’t see Bran’s school satchel: the desk sat empty.
For the first time, Asher noticed there were no decorations or small items children treasured. Asher had kept quite the collection of bird feathers at Bran’s age in a box by the bed. He found no such boxes or chests. He took Bran’s spare cloak from a peg and brought it downstairs.
“Will this take long?” Asher asked.
“Not long at all.” Bruin folded the cloak and laid it on a low table. “I need to write on this table with chalk. I hope that is fine.”
“Yes, of course.”
Producing a stick from his belt pouch, Bruin drew a series of symbols in a circle around the cloak and then pocketed the chalk. He held his hands over the material and began muttering a foreign tongue in a low voice. It sounded guttural and strange to Asher. Slowly, light filled the chalk markings, reaching out toward the cloak. Asher held his breath.
The light faded. Bruin opened his eyes. A little of the hope went out of Asher.
“My magic is being blocked,” Bruin said. He frowned. “I don’t know what is doing it, but I can’t reach Bran. Someone powerful may have him or he is in a place shielded against magic.”
“Did you get an idea of where he could be?” asked Giselle.
“I’m afraid not, my lady. But he lives, I know that much.”
She relaxed with a sigh into the cushions.
Asher shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. I’ll take this back to the Academy. Maybe I can find a way around the barrier.”
Jarrett said, “I’ll spread word through the Palace. Maybe a servant or courtier knows where he went or saw him leave. If Clara is up to it, maybe she could try to see a vision of him.”
Asher took Giselle’s hand and forced a smile. “We’ll find him, my dear.”
She smiled a little and squeezed his hand. Jarrett’s brows furrowed in concern. Bruin’s expression remained carefully blank. They all thought the same: the assassin, for whatever reason, probably had Bran. And, for the time being, there wasn’t a damn thing they could do.
***
As Jarrett walked through the nighttime Palace halls, he ran through his day. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had forgotten to do something. In the morning, he’d left the Palace long enough to verify what Bruin told him about the sign hidden on the warehouse. There hadn’t been anyone there, either, that he could see. On returning, he ran the men through more drills and discussed the assassin with Matthias. Matthias agreed to quietly step up patrols.
Then Bran went missing and it could be connected. Or maybe Bran ran away. Maybe being a noble had proved too strange, too different to the youngster.
As Jarrett approached Clara’s quarters, he nodded at her guards as they saluted him. “How’s the watch?”
“Quiet, Captain,” one of them replied.
For a brief moment, he thought about leaving but couldn’t resist the urge to check on Clara. He knocked on the door.
One of the twins answered. “Her ladyship isn’t well enough for visitors,” she said.
“Who is it?” Clara’s voice sounded low and tired.
The maid angled away from the door. “Captain Jarrett, my lady.”
“Let him in.”
Clara lay on the couch, a blanket over her legs. She smiled wanly. For a brief moment, Jarrett saw Serilda, pale and thin, staring up at him with glazed eyes.
“Jarrett?” Clara pushed herself up onto her elbows. “What’s wrong?”
He shook himself. “Uh. No. I’m fine. What are you doing lying on the couch like that? That can’t be comfortable.”
“Mother wanted me to go to bed. I didn’t want to go. This was a compromise.”
Jarrett forced a laugh. “You can compromise?”
She raised a brow and slowly pushed herself upright, swinging her legs over the edge of the couch. “What’s wrong?”
“Why does there have to be anything wrong?” After everything else, Jarrett was not going to put more on Clara by telling her Bran was missing. She’d tear out of the room to turn the city on its ear. “Where is your mother?”
“Gone to bed.”
“Where you ought to be.”
Clara narrowed her eyes. “You paled when you came in just now.”
He rubbed his face, blowing out air in a long exhalation. “Why does it matter?”
“If you’re troubled, I want to know about it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
For a brief moment, he didn’t think she would let it go. Finally, she nodded. “Fine. How is life in the Palace? There’s still a world out there, isn’t there?”
“Last I saw. And life goes on but it isn’t the same without you.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “Any news on the assassin? Or the slavers?”
Jarrett gave a brief rundown of his day, leaving out the part about Bran. He didn’t wish to upset her while she was still so ill. As he spoke, he settled beside her on the couch. “You seem more irritable than usual.”
She shrugged. “Evil thoughts, as Mother would say.”
“What kind of evil thoughts?”
Clara’s shoulders tensed.
“On my first day back, you told me you needed an ally but you wouldn’t say why. Can you say why now?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“I’m only pissing in the dark here but I can tell you’re troubled.”
“No, you’re, ah, aiming in the right direction.”
He grasped her hand. “I can’t help you if I don’t know.”
Her fingers curled around his gloved hand. “Let’s make a deal. If I tell you what’s bothering me, then you’ll do the same. That expression on your face—it’s important.”
Jarrett took in Clara’s concerned face and realized whatever was troubling her was more important than a few painful memories. “All right. But you first.”
She took a deep breath, gathering herself. “Before I was poisoned, about a week before, I received a vision. I don’t want to go into detail. But. If Emmerich and I marry, then Tier will invade and Lorst will be lost.” She clenched her jaw.
He blinked. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I am.”
“Have you told Emmerich?”
“No. Can you imagine his reaction? He’ll marry me one day and invade Tier the next. He doesn’t care about the risk.”
“He cares greatly.” Jarrett considered their earlier conversation. “He also believes that there are risks worth taking.”
“This isn’t worth it.” Her eyes filled with raw, unvarnished pain. “It isn’t.”
Still holding her hand, Jarrett leaned towards her, bracing his other arm behind her on the couch so that he surrounded her in a protective embrace. He barely noticed he was doing it. “What do you need me to do?”
“Mother has this plan to make Emmerich believe I’ve cuckolded him so that he’ll break the engagement. I can’t go through with it.”
“How in the name of the Mother’s spinning wheel are you going to trick him into thinking that?”
Clara smiled sadly. “By hiring a dashing soldier to be Captain of the Seer’s Guard, putting him in the bedchamber across from me, and spreading rumors.”
His heart contracted. Being offended would have been normal but this level of hurt rattled him. The idea of her using him struck more deeply than his honor being sullied. “You didn’t seriously call me here for that, did you?”
“No! Of course not. I need a friend, Jarrett. That’s what I need from you.”
“All right. Then, as your friend, I’m telling you to go to Emmerich. Explain your vision. He’ll see reason.”
She made a rude noise in the back of her throat.
“He will,” Jarrett repeated. “Emmerich is a strategist. He may not be a diplomat or subtle but he knows how to win a battle. Seeing a vision doesn’t mean it has to happen. You’ve told me before that the future can be changed.”
“It’s too big of a risk.”
“Shouldn’t he decide that with you rather than you deciding for him?” Jarrett scowled. “You have a tendency to do that, you know.”
“What?”
“Decide for people.”
Clara flushed, the shade of red alarming against her pale skin. “I am sorry about that.”
“I know. It’s all right.” It wasn’t but he didn’t want Clara walking around with a burdened conscience. Especially since the blame lay mostly with him. “Promise me you’ll think about what I said.”
“I promise.” She shifted so she faced him a little more directly. “Now, it’s your turn.”
He wasn’t sure how much to tell her. He certainly didn’t want to reveal Bruin’s secret. Why he protected the wizard, Mother only knew. Jarrett noticed his arm on the back of the couch and withdrew it. “Lately, I’ve been reminded of a woman—the first woman I loved.”
“Oh?”
“I was new to the army, new to anything outside of Bertrand, and she was a tavern wench from Arvent. Gorgeous woman. I wanted to marry her. Then she died of an illness.”
Clara went still. “Does my illness remind you of her?”
“What? No!” He tightened his grip on her hand. “No, not at all. You’re going to be fine, Clara. I promise.”
“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Jarrett’s throat closed up. He became painfully aware of how he held Clara’s hand and how his knee was pressed against hers. He released her and stood.
“I should go,” he said, his voice hoarse. “And you should go to bed.”
“Jarrett—”
He left her, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care. Two strides and he was in his own room, breathing deeply and fighting the memory of Serilda. Jarrett forced his mind toward Clara’s revelation.
Would Clara tell Emmerich the truth? He couldn’t imagine her keeping the information to herself. It must have been horrible for her to even listen to a plan that involved lying to him and breaking his heart. Pity moved in Jarrett.
What haunted him, however, was his answer to Clara’s question about whether her illness reminded him of Serilda’s. It had been a lie.
***
A groan woke Clara. She opened her eyes and sat up. Weak moonlight spilling through a parted curtain illuminated Harmony asleep on her cot. The groan came again and Clara could tell it came from the sitting room. She felt around the bedside table until she found her tinder and flint. She used them to light the lamp. Taking it up, she went into the sitting room.
The flickering light cast away the dark to reveal Emmerich in a chair facing the door, a dagger loosely gripped in his hand.
“No,” whispered Emmerich. He rolled his head back and gasped for air.
“Emmerich?” She set the lamp down and grasped his shoulder.
Emmerich’s eyes snapped open. He launched himself from the chair, pinning her to the floor. The edge of the dagger pressed against her neck.
“Emmerich!”
He went still. After a long moment, he tossed the dagger away and rolled, pulling her with him so that she lay draped on top of him. Clara braced her hands and knees, a little bewildered to find herself on top of a man in naught but her chemise. Emmerich draped his arm over his eyes.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Nightmare,” he rasped.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I know.”
It was simply becoming too strange for her to remain in that position. Too intimate. All Emmerich had to do was run his hands up her legs and suddenly be touching the most private parts of herself. She slid off him, retreating to her bed chamber for a dressing gown.
“What were you doing in that chair?” she asked on returning, belting the gown tightly.
“I like to guard you on occasion,” Emmerich replied. He hadn’t moved an inch.
“What was the nightmare about?”
It took him so long to answer, Clara was beginning to think he wasn’t. But, after a long while, he whispered, “You.”
“Me?”
Emmerich sat up. He draped his arms over his legs, letting his hands dangle between his knees. He stared at the chair. “I dream, sometimes, of Monica and how I killed her. In the dreams, I always stand over her and look into her face. But lately, when I look at her, it’s not Monica. It’s you. And it sickens me. When I had that knife at your throat just now, I thought—” His lips trembled. “I hate that dream. But it keeps coming back.” Emmerich clenched his eyes closed. Bowing his head, he crossed his arms over his chest, as if he was holding in great emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.
Clara knelt and laid a hand on his arm. The muscles under the fabric of his tunic felt stiff and tight. When he didn’t pull away, she wrapped her arms around him.
A few heartbeats passed. The tension eased out of Emmerich and he slid his arms around Clara’s waist, drawing her closer to him. He laid his head on her shoulder, tucking his face into where shoulder met neck.
“I love you,” Clara whispered, “and I know you would never hurt me.”
He squeezed her waist and drew back. His eyes were glassy. He sniffled and wiped his eyes. “I love you, too.”
“Where’s Niall?” She knew the aerial’s presence would help soothe him.
“I left her in my quarters. It’s rather hard to sneak about the Palace with her. I can go—”
“Stay.” She slid her hands down his arms and grasped his hands. “Stay tonight. I don’t want—that is, you know I want to remain a virgin until—”
“I know. You aren’t afraid of me? After what I told you? After what happened?”
“No. I’ll never be afraid of you. I just don’t want you to spend the night alone. Not when you’re upset like this.”
“I’ll have Niall.”
“But wouldn’t it be better to have me?”
Longing filled his face with a burning intensity. “Yes.”
He carried the lamp while Clara led him back into her bedchamber. She went to her wardrobe and pulled out a pair of trousers she had made, in case she ever needed to dress like a man. She pulled those on under the chemise. Emmerich placed the lamp on the bedside table, slipped his boots off, and removed his tunic so that all he wore was his trousers. He climbed into bed, lying on the far side, under the covers.
She blew out the lamp and got into bed with him. Her heart thudded in her throat. This was different from the times she’d fallen asleep in his arms after dinner. Emmerich was more clothed and he reclined on top of the coverlet. This felt more intimate.
He touched her arm. Responding to the silent invitation, Clara scooted closer to press against him. She laid her head on his chest. Emmerich put both arms around her. In the warmth and security of his embrace, sleep was not hard to find.
