Assassin's Gambit: The Hearts and Thrones Series (29 page)

“They’re not rumors.” Celeste’s voice shook.

Vitala winced from her place of safety behind the curtain. The girl had been so strong, so resilient, up until this point, but now she appeared to be cracking. Cassian must terrify her. If only she could hold herself together a few minutes longer . . .

The footsteps crossed Vitala’s position, and the voice continued. “Idiot girl. They
are
rumors. Your brother is in my custody, not leading any rebel army. You have seen this with your own eyes.”

“You lied. You showed me a look-alike.”

“Then why haven’t you run, my darling?”

Celeste gasped in surprise and fear. Vitala guessed that Cassian had grabbed her; their voices were very near to each other.

The deep voice fell almost to a whisper. “No answer? Never mind, then. I know why you haven’t run—because you don’t truly believe this nonsense about your brother. You repeat these silly rumors for no other reason than to provoke me. Stupid, ugly girl.”

“No—my lord.” Celeste’s breath was coming in terrified gasps; she wouldn’t last much longer.

“You realize I have no choice,” said Cassian. “It’s ten lashes for any enlisted man who gives voice to the rumor. I can hardly make an exception for my empress, who ought to be setting an example for her people.”

Celeste made no reply. Instead, there was a rustle of clothing, a brief struggle, the sound of a blow as it landed, and a grunt of pain from Celeste.

That’s my cue.

Vitala sprang from the curtain. Ista was a half a breath ahead of her, running at Cassian, her sword point barreling toward his heart. Cassian was almost too late to respond. Just in time, he flung the girl aside and turned. His own blade leapt from its scabbard to block Ista’s attack. Vitala hurled her throwing knife, aiming it at the middle of his back.

His body contorted impossibly and the knife scraped by his side, tearing a gash in his syrtos. Knocked askew, the blade flew across the room, thumped against the tent wall, and fell to the ground. Cassian howled, but though Vitala saw blood, the wound didn’t hamper his movement. Celeste scrambled behind a couch for safety.

Vitala drew her sword, and not a second too soon. Cassian was upon her, having knocked Ista off balance with a flurry of blows. He whipped the blade at her again and again. She parried the strokes, but each parry came a little slower than the last—he was too fast, too strong—and all that saved her from a devastating follow-up blow was Ista, who struck at him from behind, forcing him to swing around. Vitala recovered her stance, took a breath, and stabbed at Cassian’s back. He whirled just in time to block it and, with a snarl of contempt, aimed a heavy slash at her midsection that took every ounce of her strength to knock away. His blade flew up again, and she jumped back. Pain seared her thigh. The wound felt deep and serious, but her leg could still bear weight.

Ista leapt back in and pulled Cassian off Vitala before he could follow up with a blow to the chest. They played him like a pair of crows harassing an eagle, drawing him from one of them to the other, scrambling over chairs and end tables as the fight progressed about the room. Cassian was elegant, she realized, a superb fighter with skills that went beyond the enhancements of his war magic. Not only did he see her blows coming; he picked all the right countermoves. For all their skills, she and Ista were losing.

Ista bled from wounds on her cheek, arm, and gut. Her blows looked weaker and weaker. Cassian drove her relentlessly backward. Though light-headed, Vitala struck at him, trying to pull him off her. He turned just enough to parry Vitala’s blows and drive her away, then struck again at Ista, who stumbled backward, tripped over a chair leg, and crashed to the ground. Cassian turned back to Vitala, grinning in triumph. He lunged, stabbing his blade at her chest.

Vitala knocked it aside, but her hands trembled on the sword hilt. Her vision darkened. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind, but the flurry of blows that came at her was overwhelming. She could not possibly get past his defenses. Ista struggled to her feet, but she didn’t look strong enough to pose much of a threat.

With a grunt of impotent rage, Vitala summoned the last reserves of her strength. She raised her weapon, arms shaking, to block another blow. Ista stabbed desperately at Cassian’s side. He turned to face her, then screamed in pain.

Ista’s blade hadn’t connected. Neither had Vitala’s. Instead, Celeste clung to Cassian’s back like a monkey. He flung her off. Where she had been, a knife protruded from his back. Cassian staggered. Vitala leapt toward him, swinging her sword. His face contorted in agony as his movements shifted the dagger in his back. He was slow with the parry, and she slipped past him to bury her blade in his shoulder. Ista’s sword impaled his gut. Gasping, Cassian slid to the floor. Taking no chances, Vitala yanked her blade free and cut his throat.

She slid to the ground, too weak to stand, and dropped her head between her knees.

“Bandage that leg,” grunted Ista, slicing off a strip of Cassian’s syrtos and handing it to her.

Vitala wrapped the cloth tightly around the gash in her thigh. It was bad, but she felt she would survive if the bleeding stopped. Her eyes found Celeste, who crouched, white-faced, in a corner of the tent. “You all right?” she called.

Celeste nodded.

“So,” panted Ista. “Whose kill was that?”

34

W
hile Ista freed one of the tent poles and sharpened one end, Vitala, weak from blood loss and still sitting on the floor, directed Celeste to fetch a quill and paper and write:

The gods hate false emperors. See here the fate of a man who lied to his countrymen and claimed honors and titles that did not belong to him. My brother is alive. He commands the battalions in Blackscar Gulch, which fight not in rebellion, but to preserve the integrity of the empire. I order you to cease hostilities at once, request a parley, and place yourselves under the lawful command of Emperor Lucien.

Imperial Princess Celeste Florian Nigellus

“Wrap that leg again,” said Ista. “It’s still bleeding.”

“Just a little,” said Vitala, but she cut another strip of fabric and wrapped it tighter.

“You sure you can stand?” asked Ista.

Vitala nodded.

Celeste directed her tame guardsmen to fetch horses from the stables. Then the four of them, minus Celeste, whom Vitala asked to wait outside with the horses, staked Cassian in the middle of the tent. When it was done, Vitala did not turn her back on the grisly sight but directed her full gaze upon it, committing it to memory. Before they left, Vitala used a knife to pin the freshly inked letter to Cassian’s chest.

•   •   •

Though Lucien could not be far away, he might as well be on the other side of the Great Northern Sea, for all it mattered. Vitala and the others could never pass through the hordes of hostile soldiers that stood in their way. To return to White Eagle, they would have to go back the way Vitala had originally come, first leaving the battalion, then riding north all the way to the coast and catching a supply boat south along the Ember River. Too weak for such a lengthy journey, Vitala consented instead to accompany Ista to the nearest Obsidian Circle enclave, taking Celeste with her, since she didn’t trust the girl in anyone else’s custody.

The enclave was unfamiliar to Vitala and she didn’t know a soul, but a few of the enclave members knew Ista. The staff welcomed them. Upon hearing what had transpired in the camp, they dispatched a messenger to bear word to Lucien.

Vitala was taken immediately to a Healer, who repaired the wound in her leg, but she remained listless and weak. Only time would fix that.

For once, Vitala didn’t mind lying around and resting. She’d done all that she could do for Riorca and for Lucien, at least for the time being. Celeste was hidden away, out of reach of any ambitious Kjallan looking to crown himself Cassian’s successor, and Lucien was quite capable of sorting out the aftermath of the assassination. Celeste, trusting no one but Vitala, stayed with her constantly, which, to Vitala’s surprise, she found to be a comfort. She liked the girl. Celeste bore a slight resemblance to her brother, whom Vitala missed terribly, and whatever Celeste had been through with Cassian, Vitala felt it gave them a certain kinship.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Vitala asked once. Celeste was ostensibly composing a letter to her brother, but the girl’s quill had not scratched the paper for quite some time, and the look on her face was distant and troubled.

Celeste startled, dropped her quill, and picked it back up. “Talk about what?”

“Cassian.”

Celeste turned away. “What is there to talk about? He’s dead.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened when he was alive?”

“No.” Her quill scratched on the paper. An inkblot scarred the page, and she cursed.

“Perhaps not with me,” Vitala said gently. “Perhaps you’d like to talk to your brother.”

Celeste snorted and set down the quill. “Talk to my brother. What a lovely idea.
No
.” She wadded up the ruined piece of paper and dropped it on the floor.

“No one will make you, of course,” said Vitala. “But your brother is an understanding man, more so than perhaps you realize. He cares about you. Do you know he went to war with Cassian almost entirely because of you? And he’s helped me with some problems of my own. I’ve had some problems related to . . . well, sort of like what you might have been through with Cassian.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “And what is it you think I’ve been through?”

“I’m not sure,” said Vitala.

“I know what they say about me,” said Celeste, gratingly. “Don’t think I don’t hear it.”

“Your brother has problems too,” said Vitala. “Wounds that never healed.”

Celeste threw her a look of contempt.

“I’m not saying it’s the same,” added Vitala. “But ask him sometime about how he lost his leg. You might be surprised at the story he tells you.” A lift in Celeste’s brow told Vitala she’d piqued the girl’s curiosity. Figuring it would be unwise to provoke Celeste any more than she already had, she left it at that.

The enclave’s spies reported in frequently, keeping them apprised of events. Cassian’s officers had called for a cease-fire and parley. Lucien did not agree to the parley immediately, perhaps suspecting a trap, but after a few days of confusion and delay, it finally took place. At that meeting, the officers pledged fealty to Lucien under the sage flag, and the war came to an end.

Some days later, Vitala received a letter from someone she’d never heard of. He introduced himself as the leader of a distant Obsidian Circle enclave and wrote:

It has come to my attention that you are in possession of a Northern Sea Retriever by the name of Flavia, previously looked after by Hanna and Glenys of Tasox. Flavia is one of few individuals remaining of this valuable breed, which our ancestors once used to hunt ducks and seabirds on the wild northern coast. These retrievers were nearly destroyed by Kjallan soldiers, but some of our countrymen smuggled the best ones to safety, and we have preserved the bloodline in secrecy ever since. Flavia is particularly valuable because she is female and descended from an exceptional maternal line, and we respectfully request her immediate return. She is to be bred on her next heat to a dog in Worich.

Alternatively, if you have become attached to Flavia, we offer you the opportunity to be her caretaker, provided you are willing to breed her as directed.

The letter went on to provide details. Vitala smiled. The enclave leader had some nerve, dictating terms to the Empress of Kjall, and he seemed not to be aware that Flavia was Lucien’s dog as much as her own. Still, if not for the enclave’s efforts, Flavia’s ancestors would never have survived to produce her. Vitala would honor their wishes. She and Lucien would become Flavia’s caretakers and have her bred to the dog from Worich.

And wouldn’t Lucien be surprised when she told him all this?

Lucien sent word to the Circle requesting the return of Vitala and Celeste. His army was still encamped in the gulch and would remain there for another week at least, attending to funerals and the burning of bodies. Vitala still felt too weak for the journey, but Celeste was well enough, and Vitala urged her to go. The enclave escorted Celeste to a secure location where she was handed off to a combined party of White Eagle and Mosari soldiers.

Vitala felt the loss keenly. Once again, she was left all alone. But Celeste’s escort returned with a surprise for her—a letter from Lucien. She opened it eagerly and read it in the privacy of her room:

Dear Vitala,

Please rejoin the battalion as soon as you are able; I miss you terribly. The story of your exploits has been told to me, and I find it astonishing. I look forward to the day you can relate it to me yourself. Until then, take care of yourself. Thank you for the gift of my sister.

Much love,

Lucien

She pressed the paper up to her nose and inhaled deeply, hoping to catch a trace of Lucien’s scent, but she breathed in nothing but the musty smell of paper. If only he’d written more! Why had he been so brief? Perhaps he’d disliked the thought of Obsidian Circle spies reading his words, for there was no doubt they would have done so before passing on the letter. Yes, that had to be the reason. What did he mean when he said he found her story astonishing? Was he proud of her for assassinating Cassian, or horrified?

Never mind how Lucien felt. If what she’d done bothered him, he would get used to it, damn him, because the memory of her accomplishment never failed to bring a smile to Vitala’s face. Her mission was complete. She’d assassinated an emperor. Maybe it wasn’t the emperor she’d originally been sent for, but so what? That was a minor detail.

•   •   •

Someone knocked on the door.

“It’s open,” she called, looking up from
The Seventh Life of the Potter’s Daughter.

Ista came in. “Are you well enough to ride?”

“Depends on the distance.”

“Your emperor and his army are marching for home,” said Ista. “They’re out of the gulch now, and they’ll pass within a few hours’ ride of the enclave tomorrow morning. An escort will be arranged for you, if you think you can ride that far.”

Vitala looked up. “I can ride that far, yes.” This was it, then—back to Lucien and her new role as the Empress of Kjall. Good-bye to the Obsidian Circle. Her stomach fluttered. Was it excitement she was feeling, or fear? “Thank you, Ista. This couldn’t have happened without you.”

Ista smiled cynically. “I know.”

“What will you do now?” asked Vitala. “With Riorca and Kjall at peace, there is little need for assassins. Would you like a position in the palace? Most of the Legaciatti are dead. Lucien and I will need to establish a new intelligence network. You could head it up. “

“Palace life isn’t for me. And what do you mean, there’s no need for assassins?”

“Riorca is free, and I intend to make sure it stays that way.”

Ista snorted. “You’ve too much faith in that husband of yours. Kjallans are Kjallans. They’re always going to want a free ride on the backs of Riorcan labor, and they’ll take it if we roll over and let them. Besides, what about the Riorcan slaves in Kjall? You think your precious emperor is going to free them, when he has promised them nothing? You go fight the Kjallans your way, in the palace, and I’ll fight them here at home.”

Vitala sighed, conceding that Ista was at least partially correct. Lucien wasn’t the only man in Kjall with power—and even he might need a stern reminder from time to time that the Riorcans needed to be treated fairly. “Very well,” she said. “But don’t forget we’re on the same side. And if you change your mind, let me know.” She held out her arms, hoping to draw Ista into a hug.

Ista accepted the embrace and hugged her back stiffly. “If you change
your
mind and decide to be an assassin again, let me know. But I can see why you’d rather not. After all, while you’re not bad at it, you’ll always be second best.”

Vitala rolled her eyes. “I’d better go. I think Riorca’s too small for the both of us.”

•   •   •

As her mare crested the top of the hill, Vitala spotted the battalion. A long, thin serpent of soldiers, mules, and supply wagons humped its way over the hills and valleys. The battle standards, glorious flying eagles against the blue and orange, glittered in the sunshine. Her heart leapt at the sight.

She searched for the head of the column, but it was hidden behind the next hill.

She clucked to her horse and galloped onward, leaving her escort behind. Heads turned at the tail of the column and eyes widened. The men whispered to their fellows ahead of them, and word of her arrival spread through the troop column like a snake’s undulation.

The wave disappeared over the rise. After a few moments, three horn blasts in quick succession called a halt. Hot and dusty soldiers turned to face her as she flew past them at a gallop, racing for the head of the column. Some soldiers bowed to her, others saluted with a thumb to the chest. She nodded to a few that she knew by name, but she wouldn’t stop, not until she saw Lucien.

Another horn blasted, then Quincius’s shout carried over the hills. “White Eagle salutes the Empress of Kjall!”

A thousand Kjallan boots struck the ground. “HURRAH!” shouted the soldiers, their voices full-throated and powerful. Vitala’s mare shied, almost unseating her. She reined the animal to a halt and turned to face the battalion with a tight throat.

Their swords clashed against one another in unison. “HURRAH!”

Then came the shattering blast of muskets. “HURRAH!”

She hardly knew how to respond. What was one supposed to do when saluted by the battalion? She stayed where she was, trembling and wiping tears from her eyes.

A trio of riders appeared over the rise ahead. In the middle was Lucien, astride a magnificent black warhorse. The loros, recently restored by the Obsidian Circle, glittered on his chest. On his left rode Celeste, and on his right Quincius. Between the horses trotted a fluffy, recently bathed Flavia.

Lucien reined up in front of her, and she leapt off her horse to meet him. He dismounted, landing on his artificial leg, and in a few paces they were in each other’s arms with the gold-and-white dog bounding happily around them.

“You are the world’s most disobedient wife. Do you know that?” Lucien crushed her in an embrace and tucked her tearful face into his chest. Softer, he said, “Gods, woman. You saved us all.”

She wrapped her arms around him, suddenly feeling that even skin-to-skin contact wouldn’t get her close enough to this man. “I couldn’t have done it without Ista and Celeste.”

“So I heard.” He pulled away enough to look her in the eye. “I couldn’t be prouder of you and of Celeste. But don’t ever run off again.” He kissed her, rough and possessive.

Dizzy at the taste of him, she wished they didn’t have the entire battalion as an audience. If she could, she’d drag him off to a tent right now. She grinned up at him with a gleam in her eye. “Are you going to punish me later?” she whispered.

He grinned back at her. “Absolutely.”

“There was something I meant to say on the riverbank,” she said. “At the time, I . . . forgot to say it. I meant to say I loved you too.”

“I knew that already,” said Lucien.

Dimly, she became aware of the soldiers’ applause and catcalling, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. These were her people, she realized. Never before had she felt so accepted, so valued. Not in her parents’ house, not in Riorca, not in the Obsidian Circle.