The Misbegotten (An Assassin's Blade Book 1) (21 page)

The door beside me opened again.

The trumpets blared.

The sea of people below churned with either real or faux excitement. Their chattering voices rose in pitch. The trumpeters, not to be outdone by a bunch of squealing peasants, bellowed loudly into their instruments as a pointed-toed boot appeared at the edge of the doorway.

The trumpets opened up into a warm, rapid melody, joined by the heavy percussions of drums.

Edmund Tath and his daughter, Sybil Tath, strode onto the balcony, her right arm joined to his left. Their strides were slow and stiff, a pace that was intended to draw as much attention to the bride as possible.

As much hatred as I had for the soon-to-be queen of Edenvaile, it would remiss of me to pretend she didn’t deserve every eye that was affixed to her like clouds to the sky. Her beauty was unparalleled.

A cerulean-blue dress made of fine silk clung immaculately to every curve of her body, the hem flowing behind her like a gentle cresting wave.

Forest-green lace dotted her shoulders, with sharp gold woven beneath. An identically colored sash coiled around her waist. Diamond-colored threads were embroidered lightly beneath the surface of the dress, glittering like crushed ice in the sun. A flowered crown of cream and olive petals rested lightly upon her wavy black hair.

I’d always wondered where Sybil had gotten her beauty, a question that was at the forefront of my mind as Edmund Tath walked her across the balcony. The king of Eaglesclaw was about as pleasant to look at as my late Uncle Fredrick, a man who’d attempted to head-butt a fire on a drunken dare — much of my family was largely thought to be the product of inbreeding.

He had thin strands of salty hair that lay greasily upon his round, shiny head. His nose was much too small for his puffy face, and his cheeks were perpetually flushed. If the man had had the dignity to once in a while take in a hunt, or at least haul his ass off his throne, he likely wouldn’t have had a body that resembled something between dough and chunky milk.

Thankfully, Edmund trailed off among the lords and ladies of the balcony, taking a seat next to Mydia as Sybil stepped onto the dais beside Chachant.

Savant Lucas stood before them in a loose-fitting white robe. His ancient hands trembled.

“Citizens of Edenvaile,” the savant boomed in a craggy voice, “lords and ladies of the court, beloved guests from the illustrious kingdoms of Eaglesclaw and Watchmen’s Bay, and loyal servants of the North, we are here today to celebrate a bond forged in love and sealed in the unbreakable shackles of the Pantheon of Gods.”

The savant cleared his throat in attempt to quell the climbing raspiness in his voice.

He unfolded his hand toward Chachant. “This man, Chachant Verdan, son of Vileoux Verdan, Lord of the Verdan Family, King of Edenvaile and Immovable Mountain of the North, means to join with this woman, Lady Sybil Tath, daughter of Lord Edmund Tath of Eaglesclaw, in marriage. If any present here today see foulness in either of their hearts or betrayal in their eyes, speak now or face the wrath of the Pantheon when you die.”

There was enough foulness in Sybil’s heart and betrayal in her eyes that I was fairly certain it leaked from her pores when she sweated. There was just one tiny problem with standing up and shouting, “She’s a foul beast who needs to be struck down!” If you didn’t provide a small thing called evidence to support your claim, you would suddenly find yourself without a head. And that’s not good if you intend to continue on with living.

Apparently, likeminded nonsuicidal people surrounded me, because no one said a word.

The savant continued with his scripted speech. “Sir Wilhelm, please bring me the Sword of Righteousness.”

Wilhelm emerged from the line of lords and ladies, his fingers wrapped around a leather-bound hilt from which a lengthy broad steel blade arose, pointing toward the silt sky.

Savant Lucas took the sword in his wrinkly hands and held it high above his head.

“Lord Chachant Verdan, kneel and bow your head.”

Chachant did as he was asked.

The sword in the savant’s hands swayed like a thin tree that had grown tall but hadn’t yet discovered how to branch out.

Savant Lucas spoke. “If you, Chachant Verdan, intend to take your betrothed as your companion for life, as a lover and a friend, as a partner to whom you are bound monogamously, and as a wife whom you will not taint with sin or wickedness, then you will stand tall before the Sword of Righteousness and you will grace it with the same dignity and respect as you would the Pantheon who demanded it be forged in their name, and you will uphold your promises. If you cannot uphold this matrimonial pledge, then remain kneeling and allow the Sword of Righteousness to grant you one last act of mercy, for the Pantheon will surely not.”

While these empty words were booming in my ears — in all my years, I’d heard of no one stupid enough to admit doubt crept into their heart as they knelt before a sword intended to lop off their head if they did so — I made faces at Vayle, parroting what I assumed the savant looked like in his righteous glory.

Chachant predictably rose to his feet, and the formality continued in painful fashion. He straightened his shoulders, looked the sword hard in its figurative eyes and announced, “I will uphold my matrimonial promises.”

The savant turned to Sybil and repeated the formalities with her. She stood at the end, looked the sword hard in its figurative eyes and announced, “I will uphold my matrimonial promises.”

I half expected an angry fist from some god to pierce the sky and crack her right across the jaw for such a brazen lie. But only snow drifted down from the thick clouds, reaffirming my belief that if the Pantheon of northern gods did exist, they didn’t give two shits for what happened below them. They were probably drinking barrels of cider and commenting happily on the swarm of diseases and rashes and infections each had thought up. Seemed like something a bunch of gods responsible for this reprehensible weather would do.

The savant instructed Chachant and Sybil to stand tightly against one another, shoulder to shoulder.

He carefully lowered the Sword of Righteousness and placed the flat side of the blade equally on their shoulders. “The Pantheon has declared these two as one. I present to you Chachant Verdan, Lord of the Verdan Family, King of Edenvaile and the Immovable Mountain of the North, and Sybil Verdan, Lady of the Verdan Family and Queen of Edenvaile. I now command the two of you to commence this celebration with a kiss.”

Chachant and Sybil turned, joyous smiles picking at the corners of their mouths. He picked Sybil up in his arms, cupped his hands beneath her butt and kissed her for all of Edenvaile to see. Then he sat her down and winked at her, his mouth agape with a wry grin.

Edmund quickly handed her a bouquet of colorful wildflowers likely picked from the lavish fields of the West. She held the bouquet over the balcony and tossed it to the people below, who would fight over its petals for good luck and good health.

Sybil smoothed the wrinkles of her dress from where Chachant’s hands had soiled it. She grabbed her newly wedded husband’s hand as he attempted to leave the dais. She whispered in his ear and then waited for the cheers and clapping from the farmers and peasants below to quiet.

I looked for Vayle, who was crouched behind a crenellation. She’d seen the same thing I had and gave me a nod.

“Women, men and children of Edenvaile,” Sybil announced. She turned to the nobles. “And the lords and ladies who were so kind as to travel from, in some cases, great distances to be here today. I have an announcement to make.”

I hoped the announcement would be something along the lines of her finally realizing her dream to become queen and now that she’d accomplished what she wanted to in life, she would be pursuing other ventures, such as possibly discovering what it felt like to stab herself in the throat with a sword.

I had a feeling my hopes would be crushed.

And they were.

“It has been little more than two months since my husband, since the people of Edenvaile, since the world over has grieved the loss of a man whose greatness was so tremendous, Mizridahl has felt heavier and darker in his absence. I speak, of course, of Vileoux Verdan, the king of the North who was assassinated on a cold winter night.”

She paused and expertly allowed the emotions to swell over the crowd like a thick fog. Half the art of speech is not stumbling over your words like a tongue-tied buffoon. The other half is presenting your palm to the audience and persuading them to eat from your hand. And there is no greater persuasion than the power of raw emotion.

“Or so we were led to believe,” Sybil continued. She squeezed Chachant’s hand and allayed the growing concern on his face with a warm smile. “But I had heard whispers a foul trick was in play. I had heard whispers that the poison that seeped into Vileoux’s veins could only render him unconscious.” She paused again, leaned her bosom over the banister and, with a heaping dose of exaggerated effect, said, “I had heard he was still
alive
.”

Speaking of whispers… they rippled across the crowd now.

“Is he?” someone dared ask from below.

Sybil raked her teeth across her bottom lip. She stood aside and opened her hand toward the doorway. “See for yourself.”

The door opened and a chill unlike any I’d ever experienced burrowed into my flesh and seemed to gnaw at my bones. My teeth chattered.

I saw the shadow before I saw the man. My teeth stopped chattering and my body stopped feeling. No cold, no fear. Just the unrelenting rush of excitement — the twisted kind — that you can feel surge into your throat and pound into your chest.

My hand instinctively went to the hilt of my ebon blade as Vileoux Verdan walked onto the balcony.

His acorn face was a tinge darker than I remembered it in Lith, like a man who had been forced to stay awake for centuries. But his white beard was as flawless as ever, his blue eyes as cold as the kingdom he had ruled for fifty years, and the crown upon his head as gold as a noonday sun.

The whispers rippling across the crowd were no longer whispers, and they no longer rippled. There were shouts and shrieks and cries of disbelief, and they rumbled and thundered and boomed.

“Gods below and above,” Dercy said to me as Vileoux made his way onto the dais.

“Mind calling up some of your gods from the sea as well?” I asked.

With his quaking hand covering his mouth, Chachant gingerly touched his father’s arms, inspecting them for perhaps worms, maggots and festered flesh — things a dead man would typically be slugging around.

“Father?” he said, bewildered.

Vileoux gripped his shoulder. “My son. You’ve become a man in my stead.” He swiveled around youthfully and stepped up to the ornate banister. “Your king has returned,” he shouted.

The people wept and cheered with affection. They should have run far, far away and prayed heavily to the Pantheon.

Sybil addressed the assembly, dividing her attention between the nobility behind her and the vast numbers of peasants below who ate up her words like seagulls suck down garbage.

“The whispers came from none other than an assassin present here today.”

Oh.
Shit.

She pointed to me with her sharp chin. “Astul, Shepherd of the Black Rot, informed me that your great king may have been held in a dungeon.” She paused. “A dungeon operated by Dercy Daniser. And that is where I found him.” She turned to Chachant. “
That
is why I stayed behind in Watchmen’s Bay.”

Chachant’s face resembled the asperity of a chiseled rock as he looked at me. Fury reddened his cheeks. “You told me you knew
nothing
about my father’s death!” His anger flung spittle across the balcony.

“I think it was a trap,” Sybil said. “He hoped I would fall prey to whatever foul plan he and Dercy concocted.”

Chachant shoved his finger angrily toward me. “Seize them both!”

“I don’t think your daughter will be wedding their son,” I told Dercy. I backed away and withdrew my sword. “Good luck.”

The balcony shuddered as plated armor rose from the ranks of the nobles and stampeded toward me and Dercy.

Desperate for an exit, I opened the door only to see the pronged candles set upon the wall dragging unfriendly shadows, pursued by the sound of clanking armor, ever closer. I slammed the door, yanked a chair sitting next to Dercy and propped it up against the bronze handle.

It wouldn’t hold long, but hopefully long enough for me to figure a way out with my guts still inside my belly.

Three city guardsmen slammed into Dercy. The Lord of Watchmen’s Bay tumbled to the floor, his face thudding off the snowy marble. His eyes were open, but they looked like they were staring into oblivion.

There were three more guards on the balcony. They approached me with care, each of them advancing under the protection of a gleaming steel shield. Unlike Dercy, I had something in my hand that could inflict grievous harm.

And I knew how to use it.

I could probably take all three of the guards. The small quarters gave me the advantage; they’d have to file in like a cone rather than surround me. Plus, ebon has been known to cut through steel given enough whacks. But the door beside me that trembled under the pounding fists of more city guardsmen presented another problem. Famed as I was for putting sharp tips into spongy skin, I was no conqueror of an entire city guard.

But I really didn’t want to pay a visit to the Edenvaile dungeon again.

What to do, what to do. I could jump off the balcony, but that would hurt. I could take Chachant or Sybil or Vileoux by the neck and escort them out of the keep under the pretense I would slice their jugular should their guardsmen attempt anything funny. But I probably couldn’t reach them
.

“Get down!” someone shouted, interrupting my devious planning.

An arrow tipped with fire whizzed through the air and struck the Verdan banner hanging upon the wall of the balcony. The flames raced down the banner, engulfing the fabric in a hungry inferno that contrasted quite nicely with the black background. Had my life not been threatened at that very moment, it would have been a nice time to pour a skin of wine and scrutinize the artwork flames can bring about.