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Whispers of courtiers followed Jarrett as he left the main audience chamber and walked to the Palace dungeons. Emmerich had passed judgment on Bruin, Paula, and Thalia before the full Court. There was no law requiring them to be present. Perhaps Emmerich didn’t want to look at Bruin, a man he once trusted deeply.
Jarrett could understand that. He didn’t want to see the man, either. However, Emmerich had been tasked him with delivering the news of the sentencing to Bruin and Paula.
He wished the King had kept the whole affair quiet, passing judgment in a private session with his Council. However, Emmerich wanted everything out in the open. Maybe he thought it would keep people from speculating as to what happened to Clara, Lady Thalia, and the once-trusted Bruin. However, from where Jarrett stood, it would only serve to cause more distrust between ordinary people and magic workers, between Lorstians and Tierans.
At least Emmerich didn’t tell everything. He only stated that Thalia, with Bruin and Paula, drugged Clara as part of a plan to bring her into the full flower of her gift. Near-poisoning had been accidental. The crimes, then, were in lying to the King and conspiracy. These were punishable by death. Emmerich’s decision sent shock waves through the Court.
Jarrett pounded on the door leading into the antechamber before the holding cells. They were one floor above the darker pits of the dungeon, where the Questioners plied their trade and men were dropped into holes to be forgotten. A guard opened the spy hole.
“I’m here to see the prisoners,” Jarrett said.
The guard slapped the hole shut and opened the door. “Do you want us to take them out of their cells?”
“No.”
The guard shrugged, opened the door into the holding chamber, and returned to the game Jarrett had interrupted. The pair of guards played hnefatafl. One man’s pieces sat in the center, guarding the king, and the opponents spread around the board. Jarrett thought the game absolutely maddening.
Only Bruin and Paula were in the cells. Paula paced her cage, coming to a stop as Jarrett walked past to Bruin.
Bruin sat cross-legged with his eyes closed in the center of his cage. His hands lay gently on his knees and his chest rose and fell as he breathed.
Jarrett took a moment to push down a surge of rage on seeing the wizard. He rattled the door of the cell. “I’ve news for you both.”
Bruin got to his feet in one smooth motion, using only the muscles in his thighs, a move requiring a level of strength that destroyed Jarrett’s image of Bruin as a weak scholar. Bruin approached the bars. Jarrett didn’t step back but he did release the door.
“Has the King made his decision?” Bruin asked.
“King Emmerich is exiling you and Paula to Arvent. You’ll be given a few days’ food and a small amount of money. Thalia will return to Tier. Mistress Lorraine is now Lady Lorraine. Emmerich gave her all of your lands and wealth. She will lead the Wizard Council and sit on the King’s Council. There were other rules, too. You don’t need to know them.”
“I want to know.”
Jarrett grimaced. He almost didn’t reply out of spite. “All wizards, apprentices, and those with magic must be registered in records maintained by the Court scribes, not by the Academy. If a wizard or apprentice goes missing, it must be reported to the Captain of the Royal Guard immediately. No wizard or apprentice may leave the Palace grounds without first notifying the Royal Guard. The monarch will determine punishment for crimes committed by wizards, not the Wizard Council. Lady Lorraine holds a place on the King’s Council but won’t be held in confidence.”
“If the King won’t trust the wizards, then the people won’t.”
Jarrett snorted. “The people already don’t. Emmerich wants to show that people with magic are reasonable and can abide by a few simple rules. The Academy is on Palace grounds, after all. Would you have rather he evicted you all and outlawed magic?”
Bruin shook his head. “Of course not.” He rubbed his lips together. “Lady Lorraine won’t be a spy for the King, however. And she won’t be able to maintain my spies. If I leave, he’ll lose the ability to watch Barkeley’s faction.”
Jarrett clenched his jaw. “You should have thought about that before you lied and nearly killed Clara.”
“It was a risk that needed taking.”
Jarrett watched Paula from the corner of his eye. He noticed, when he came in, that the pair hadn’t been sitting close together. Had she and Bruin really been in a romance? Had she been honest about not carrying on with the King? Did it really matter now?
“If you two will excuse me, I have other duties.” Jarrett walked toward the door. He didn’t want to be in Bruin’s presence a moment longer than he needed.
“Wait,” Bruin called after him. “Jarrett, I need your help.”
He whirled around. “You lied to me, Bruin.” His shout echoed off the stone walls. “And Clara could have died. What in the hell makes you think you can ask me for help? I ought to kill you myself. I trusted you, man.”
Jarrett’s chest heaved as he tried to regain control. Paula watched with her back against the wall, fear reflecting in her eyes.
“It’s something you already want to do.” Bruin gripped the bars of the cell. His voice was low and neutral. “I need you to kill Amara.”
“You were all about live and let live the last time we spoke about her,” Jarrett replied. He clenched and unclenched his hands. “Did she hurt anyone?”
“No. But if I’m not here, there will be no one to keep a check on her. I need you to make sure—I need you to do what I should have done.”
Jarrett remembered their conversation outside The Red Hare and the broken expression on his former friend’s face. Jarrett had lost his Serilda to sickness but Bruin lost his love to a fate much worse. A fate that got back up and wore her face. Despite himself, sympathy stirred in Jarrett’s chest. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for a man who was almost the cause of Clara’s demise.
“I’ll take care of her,” Jarrett replied.
“Use silver. And thank you, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend. Not anymore.”
Jarrett left before he could say anything worse.
***
Clara read the message three times. Taking a deep breath, she folded it.
“Does her ladyship have a reply?” asked the page.
“No. Thank you.”
The boy bowed and left her.
“My lady?” Harmony set aside the dress she was hemming. “Is everything all right?”
“Emmerich made his decision.” Clara stood. “I need to see my mother.”
“The King said you couldn’t leave until the assassin was caught.”
“I’m going anyway.”
The guards tried to stop her as she left but Clara ignored them. Her mother was only down the hall, so it wasn’t like she was traipsing through half the Palace.
Photine answered her knock and curtsied deeply. Clara brushed past her into the room.
Thalia stood from her seat, holding a book in her hands. “Daughter,” she said, “I didn’t think you would come see me again.”
“I didn’t think I would either.” Clara plucked at her sleeve and wondered if she had lost her mind. “I have news. The King has decided to exile you to Tier. You can never return to Lorst.”
Her mother blinked slowly. “I see.”
“You’re to leave as soon as possible. I imagine Lord Nikolo will see to the arrangements.” She drew in a deep breath. “Do you think you will return to Pathos?”
“Possibly, but I may journey to Aphos. I could send word to Alexander to meet me there.”
Clara grimaced. “You’ll probably see me eventually, then, since I’ll be going there as soon as the assassin is caught. I would also like to meet my brother.”
Thalia went to her writing desk and scribbled on a page of paper. After a few moments of scratching, she brought it over to Clara. “If you wish to send a message or come to me, these are the directions to my home in Pathos and our estate in Aphos.”
As Clara took it, her fingers brushed her mother’s. An ache went through her heart. “Emmerich or the Council may not understand but I do. However, I don’t think I can forgive you for lying to me.” She straightened her shoulders. “I’ve gone this long without a mother. I can go further.”
“Have you?” Thalia looked over at an image of the Mother and Child hanging on the wall, a vigil lamp burning beneath it.
Ashamed, Clara flushed. “I should go.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
She left her mother standing there, in the remains of the relationship that could have been.
***
When Bran woke, sunlight poured from the well’s entrance and illumined a far wall of the cavern. Slowly, he pushed himself into a seated position. It should have hurt after falling such a ways but he felt fine.
Talon scraped stone.
Bran scrambled to his feet. “Hello?”
An enormous aerial stepped into the light. He stood as tall as Jarrett’s long-legged gelding, Heartsblood, and the light danced off his scales as if they were made of colored glass. Bran’s mouth dropped open in an ‘o’ of wonder.
The aerial sniffed at Bran. How do you feel, fledgling?
“I’m fine, sir.”
That is good. You’ve been sleeping for two days.
His eyes widened. “What?”
You were badly hurt. It took a long time to heal you.
“Oh.” He thought about when he woke up and felt distant, awful pain. Dried blood crusted his robes. He touched the back of his head and felt crusty, dried blood. “Am I all right now?”
You are.
Bran eyed the enormous feathered creature. “Are you the king of the aerials?”
A feeling of amusement rippled through Bran. I suppose I am.
“You live here?”
That well is an old opening. There are many caves and tunnels beneath the city. That is where we live.
“King Emmerich is worried.”
The King is a good man but it isn’t time for us to be seen above the surface. We only dare to come out on moonless nights. Do you want to meet the other aerials, Bran?
“Yes, Your Majesty. Did you call me here?”
I did.
The Aerial King walked past Bran. As he did so, he hummed and a bright white ball of light blossomed ahead of him, moving forward as he walked. Bran followed after him into a tunnel that led away from the dry well.
“Thank you for healing me,” he said.
You’re welcome.
“Why did you call me? Why didn’t you call Lady Clara?”
Until last night, she resided out of our reach.
“Why?”
She had her own quest to go on.
It was the nicest way anyone ever told Bran to mind his own business. He stopped talking and focused on one foot over the other. They traveled through several tunnels sloping deeper into the earth. The air smelled dry and stale, as if a wind never passed through it. The walls and floors of the tunnels were rocky and Bran nearly tripped more than once. He could feel the earth pressing down from above. Time to time, he glanced up, as if to make sure the ceiling wasn’t about to collapse. He kept close to the aerial. It grew warmer, until sweat covered Bran’s forehead. His throat ached for water.
Finally, the tunnel opened out into a huge cavern. It could have easily held a banquet for the whole Court and still have room for a ball. In the center of the cavern stretched a pool of water fed by a spring. Dozens of balls of white light floated near the ceiling of the cavern, casting back the shadows.
Aerials lined the walls in niches or lay next to the spring. Over a dozen fledglings, half the size of Niall, played nearby. Most of the aerials were brightly colored. Some were more of a faded color and appeared more interested in sleeping while curled around pale blue eggs. Bran’s mouth gaped open. There had to be at least fifty in the space, if not more. The light glittered off them like a living, moving dragon’s hoard.
Would you like water, Bran? asked the King.
Reminded of his thirst, he rushed forward and knelt by the edge of the pool. Clear as crystal and, when he scooped it into his hands, it was cold. He could see the rocky bottom, far below. A few white fish swam by. He cupped water in both hands and drank greedily. When Bran finished, he stood. Every aerial, save the sleeping ones, stared at him. He shifted from one foot to another. Had he done wrong?
The Aerial King chuckled and blew into his hair. Come along.
Bran followed him to the other side of the cavern, opposite from the tunnel they entered through and beyond the spring. All the aerials were much smaller than the King. Bran wondered if this was what made him their ruler.
They approached a raised shelf and atop it lay a beautiful, lithe aerial nearly as large as the King.
“Is this your Queen?” he asked.
It is. The King moved to lie beside his queen.
Bran executed his best courtly bow. “Your Majesty.”
Another ripple of humor came over him, this time from the Queen. I am pleased to meet you, Bran.
Bran wasn’t sure what to say or do next. He only meant to find them. He never thought beyond that. Since these were monarchs too, perhaps Bran needed to address them as a page?
He straightened his shoulders. “Your Majesties, His Majesty, Emmerich, King of Lorst, requests your presence.”
It is not time for us to meet your King, the Queen replied. Not yet.
“Oh. When, then?”
You will have to come back in a year and you can bring Emmerich. He must bring the aerial living with him, the one he calls Niall.
“Why?”
Because Niall won’t be ready to come here until then. And the King needs her right now.
“You’re going to take Niall away from him?”
The Aerial King stared at Bran and didn’t answer.
Bran decided to switch subjects, since the King didn’t want to talk about that one anymore. “Majesty, no one understands Niall’s appearance. I overheard Lord Bruin talking about it. Niall’s a girl but she’s colored bright and they say that’s wrong.”
They must have seen mother aerials with their young. We lose our color when we breed and raise our children.
“Why?”
It takes a lot of magic.
He nodded. It didn’t make sense but he didn’t want to appear stupid. He shifted from one foot to another. “Can you take away my ability to see the future? I-I don’t want to be different anymore.”
I’m sorry, Bran, but that gift is a part of you now. You must learn to live with it and use it. It is a gift, remember, and not a curse.
Bran gulped back bitter disappointment and fiddled with his sleeves. It was so overwhelming, to be surrounded by these beautiful creatures. The warm air was sweetened by the almonds of their breath and Bran’s skin tingled from the magic on the air. Learning in the Academy had made him sensitive to its presence.
You have your message, the King replied. You can go now or you can stay a while.
The Queen added, We want you to stay a while.
Bran grinned. “I would like that very much.”
You are a brave boy.
His smile faded. “I’m not very brave. Sometimes...sometimes bad things happen and I don’t tell anyone because—because I don’t want to be sent away. And I know that’s cowardly.” Bran hadn’t meant to say that. It had tumbled out. But he was so nervous and, at the same time, happy to have found the aerials as quickly as he did.
If you are sent away, the King said, you can come live with us. We will take care of you. But you won’t. We have watched you, Bran. We have ways to watch over this whole city and we know what you’re going through. There are those that love you much. You have nothing to fear. You should know, your father searches for you. He is worried.
“He’s not really my Da.”
In his worry and love for you, he is as much your ‘Da’ as if you sprung from his seed.
Bran wasn’t sure what to make of that. “I didn’t mean to make him worry,” he replied.
We know. Why don’t you go play with the fledglings?
Bran watched the little aerials, who had returned to play. They stood in a circle and bopped a ball of mud and rags to each other. He couldn’t remember the last time he really played. A large grin split his face and he ran over to his new friends.
***
After several hours of play, and even getting a closer look at an aerial egg, the King told Bran it was time to go home.
One of the aerials lifted his head and hummed low in his chest. A ball of light appeared, drifting ahead as the aerial led Bran through a rabbit’s warren of tunnels. A few of them stunk like unwashed chamber pots. Those had muddy bottoms. Bran clung to the dry walls to keep from falling into the worst of it. The bright light of the aerial lights—as Brad had come to think of them—revealed tunnels of dirt and caves with whole sides of crafted stone, as if a whole building had sunk into the ground.
Just as he was starting to get hungry, and about to suggest to his guide that they stop to eat, the aerial stopped. Up a flight of clumsy, earthen stairs was a small opening, just big enough for Bran to squeeze through.
That way, the aerial said. Goodbye.
“Goodbye,” Bran replied but the feathered wonder was already walking away. Before he lost the light, Bran hurried up the awkward steps and climbed through the hole. The opening came out from behind a wardrobe and he had to side-step to come out. He brushed the cobwebs from his hair and clothes. He stood in what appeared to be a large cellar. Mere feet away, men unloaded a wagon from the open double doors that faced an alley. When an item in the cart distracted them, he slipping out and found himself mere blocks from home. It was deep in the night. Bran could hear the cacophony of the night markets from a few streets away. Lamps lining the street cast a warm glow over the cobblestones.
Bran pulled his cloak tighter around him and hurried home.
When he arrived, he let himself into the house. “Hello? Aunt Giselle?” He closed the door behind him.
Elspeth, the maid who often cared for Bran, ran from the dining room and scooped him into a hug. “Oh, lad, we are glad to see you. General Asher is out looking for you but Lady Giselle is in her room. I’ll let her know—”
“You will not.”
Greenwood stood in the parlor door. The maid pushed Bran behind her. Bran grabbed at her skirt, fear fresh and strong in his chest. It felt hard to breathe.
“The boy is probably famished, my lord,” Elspeth said. “Let me cook him a meal.”
“Go back to the kitchen, Elspeth. Now.”
Elspeth glanced over her shoulder at Bran, grimacing an apology, and obeyed Greenwood. As soon as she was out of sight, Greenwood lunged forward, grabbing Bran by the arm. He dragged him into the sitting room. With a deft twist, he slung Bran onto the floor and kicked him in the side.
“You know what you’ve nearly done?” Greenwood spat. “Giselle could have miscarried, you little brat.”
“I didn’t mean—”
Greenwood smacked him in the eye. “If that child she carries comes out malformed because of this stress, I’ll take it out of your hide.”
He beat Bran. Bran curled in a ball, trying to shield himself from the blows. But they kept coming. In desperation, he lashed out with his feet and caught Greenwood in his groin.
The man made a gasping cry and fell back. Bran scrambled to his feet and ran for the door, leaving his satchel behind him. Tears and fear blurred his eyes as he fled into the darkening night.
***
Half-blind with tears, Bran ran through the cold streets. An icy rain drizzled, making the stones slick and chilling his face. His boots skidded as he came around a corner and he struggled to maintain balance.
The aerials had told him he would be safe. Asher had promised that he would take care of him. But none of that turned out to be true. He came home, triumphant from his quest, only to find that nothing at all had changed.
Bran came to a panting stop across from the servants’ gate behind the Academy. As soon as he arrived, he knew he was being stupid again. At this time of night, the gate would be locked. He would have to walk around to the front and hope the guards would let him in.
Then what would he do? Who would he go see? Not the General. Not the King. Maybe Lady Clara? But she was sick.
As he ran down his options, movement caught his eye. A man, hood pulled low over his face and cloak wrapped tightly around his body, came from Bran’s right. Bran’s gift of Sight rose up in him in a thick wave of foreboding and he stepped back into shadow.
The stranger didn’t appear to see him. Without so much as a glance around, he unlocked the gate and slipped inside.
That’s not right, Bran thought. It would take a special key to open a servant’s gate at night. Only Mistress Catriona and the King had those and they didn’t let just anyone borrow them. It could have been Lord Bruin but he didn’t walk like the wizard.
Bran jogged across the road. The man hadn’t bothered to lock up behind him and he slipped in after him, just in time to see the man take the little used path toward the North Wing. Keeping to the shadows, Bran trailed behind him.
Now that he wasn’t distracted with crying and running, Bran felt the cold. He was still in his cloak and woolen grey robe, with tunic and pants underneath, but he didn’t have on any gloves. Ice that melted on contact numbed his face and hands. His side, where Greenwood had kicked him, ached with each breath. However, the man didn’t seem bothered by the cold as he strode along the path. Bran drew his hood over his head and maintained a careful distance.
Eventually, they came to a servant’s door in the North Wing. The man used his key again to go inside. Bran held his breath and counted to ten before running up to the door. This time, it was locked.
Why would anyone sneak into the North Wing? Bran wracked his memory. No one really stayed there, just a few old courtiers and their families. It wasn’t on the way to anything.
This felt as if it involved events bigger than him. He needed to warn Captain Jarrett.
***
Jarrett sat back in his chair, feet stuck out toward the fire and hands clasped over his belly. The flames warmed the bottoms of his bare feet. He flexed his toes.
“You look comfortable,” Serilda remarked. Her fingers worked the needle and thread through his green soldier’s surcoat.
“And you look beautiful.”
She grinned, a faint blush touching her cheeks. “One day you’re going to get tired of saying that.”
“Maybe. But not today.”
Her fingers stilled and she looked up at him. The red and gold flames reflected in the depths of her coal-black eyes. “By the time this is over, she’s going to need you more than ever.”
“What?”
His chamber door slamming open jerked Jarrett from his dream and he bolted upright. The dagger he kept under the pillow he now gripped in his hand. He rolled out of bed, back against the wall, facing the open door. His left hand twitched and burned, as if newly splashed with acid.
“Captain?”
Blinking, Jarrett forced a deep breath into his lungs. Light spilling from the hallway back lit the boy and cast his face in shadow. The guards from Clara’s quarters came up behind him.
“Bran,” one of the guards said, “where’ve you been, lad? Half the kingdom has been out looking for you.”
Bran. Reality clicked into place and Jarrett recognized Asher’s adopted son. He lowered the dagger.
Bran half-turned to look up at the guard. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“You got a bruise blooming on your face. What happened to you?”
Jarrett tossed the dagger onto the bed, grateful he had gone to bed with his trousers on for once. “If you didn’t mean to cause trouble, then why the hell did you burst in here like that?”
The moments the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them. Bran shrank back and Philip, the guard who had addressed the boy, laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Jarrett sighed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heels of his palms.
“I saw a man sneak into the Palace,” Bran said, his voice small.
“What do you mean?” All irritation gone, Jarrett walked around the bed. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. Tell me what you saw.”
Bran hesitated. At that moment, Jarrett noticed the bruise on his face.
“Who hit you?” he asked.
The boy dropped his gaze. “Lord Greenwood.”
“Why?”
The question unleashed a floodgate. Barely pausing for breath, Bran explained how Greenwood hated him and how Bran wanted to prove that he deserved to be Asher’s son. So, he went on a quest to find the aerials. Jarrett wanted to hurry him up to the part about a man sneaking into the Palace but he bit back his impatience.
After describing a horrifying homecoming that brought into focus the bruise on his eye, the smear of dried blood just under his hair line, and which left Jarrett curling his hands into fists, Bran said, “And I was outside the servant’s gate behind the Academy when this man used a special key to let himself in.”
“Special key? How do you know it was special?”
“Because the gate was locked and not everyone has a key to let themselves through. And he used it again, when he went into the North Wing. I wasn’t able to follow.”
Jarrett stood. “Philip, rouse the rest of the Seer’s Guard. See if you can gather up a few Royals as well. Go to the entrance of the North Wing. I will meet you there. Bran, come with me.”
Philip ran off to obey. Jarrett knocked on Clara’s door. He half-expected no answer. To his surprise, the door opened almost right away. Clara looked tired but her face lit up on seeing Bran.
“Where have you been?” She folded the boy into a hug. “We’ve been so worried.”
Bran cried out. Clara pulled away and lifted his robes and tunic. A dark purple bruise spread over the ribs.
“What happened?” she whispered. She touched his cheek under the bruised eye.
“Clara,” Jarrett said, drawing her attention up. The sight of Bran’s bruise made him sick to the stomach but there were other, more immediate matters. “Bran saw the assassin and I’m going to find him now. Take Bran inside. Bolt the door and answer only for me. I’m leaving a guard behind. Do you understand?”
“Bran needs a healer.”
“He’ll get one. But first, we have to find this killer.” He grasped her by the shoulder. “Please. Open only for me.”
She nodded. Leaving her, he hurried back into his room. Time was of the essence. He threw on his padded arming doublet and his sword, leaving behind his armor and mail to run to the North Wing.
***
Jarrett found Philip with fifteen other men at the entrance of the North Wing. Several of the men carried lanterns. Most of them were from the Seer’s Guard. The Wing, like the rest of the Palace, was four stories high. Seventeen did not divide easily but Jarrett did his best, sending groups of men to search each floor.
“Take anyone who doesn’t look as if they belong,” he instructed. “It should be only a few courtiers and their families. Search every room. If a door is locked, break it down. The King can afford to repair them.”
Taking his group of men through the ground floor, Jarrett searched room after room with sword drawn. His heart climbed up into his throat and his stomach felt as if it had turned to stone in his gut.
They were finishing one corridor when Philip came running up.
“Come to the third floor, Captain,” he panted. “We found something.”
Leaving his men to continue the search, Jarrett ran with the guard upstairs, forcing himself to let the man lead rather than outstripping him. Philip took Jarrett to a room full of sheet-draped furniture. Heavy curtains covered the windows. The only light came from the hallway and a couple of lanterns held by guardsmen.
The meager illumination revealed an unfurled bedroll and a pack. Jarrett dumped out the pack. Clothes, a wrapped object, and food tumbled out onto the bedroll. Snatching up the wrapped item, he unrolled the cloth surrounding it.
It was a portrait. Jarrett stared at the painting for a long moment, shock freezing him in place.
“Captain?” Philip came to stand in front of him. “What is it?”
Everything snapped into place and he sucked in a deep breath. “Everyone with me!” Dropping the picture of Bran onto the bedroll, he ran out of the room.
***
Clara sat Bran on the couch.
“Are you feeling better, my lady?” the boy asked.
“I’m feeling much better. Can you tell me what happened?” She sat beside him.
He lowered his gaze. Clara laid a hand on his shoulder and Bran twitched, as if he expected a blow rather than a kind touch.
“We’ve been worried about you,” she said, keeping her voice low and encouraging. “General Asher has been all over Bertrand, searching for you.”
Bran whispered, “I went looking for the aerials. I didn’t run away. I meant to come back.”
“You’re not in trouble.”
“I found them, my lady. I know where they hid.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m proud of you. But who hurt you? Were they looking for the aerials?”
He hunched his shoulders. “It was Lord Greenwood. I came home to tell the general what I found and his lordship was there. He beat me because I ran away.” He scrubbed tears from his eyes. “The aerials said they would take care of me. They said I didn’t need to be afraid. But he hurt me anyway.”
“Bran.” She held him close to her. “That doesn’t mean they were lying. I promise that you are safe and we’ll keep Greenwood from ever hurting you again. Is this the first time he’s hit you?”
“No.” The word came out tiny.
“You don’t have to tell any more right now.” Clara kissed him on the head. “When Jarrett returns, we’ll have a healer look at you. Are you hungry?”
He nodded.
“I’m sure I have something somewhere.” She left him on the couch to go through the desk her ladies-in-waiting used. She knew they had food tucked away. They thought she didn’t see them munching in the afternoon but the sitting room wasn’t that big.
Two nearly stale oat cakes were stashed in a bottom drawer. She gave those to Bran, along with a cup of water. It hurt to eat them, she could tell, but Bran didn’t complain. The act of chewing the cakes, along with the rest of the exertions of the day, took their toll. Halfway through the last bite, he started to nod off.
She took the cup from him. “Hurry up and swallow. I don’t want you to choke.”
He did so and she cradled him against her. It wasn’t long before his breathing deepened. As he slept, Clara ran her fingers through his hair. Would her son, if she had him, be as brave and kind as Bran? Would he have not only Emmerich’s eyes but also his honor and fierce desire to protect? In what ways would he take after her?
Clara licked her lips. There was no point in dwelling on what she couldn’t have. Emmerich made good points but how, in good conscience, could she bring into the world a child that would be kidnapped almost as soon as he drew his first breaths? How could they know what to change to keep it or something worse from happening?
Clash of metal on metal, and muffled cries, jerked her from her reverie. Bran sat up, eyes wide in terror.
“Bran,” she said, “go to my bedchamber and hide. Now!”
Bran obeyed, brushing the curtain aside as he did so. Clara left the sword Emmerich had given her propped against the couch. She scooped it up, unsheathing it in a smooth motion as she faced the door.
A man grunted, followed by a loud thud. Clara’s heart slammed against her ribs and she drew in a deep breath. She’d been trained to fight but she was out of practice.
If I survive this, I promise I will get back to doing practice drills.
The door swung open and the man from her vision stepped in. He closed the door behind him. The hood of his cloak fell back against his shoulders. It was a very ordinary, Tieran face: thin lips, slanted eyes, and high cheekbones. “My lady,” he said. “I apologize for the intrusion.”
Blood dripped from the fingers of his left hand and he held himself with a stiff tension. His dirk was stained with blood. Clara adjusted her grip on her sword, her palms going clammy.
“Get out,” she said.
“I’m looking for a pupil of yours. Tell me where he is and I will leave you be.”
“I doubt that.” Clara knew that if the man didn’t bother to mask his face, it was because he wasn’t afraid of being identified later.
His gaze shifted to just behind her. Clara chanced a glance. The curtains still swayed from Bran’s passage. Her stomach rose into her throat. She moved so that she stood between him and the bedchamber.
“Over my cold corpse,” Clara hissed.
The assassin lifted his dirk. “If my lady wishes it.”
Four strides and he was on her. Clara parried his lunge. He jabbed her in the jaw with his free hand, knocking her back. Before she had a chance to rally herself, a man roared a war cry and the assassin turned away from her.
Jarrett engaged the man in a flurry of steel and rage. Three moves and the assassin was down, blood pouring from a half-hewn neck. Gasping, Jarrett stumbled to the side, his right arm limp and bloody.
Clara dropped her sword and rushed to him, grasping him by the left arm. She gave him her side and let him steady himself against her. She noticed the guard who came in behind him. “You! Get a healer. Quick!”
The man ran out. She guided Jarrett into a chair.
“I’m fine,” he grunted. “It’s only a flesh wound.”
“Shut up,” Clara hissed. Her hands shook as she scooped up a belt she’d finished embroidering, a deep red one with golden flames. She tied it over the cut in his doublet.
“Shit!” he swore as she tightened the cloth.
“Sorry. Sorry.”
“It’s all right. Where’s Bran?”
“Hiding in my bedchamber. And you really should stop talking.” Her voice wobbled at the end. Tears stung the edges of her eyes.
Jarrett laid a hand on her waist. “Hey. I’m fine. Clara. I’m fine.”
“You’ve gone pale.”
“Getting stabbed does rob a man of his color.”
She laughed, short and half in shock. “How can you make jokes right now?”
“If I can’t make jokes now, then what’s the point of a sense of humor?”
“Captain Jarrett?” Bran stood in the doorway to the bedchamber, holding the curtain aside with both hands. His wide eyes took in the bloody tableau.
Clara straightened a little, laying a hand on Jarrett’s shoulder. She was very close to crying. “Go back into the room. Everything’s all right. Just wait for me.”
Bran backed away, letting the curtain fall into place. A lamp in the bedchamber cast his shadow against the cloth.
Jarrett’s eyes were closed and sweat beaded his brow.
“Don’t go to sleep,” she ordered.
His eyes cracked open. “No concern over that. I was only thinking about something.”
“What?”
“That everything really is going to be all right.” Jarrett smiled. Clara was used to his sardonic smirks and his full grins. She hadn’t seen a reassuring smile before.
She took his left hand, the scarred one, and held it in both of hers. He gripped back just as tightly, as if the whole world was held together in the clasping of their hands.
***
Emmerich fought the urge, throughout the rest of the day, to go see Clara. Every time the temptation arose, he pushed it away. He needed space to think. When one of her ladies-in-waiting came to ask about sharing the evening meal with her, Emmerich invented an excuse.
After forcing himself to eat supper, he went into the gardens for a walk. Specifically, he went to a wide open stretch of lawn. There, as the sun dipped into the horizon, he watched Niall practice her flying.
The sinewy creature ran forward several paces, shoved herself into the air, and, with powerful strokes, became airborne. Fading sunlight winked off her scales and feathers, as if jewels encrusted her every surface, as she soared and dipped. Joy radiated from her mind, filling Emmerich and easing the pain in his chest. For a brief moment, he felt wind coursing over him and saw the ground spiral away.
He hadn’t wanted to be King. He only did so because he killed Marduk. And now he was asked to relinquish one of his last joys so that there would be peace.
More than once, he contemplated exchanging willing hostages but the ambassador always refused the suggestion. It wasn’t a Tieran custom and would not hold the same weight. The treaty was fine but a marriage would solidify their tie, as Ambassador Nikolo kept saying.
How marriage could lead to war, Emmerich couldn’t fathom it, but Clara seemed more than certain. And her vision? The image of Clara, screaming for her child, rose in his mind and he wanted to vomit.
But wasn’t love worth fighting for? Risking everything for? And if the future could be thwarted by their not marrying, perhaps there was another way. One allowing them to be happy together.
But as he watched Niall, turning the problem over in his mind to examine all the various angles, he slowly realized that maybe there wasn’t another way. Maybe, even in this too, his happiness meant nothing. Could he potentially cause the death of thousands, and the kidnapping of his son, simply because he wanted a woman?
The last of the sun’s rays slipped away. The chill of the evening deepened to the colder bite of night. One last twist and Niall swooped in for a landing. She ran over to Emmerich and threw herself against his legs.
“Easy there, love.” He stroked her bright green head. “Was that fun?”
Fun, came a reply in his mind. Much fun. Will Father fly, too?
Astonishment flooded Emmerich. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more: Niall speaking to him or identifying him as Father. “I can’t fly, my dear.”
Why not?
“Because I don’t have wings.”
Were they taken away?
“No. I wasn’t born with them.”
Sad.
“It is.”
Niall ran off to climb an apple tree and help herself to the ripening fruit.
He wished Bruin was there and not in the dungeons. The wizard would lose his mind to learn Niall finally spoke and did so in complete sentences, more or less.
“Come, Niall. You’ll spoil your dinner.” Not long ago, Niall developed a taste for fruit and vegetables but Emmerich didn’t want her indulging too much. He worried it wasn’t natural for an animal who—he thought—required meat.
After swallowing one last apple, she glided out of the tree and followed him. Emmerich missed the days when she rode on his shoulder. On a positive note, if she kept growing, he could one day ride on hers.
Back in his quarters, Niall threw herself on a large plate of beef and he poured himself a cup of wine. He’d been restricting himself to only a few cups a day and had already reached his allowance. However, given recent events, he felt he deserved an extra quaff or three.
He puttered around. His conversation with Clara rolled around and around in his mind. How could he persuade her that it was all right to bring their child into the world? That they could be together? That there were things were worth fighting to the death for?
Eventually, he fell asleep in front of the fire. Niall lay on him, half on his torso and chest while the rest draped over his legs. She was a warm, comforting weight.
Knocking on the parlor door roused him.
“Enter,” Emmerich called, sitting up. Niall, grumbling, slid off him. He glanced at the candle clock. It was close to midnight.
A page hurried in. “Sire, you need to come to Lady Clara’s quarters immediately. It’s urgent.”
An image of Clara injured or sick flew to his mind, turning his gut cold. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Master Bran. He’s returned and he’s badly hurt. So is Captain Jarrett. And there’s a dead assassin.”
Niall half-unfurled her wings. Bran hurt?
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he told her. He nodded at the page. “Keep Niall company. Have healers been fetched?”
“Yes, sire.”
“And Lady Clara—”
“She’s fine. She wasn’t hurt.”
I come, too, Father. Niall’s tone reminded Emmerich of the one he used when he didn’t wish to be argued with.
“I’ll be back, dear,” he reassured her. If there was any danger, still, Emmerich didn’t want Niall to be caught up in it. The need to run out, to see Clara unharmed for himself, vibrated through him. “Stay here.”
She rushed after him anyway. There was nothing for it but to let her come as well.
***
The first thing Emmerich saw was the corpse in Clara’s room. Blood soaked the rug underneath the neck in a wide pool. Niall sniffed the dead man’s leg.
“Emmerich?”
Clara stood beside Jarrett, who was being stitched up by a healer. She came to him and threw her arms around his neck. He traced a blossoming bruise on her jaw. “What happened?”
“The assassin,” she whispered. “Jarrett killed him. He was after Bran.”
“You didn’t get a chance to ask why, did you?”
Clara laughed a little. “Not really.”
“Jarrett, are you all right?”
The captain gave a thin-lipped smile. “Just a nick, sire. Nothing to worry about. But it nearly made Clara faint.”
“It did not!” she shot back.
“Where’s Bran?” Emmerich asked.
“In my bedchamber. I told him to wait for me.”
“We’ll talk to him in a minute. Niall, go to Bran in the bedchamber. Keep him company.”
The aerial chirped and hurried off into the room. He heard Bran make an excited sound at seeing Niall.
He hung onto her as the healer finished seeing to Jarrett. The dirk had missed the bone. As the healer bandaged him, Jarrett told him what Bran had said, about the aerials, Greenwood, and seeing the assassin.
“Go rest,” Emmerich said when Jarrett finished. “We can scoop up Greenwood in the morning. I’ll have a message sent to Asher. He told me he goes out looking for Bran but he should be home by now.”
Jarrett bowed to them and left. Clara turned her head to watch him go.
“Is there anyone else injured?” asked the healer, an older gentleman.
“Aye.” Clara gestured toward the chamber. “This way.”
“Go ahead,” Emmerich said. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
After they went into the bedchamber, Emmerich went into the hall. Jarrett was giving orders regarding who was going to guard Clara. One of her guards was stretched out dead on the floor. He thought his name was Antony.
“Make sure this gets cleaned up,” Emmerich said, “and send a page to Asher’s home to make sure he knows Bran is here.” He hesitated, wanting to ask about that look Clara gave Jarrett on his way out. He dismissed it, as it sounded too childish and jealous.
Emmerich entered Clara’s bedchamber in time to see the healer slowly ease Bran’s tunic off. His eyes widened at the stomach-turning blotches underneath. Niall had jumped up onto the bed with Bran and was curled against Bran’s unharmed side. She crooned.
“How could this have happened?” Clara asked, her voice pitched low.
He laid a comforting arm around her shoulders. “We were distracted by our own problems.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No. But it’s a reason.”
She settled into his side with a sigh. Her warmth, her scent, enveloped him and the world felt right.
“What’s going to happen to Greenwood once Jarrett brings him in?” she whispered.
“We’ll have to hear his side. Bran will need to give testimony before the Court and I will need to make a decision. Nobles do not go to prison or work camps, unfortunately. I’ll try to give the heaviest sentence I can.”
“What of his marriage to Lady Giselle? Aren’t they expecting a child?”
He shook his head. He didn’t know what was going to become of either of them. People rarely divorced and widows, even high born ones, led hard lives.
No one spoke as the healer tended to Bran’s wounds. He applied salve and tested the boy’s ribs.
“There may be a broken rib,” the healer said. “I will have to wrap it.”
“Do what you need,” Emmerich replied.
Once all of Bran’s bruises had been evaluated, the healer left. Emmerich heard the door open and the familiar rumble of Asher’s voice. A few moments later, the general, face pinched and white, hurried into the room. Ignoring Clara and Emmerich, he went to Bran, scooping the boy into a hug. Bran yelped.
“Did I hurt you?” Asher drew back, settling Bran back onto the bed.
“I’m fine, Da,” Bran replied. He flushed.
“You can call me Da if you want but I hardly deserve it. How long has that snake been doing this to you?”
“Ever since he came here with Lady Giselle. Where is my lady?”
“She’s sleeping at home. I didn’t want to wake her. I’m so sorry.” He embraced him again. “I should have known.”
Emmerich said, “Don’t blame yourself too harshly.”
“Bran is my responsibility. It is my duty to keep him safe. And I failed him.”
“He doesn’t see it like that.”
Clara said, “I would like to make him a squire of my Guard. It’s the only reward I could think of for finding the aerials.”
Asher forced a smile. “That’s up to Bran.”
Bran’s battered face cracked in a small smile. “I would be honored, my lady.”
Emmerich sat on the edge of an armchair near the bed. “Bran, I need you to tell me everything, starting from when Greenwood first struck you and ending with you finding Captain Jarrett.”
In the next minutes, the three of them listened as Bran described a litany of abuses laid onto him by Lord Greenwood. Most of it was physical: a yank of the arm, a blow to the back. Always where clothing could hide it. After describing a time when Greenwood made Bran eat from the floor, Clara covered her face, her shoulders trembling as she cried quietly. Emmerich stood and pulled her close so she could bury her face into his chest.
“That’s why I went searching for the aerials,” Bran explained. “I thought, if I found them, I could prove I belonged to the general and maybe his lordship would leave me alone.”
It wouldn’t have worked out like that, Emmerich knew. If anything, it would have made the abuse worse. But Emmerich couldn’t find it in himself to tell Bran so. “How did you find them?”
Bran explained about his dream of an underground place and how he eventually remembered an old mineshaft he used to play in as a younger child. He tried to find it but, while fleeing from bullies, he fell into an empty well, where he lay for over a day while the aerials healed him. Asher made a small sound but didn’t interrupt.
“I met their King and Queen,” Bruin said.
“Describe the King and Queen,” prompted Emmerich.
“A very, very big Niall. They’re as big as the horses the guardsmen ride. And you know why there’re pale aerials? ‘Cuz it takes a lot of magic for the mothers to make their babies.”
Emmerich raised a brow. “Interesting. You’ve done very good work. Can you take me to Aerial King and Queen?”
Bran shook his head. “Not yet. They said you have to wait one year. And then I’ll take you and Niall has to come, too. They didn’t say why.”
That sounded a little ominous, he thought. “Well, at least we know where they are. We’ll have to keep this secret.”
“Yes, sire.” Bran replied.
“Good work, Squire.”
Bran beamed as best he could around the bruises.
“Your Majesty,” Asher said, “if it’s all right with you, I want to take Bran to my old quarters in the barracks.” He lifted his chin. “And I would like to be the one to bring in Greenwood.”
“Permission granted. For tonight, make sure Bran rests. Don’t forget: at Greenwood’s trial, I will require his testimony.”
The blood left Bran’s face. Asher laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, saying, “He’ll do fine. I have confidence in him.”
Silence rushed into the sitting room after the door closed behind the pair, like an ocean wave spilling down into a hole. Clara went to stand in front of a small shrine to the Mother she kept in the corner. Fresh white and yellow roses brightened the dark wood of the statue.
Emmerich came behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“You shouldn’t be holding me,” she replied.
“Why not? You didn’t mind me putting my arm around you earlier.”
“Because of what we talked about. And I shouldn’t have given into that, either.”
He turned her around. “I’ve been thinking about what you told me all day. One thing did strike me. You weren’t angry when I accused you of being with Jarrett. Most women would have been.”
She grimaced. “Thalia wanted me to make you think that I was with Jarrett behind your back. I couldn’t go through with it, though.”
“That’s why you put him across the way from you.”
Clara nodded. “But the glove being left behind was an accident.” She swallowed. “Have you decided?”
“There must be another way, Clara.”
“It’s too big of a risk. Peace with Tier is more important. We cannot afford another war and the people need confidence. They need stability. You marrying one of Precene’s daughters ensures that.”
“Is that the reason?”
She hesitated. “They took my son.”
“Our son. I won’t carry him in my body or bring him into this world but it is my seed quickening your womb. He will be blood of my blood, as he is flesh of your flesh. I should be a part of the decision of whether or not he even exists. And I say he should.” Emmerich raised a brow. “But are those truly the only reasons?”
She crossed her arms. “What do you mean?”
“I think, perhaps, you’re afraid.”
“I am! I’m afraid of losing my child—”
“Our child.”
Clara grit her teeth. “Our child. I’m afraid of causing death and destruction when I can prevent it. I’m afraid of you getting hurt.”
“And you’re afraid of relying on anyone else, of letting another close. Not marrying me isn’t about keeping the realm safe. It’s simply the easier route.”
Her hand cracked across his face. Emmerich’s cheek stung and he was sure a bright red mark now adorned his face. He went to touch his face but stopped short. Perhaps he deserved the slap but he wasn’t going to take back his words. Those were words that needed saying.
Clara fairly shook with the force of her emotions. Tears stood up in her eyes. “Don’t tell me what I’m afraid of, Emmerich. And don’t dictate to me my reasons. This is not easy for me!”
“I never said it was! I only want you to admit to the whole truth and not just what sounds pretty.”
Her voice rose to a shout. “And if I am afraid?”
“Then I would tell you that I would think less of you if you weren’t.”
That surprised her. She blinked, twin tears spilling down her face, but the trembling eased.
“Fear protects us but it can remind us of what really matters. What is between us.” He took both of her hands in his. “It matters. We know what could happen. And now we can guard against it.”
“But aren’t we being selfish? You marrying one of Precene’s daughters—”
“Do you love me?”
“Emm—”
Emmerich squeezed her hands. “Do you love me?”
She paused and, to him, it felt as if the entire universe hung in the balance. “Aye. I do love you.”
He let out his breath in a rush. “Then let us be selfish. Let’s dare fate together.” Emmerich sunk down to his knees. “Let me be your strength. No more going off by yourself. Let me in, Clara. Let’s face an army, if it comes to it, as husband and wife. But if you tell me no, then I’ll meet with Nikolo first thing in the morning to make arrangements. It’ll kill me but I won’t force you into anything.” And, for the rest of my life, I’ll wonder what sort of man our son would have been.
Tears welled in Clara’s eyes. He could see in her all the pain of the last months: the grief of her father’s passing, her mother’s betrayal, the agony of feeling death close as her mother dosed her with herbs. A coldness washed over him as he realized Clara carried a new fragility. Thalia had come close to breaking Clara, even if it had not been her intention. He watched the struggle in her eyes but he had said all he could say. If she said no, it would shatter him, but at least he would know her answer.
Clara relaxed and sagged against him. Emmerich caught her, cradling her against his chest.
“I will marry you,” she whispered into his throat.
Joy, like hard liquor, burned through him and tears pricked his eyes. “We’ll find a way,” he whispered. “I swear, I will do everything for you and our son.”
“I know.” Clara wrapped her arms around him. “I know.”
