Flamecaster (28 page)

“Let go, Wolf.” She shifted, pulled, trying to free herself. She could feel his body respond, and that made matters worse.

“You don't understand,” he said. “I've been here too long already. The blackbirds. They could come in at any moment.”

“Damn the blackbirds.” She was strong, but he was stronger. It was like a cruel joke. The more she struggled, the hotter she burned, and the harder it was to let him go.

Finally, he rolled her over so she was on her back and he on top, sitting astride her. He pinned her hands to the floor and looked down at her, breathing hard, like he'd
been running a race.

“You are . . . making it . . . really difficult to do the right thing,” Adam gasped. “You know that, don't you?”

“This is the right thing,” Jenna said, arching her back so she pressed up against him.

With that, he straightened his arms and his weight came off her as he levered himself to his feet, putting the chair between them.

Jenna hung her head, cheeks burning. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I—I only—”

“Don't be sorry,” Adam said, his hands clenching the back of the chair, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “This is the right thing. It's just not the right time. I don't want it to be like this—” He gestured, taking in the tower room. “Hasty, and furtive, under constant risk of interruption.”

She knew he was right, but still, she couldn't help saying, “If not now, when? What if this is it, and we never—” Her voice broke. She tried again. “What if we look back and say, If only . . .”

He crossed the room to her and gripped her shoulders, his eyes darkening to the color of the deepest lakes. “I promise you, Jenna,” he said, his face fierce with purpose, “this is not it. I will find a way to—”

She pressed her hands against his lips. “No promises, healer.” She pulled his head down and stopped the promises with kisses.

Was the king burning his “gift” of living silver or not? That was the question. For all Ash knew, the vial he'd given the king was rolling around in a drawer somewhere. He'd shot his poison arrow into the air, but he didn't know if it would hit a vital spot, and whether it would be soon enough to allow him to keep the promise he had tried to make to Jenna.

He'd reviewed the telltale symptoms in Taliesin's leather-bound book. Tremors, mental and emotional impairment, skin changes. Montaigne didn't need to die from it—only feel poorly enough to call on Ash for treatment so he could finish the job.

Though he watched the king carefully, he saw nothing
promising. Montaigne remained astonishingly, annoyingly healthy.

Meanwhile, Ash kept adding to his arsenal of easily hidden, easily deployed, easily explained assassin's tools. Fortunately, many of the medical tools in his healer's kit were dual-purpose. Shivs, scissors, scalpels—these were all edged weapons that could be used on either side of the line. A garrote was threaded through the hem of his tunic. He still had the sting under his collar, ready to deploy, if the opportunity presented itself.

All he needed was the smallest of openings to make sure of him, but the multiple attempts on the king's life had put him on his guard, and it was challenging to get anywhere close to him. Ash wished the competition would either succeed or get out of the way. At least there hadn't been any more tries since the wassail incident—that he knew about, anyway. Give it another year or two, and the king might grow careless again.

That was a problem. He didn't have a year or two, he had a day. Now it was the Feast of Saint Malthus, on the fourth day after Solstice, and the king's meeting with the empress's emissary was scheduled for tomorrow. He toyed with the idea of killing the emissary instead, but the Carthians stayed on their ship, out of reach.

Instead, Ash found himself in the queen's bedchamber, trying to prevent the king of Arden from undoing his hard work. He'd been called in because Queen Marina had
wilted while her attendants were trying to dress her for the annual Saint's Day dinner. She lay back in bed, dark hair spread across the pillows, her usually dusky skin nearly as pale as the sheets save for the places where blue veins showed through.

She's skin and bones, Ash thought. She has no reserves.

Montaigne paced back and forth, ablaze with all the badges of his office, his boots clicking on the stone floor. He was in a dangerous mood, even for him. “Can't you give her something, healer, to get her through this? Every thane in the kingdom is here. Rumors are flying that the queen is dead. They need to see her alive and well.” He paused. “Especially now.”

The low flame that had burned inside Ash ever since his father's death blazed up.

This is the man who declared war on the Fells when my mother refused to marry him, Ash thought. They'd been at war ever since. She'd paid a high price. They all had. But it could be Raisa lying here, being dithered over like a side of beef with no agency of her own.

No, he thought. She wouldn't have lasted this long. One or the other of them would be dead. Ash was beginning to recognize just what his mother the queen had accomplished in keeping this southern tyrant out of the Fells.

“There's just one problem, Your Majesty,” he said through his teeth. “The queen is alive, thank the Maker, but she is not well. What she needs is rest, and quiet, and
good, nourishing food. Not a public ordeal.”

“We cannot have people think it is a simple matter to murder a sovereign. That would send the wrong message.”

“What kind of message would it send, Your Majesty, were the queen to collapse during dinner?” Ash said in a barely civil tone. “If tongues are wagging now, that would only make matters worse.”

“It's your job to make sure that doesn't happen,” Montaigne said.

“Never mind, healer,” the queen said. “The king is right, of course. I need to be there.” She propped up on her elbows and nodded to her ladies, who carried several dresses to the bedside for Marina to choose from.

Ordinarily, when the queen was indisposed, as she often was, Lady Estelle would step in as hostess. The king of Arden saw no reason to keep his mistresses hidden away. But Estelle was dead—killed for the crime of hosting an assassination attempt on the king. Wittingly or unwittingly. Hence the current crisis. The king needed to make show.

“I want my queen by my side at dinner,” the king said. “Why is that so difficult to understand?” He ripped a dress from the hands of one of the queen's ladies and thrust it into Marina's face. “Put this on. And drink a measure of rum, if that's what it takes to put a little color in your cheeks. Our guests are already seated, and I don't like to give them time to conspire together in my absence.”

The queen sat frozen in her bed, holding the dress up like a shield.

“I told you to get dressed, you stupid slut of Tamron. Are you deaf?”

“Your Majesty, please,” Lady Argincourt, one of the queen's ladies, murmured, gesturing at the crowd of blackbirds in the room. “If you could give the queen a little privacy?”

“I want to see you downstairs in less than fifteen minutes,” Montaigne said. “Freeman, you will attend the queen in the dining room to handle anything that might arise. And find something other than that bloody healer brown to wear. Having a healer hover over her would also send the wrong message.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Ash said.

Signaling to his blackbird guard, the king strode from the room, leaving Ash with two questions: Would he at long last get close enough to the king to do some actual damage? And where could he possibly get hold of dinner clothes in the next fifteen minutes?

When he was sure the king was gone, Ash turned back to the queen. “No rum, Your Grace,” he said. “Not while your liver is still recovering from the poison. I suggest small beer or tea.”

“Tea suits me well, Master Freeman,” the queen said.

“Good,” Ash said. “And, finally—would any of you know where I could find some suitable clothes in a hurry?”

Fifteen minutes later, Ash was shadowing the queen into the state dining room. Somehow, Queen Marina's ladies had managed to scrounge up some black breeches and a doublet in green velvet and leather that fit—more or less. Happily, he had a fine silver collar to go with.

It had been a long time since he'd worn anything resembling court garb. It felt like he was wearing a costume.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Ash could tell that something was wrong. The tension in the room was as thick as day-old porridge and the room was lined with more blackbirds than was usual, even these days. The main course had been served, but most of the plates looked to be untouched. The women in the room were staring down at the table as if they hoped they could disappear.

All eyes were fixed on a tall muscular thane with a bristle of gray hair and a black eye patch. He stood at the end of the table nearest the door, surrounded by a handful of men-at-arms. He was the kind of hard-bitten soldier who looked out of place in civilian clothes. Next to him stood a much younger edition of the thane, maybe twelve or thirteen, this one in mudback brown.

As they walked in, the queen seemed to tap some hidden reservoir of strength. Her spine straightened, her chin rose, and she smiled brilliantly when the guests rose to greet her. She walked the length of the room with great dignity and took her place beside the king. Ash followed
a few steps behind and stood against the wall behind the royal couple, staring at the barricade of blackbirds between him and the king.

No opportunity there, Ash thought.

Montaigne kissed Queen Marina's hand, turned to the other guests, and said through gritted teeth, “I know you'll join with me in toasting Her Majesty's good health.”

This was met with a murmur of good wishes and a few raised glasses, but it didn't change the mood in the room. It looked more like a standoff than a dinner party. Marin Karn, for instance, looked like he could chew rocks and spit out gravel.

“Sit down, Lord Matelon, and eat,” the king said. “This is the Saint's Day. It is not the appropriate time to discuss the state of the war. We will take it up when the Thane Council meets.”

“You have not called a council in months, Your Majesty,” the eye-patched lord said. “Instead, you seize property and treasure from your loyal bannermen to fund this never-ending grudge match.”

A rumble rolled around the table, mingled protest and assent.

Reliable royal ally Michel Botetort stood as well. “I beg you, Arschel, let's defer this.”

“I agree,” General Karn said. “I've not yet had the chance to brief His Majesty on . . . recent developments.”

“Then by all means, Karn, let us brief him now,”
Matelon said. He scanned the room. “I believe we have a quorum.”

“Perhaps the ladies should leave the room,” the king said, eyes glittering, his hand on his sword, “so that we can speak plainly.”

“Perhaps they should,” Matelon said.

The women rose in a rustle of silk and brocade and left the room. All except the queen. “I will stay and hear what you have to say, Lord Matelon,” she said simply.

Matelon shrugged. “If you like, Your Majesty.” He turned to the boy. “My son Robert is a corporal stationed at Delphi. He has a report to offer. Corporal?”

Robert was so nervous that the paper in his hand was shaking. “D-Delphi has fallen, Your Majesty.”

Delphi! Ash struggled to maintain his street face while he scanned the room for reactions. If he was any judge, Marin Karn, the king, and Botetort, at least, already knew.

The king waved an impatient hand. “Rumors are always flying about this or that disaster. I have heard a rumor about Delphi, and we are in the process of investigating.”

“It is more than a rumor, Your Majesty,” Lord Matelon said. “Go on, Corporal.”

Robert stood ramrod-straight. “I spent the Solstice holiday at temple church, on leave from my posting at Delphi. While I was there, we received a message from my brother—from Captain Matelon's headquarters north of the city. Shall I read it?”

“Go ahead, Son,” Matelon said, resting his hand on the boy's shoulder.

Robert cleared his throat and read. “‘A miners' riot has turned into a full-blown rebellion, supplemented with what appear to be Fellsian Highlanders from the north. The rebels now control the mines, the heights, and the town, and our headquarters is under attack.'” Robert swallowed hard. “‘As it is unlikely that reinforcements from temple church can arrive in such time and in such numbers as to change the outcome, I recommend against risking more troops until a sufficient force can be deployed to assure a decisive victory. Captain Halston Matelon, Commander, His Majesty's Army, Delphi.'”

The entire room had gone silent with shock.

General Karn spoke. “It sounds to me like Captain Matelon is making excuses for his poor performance.”

Blotches of color blossomed on Lord Matelon's cheeks. “Explain, General,” he said.

“First off, everybody knows that the northerners never poke a toe south of the Spirit Mountains,” General Karn said. “Even if they decided to change their tactics, only a fool would attempt to bring a force through the Spirit Mountains at this time of year. The passes have been closed for a month.”

“Perhaps,” Matelon said, biting off each word, “the witch queen has decided to spend the winter in the south this year. Perhaps her mages melted all the snow with
sorcery. All I know is that, from the beginning of this damnable war, every assurance we have received, every prediction that has been made, every report that victory is at hand has been wrong.”

Montaigne directed his response to the entire room. “As many of you know, Lord Matelon's support for the war and his loyalty to our person have been lukewarm for some time. Which leads me to wonder—could this be part of a larger conspiracy? Multiple assassination attempts here in the capital, while Matelon's son betrays us to the rebels in the north.”

Why is it, Your Majesty, that when things go wrong, it's always somebody else's fault? Ash thought.

“Your Majesty,” Matelon said. “I have provided unflagging support through twenty-five years of war. No one has contributed more troops or treasure to this effort. People are suffering and starving throughout the empire. Now, it appears, I have sacrificed my eldest son. And for what? Control of a small realm infested with sorcerers and savages whose major exports are things we do not need. Enough is enough. I am done.”

“Are you saying that you will not submit to the command of your sovereign, anointed by God?”

“I am saying that I am tired, and I want to go home and mourn with my lady wife, and see to my estates, which are sorely in need of attention.” The thane inclined his head, then turned and strode toward the door, attended
by his men-at-arms and his son.

“Go home if you like,” Montaigne said, “but your lady wife is not there.”

Matelon froze mid-stride, then turned to face the king. “Explain yourself,” he said.

Montaigne spoke to the entire hall. “In view of events in Delphi, I have taken the precaution of sequestering the families of my Thane Council members in keeps far from the northern border. That way none of you will have worries about their safety, and all of you will be able to focus on winning this war.”

At this, the thanes around the table pushed to their feet, many of them with their hands on their swords. It was a vicious move, even for Montaigne.

“And yes,” Montaigne said, “that includes the ladies who have just left the hall.”

The doors to the dining room swung open, and blackbirds flooded into the room, most of them collared mages. They took up positions all around the perimeter.