“No,” his mother smiled. “I killed a king. Imogen killed the rest.”
Andreus lunged forward and wrapped his hands around his mother’s neck. He squeezed as she gasped with pain. “And Micah and Carys and Imogen . . .”
She clawed at his shirt. Her eyes wide. Her mouth bright red, almost like the blood she had spilled—that he wanted to spill. His mother’s blood.
He let go and staggered backward looking down at his hands. This wasn’t him. And it wasn’t her. She didn’t know what she was saying. She was ill. None of this was real and he was leaving.
Turning, he headed toward the doorway where Oben stood still as stone.
“Carys never mattered. Micah did. You do. Stop them. Do what you must to stop them all, because they are coming.” His mother’s raspy voice floated to him on the shadows. Andreus tried to block her out as he pushed past Oben, but there was no ignoring the words. “Inside the walls. Outside the walls. The orb is a beacon and they are coming. Like moths to a flame. And when they arrive everyone will burn!”
“Move!” Andreus commanded Oben. The man stared at him then slowly stepped to the side. Andreus’s heart pounded as he limped past the solar’s fireplace and headed for the double doors. More than anything, he wanted to flee the sound of her voice and the words she had spoken. They could not be true. His mother had not orchestrated his father’s death. It had to be the illness speaking because the words made no sense.
And yet, allowing the lights to falter was exactly something his mother would do in order to oust Imogen—a rival for power within the palace—from her position of authority. The action made a warped kind of sense. Scheming to murder his father, the King, her husband, however, did not.
He heard a door click closed and the shuffle of feet behind him. Not turning around, he said, “My mother is still . . . confused.”
“The tea the Queen takes to quell her nightmare doesn’t always react well with the remedy Madame Jillian has given her. The combination loosens her tongue and her heart.”
Andreus turned. “Are you telling me that what the Queen said was true?”
“I do not speak for the Queen,” Oben said as he moved toward the fireplace. The flickering flames made it harder than ever to read the chamberlain’s expression.
“But you know what she is doing and what she has done.”
Oben slowly nodded, and Andreus’s throat went dry. His chest clenched and his stomach turned as he realized what action his role as King dictated. If his mother’s words were true, she had committed treason. And for treason, there was only one option. “The Queen must not leave these rooms. You will keep her confined until she stands trial for her part in King Ulron’s and Prince Micah’s deaths.”
He moved to leave as Oben’s deep voice replied, “If the Queen wishes to leave, I will not stop her.”
“That was not a suggestion. It was a command.” Andreus turned and straightened his shoulders. “From your King.”
“Yes.” Oben nodded. “You are King. But how long will that last if others know what your mother has done?”
“I had nothing to do with her plans.”
“Do you think the Council of Elders will care?” Oben strode forward. “Think! How many in this castle wished to keep you from claiming the throne? Do you believe they will give up the opportunity to remove you now?”
Uncertainty swirled as he thought of the Elders and the guardsmen. Men who technically answered to Andreus, but who might have any of a dozen conflicting alliances. All the Elders had guards from their districts who served the crown, but whose loyalty was given to them.
Andreus shook his head. “I am the King. I have to follow the law.”
“As if the law ever matters to kings. Don’t be foolish. You have enemies in every shadow and few allies. Do not start something unless you know where it will lead. You did that with Lady Imogen and look what came of your actions.”
“I did nothing with Imogen . . .”
Oben reached out and grabbed Andreus’s upper arm. “Denials are pointless. You are no longer a boy who has only to worry about getting scolded, and Carys is no longer here to stand in front of you to deflect attention and take your punishments. Your mother tried to warn you. You wouldn’t listen to her then. But by the Gods, you will listen to me now. You say you are the King? Be the King!”
Andreus yanked his arm, but Oben held fast.
Oben’s eyes held his with an intensity that burned like a fire. The chamberlain insisted, “Become the man I have always known you could be.”
The words settled on Andreus in the silence. The fire in the hearth popped. The flickering candlelight made the shadows dance as his mother’s muted voice called from the other room.
“I must attend the Queen.” Oben bowed his head and started toward the bedroom door.
Andreus swallowed hard. “How do I know this isn’t another of my mother’s plots?”
Oben turned. For a second, Andreus thought he saw regret flicker across the chamberlain’s face. Then the expression was gone as Oben said, “You don’t.”
The man disappeared, leaving Andreus alone with the candles and the fire and the roar of questions pounding in his head. He pushed through the double doors. The wounds of the Xhelozi pulsed with pain. His breathing was shallow as he walked the brightly illuminated halls that tomorrow would be lit only by torches. He would have to explain about the dwindling wind power. People would be scared. They would not be alone in their fear. The Council was plotting against him. His mother had confessed to plotting to kill his father. And Imogen . . .
His belief in Imogen’s love for him had been the only true constant since his father and brother died, but from the seeds of doubt his mother had sewn grew questions he could not ignore. Had any of what he believed about her been real? Had she loved him? Had she convinced Micah to trust her and used that trust to kill him? If so, the men who returned Micah’s and their father’s bodies would have known.
Carys said they did know.
Andreus stopped walking.
If Imogen was what his mother claimed . . .
He shook his head.
That couldn’t be. Carys was a liar. She had pretended she was no longer using the Tears of Midnight. She kept her continued friendship with Larkin hidden for years. Carys and Larkin were behind the assassination attempt on his life.
Or so he was led to believe by—Imogen.
Could the woman he had loved and trusted be what his mother claimed? Could every choice he made have been built on a lie?
He started walking again, this time faster despite the pain aflame in his leg.
Oben was right. Andreus wore the crown, but if he wanted to be a king he had to start acting like it—whether the Council of Elders liked it or not.
7
“Are you all right?” Garret stopped his mount next to hers. “We can go back, and I’ll keep up the search if you wish.”
She blinked away the fatigue and studied the landscape. For the first hour after dawn, Carys had insisted on continuing to look for Larkin. But as the temperature rose, Carys felt hope fade. The wave of warmth made it easier to travel, but the melted snow destroyed all chance of locating her friend’s tracks. Larkin was out there somewhere and Carys was powerless to help her.
“No.” Carys straightened her shoulders. “I thought I saw something in the distance, but I was mistaken. We should keep going.”
“You need rest, Carys,” Garret said quietly.
“I’m fine,” she lied. Her body ached with fatigue, but there was no time for sleep. The Xhelozi presence this far to the west meant it was only safe to travel during the day. She had to reach the seers and learn what she could about Imogen’s rise to power as quickly as possible. There was no telling when Imogen’s co-conspirators would strike in the Palace of Winds. Carys had to return before that happened. And if Larkin got away from Errik, she would ride with all haste to the Village of Night. Carys was determined to be there when her friend arrived.
/> “Larkin isn’t the only one who knew of your plans to visit the seers,” Garret said quietly. “If she does manage to get there, Errik and whatever forces he might have won’t be far behind. If we take a few extra days to ride to Bisog, I can gather men to defend you . . .”
“No,” Carys snapped. Her cloak fluttered. She would not spend several days traveling to Garret’s district and his source of power. If Errik was rounding up troops to come to the Village of Night, Carys had to beat him there or risk him destroying any chance of her learning the truth behind Imogen’s rise to power. “We will continue riding southwest to the Village of Night.”
Since Garret claimed he didn’t know this area and had no idea how to get to the place of the seers, Larkin’s vague description of the route was the only navigational tool Carys had. The forest Larkin had spoken of had been easy to find, but the trees stretched for leagues, and, now that they were on the other side, Carys had no way of knowing if they were going in the correct direction or if they were too far north or south.
She would not show uncertainty around Garret. He had helped her escape and seemed to know her secrets, but she didn’t trust him.
“Come on.” Carys nudged her horse forward, but Garret reached out and grabbed her arm.
“Look.”
Carys looked to the muddy ground where he pointed.
Wide prints were set deep in the wet earth. They measured at least as long as the tips of her fingers to her elbow with three marks as long as her hand jutting out like toes. The deep scrapes in the mud next to those toes made it clear what had made those prints.
“The Xhelozi,” she said as her stomach churned.
“Have you ever heard of a time when the Xhelozi came this far west?” Carys asked.
Garret looked down at the prints scarring the earth. “Only in a story that seemed impossible when I heard it.”
Carys frowned. She hadn’t heard many stories growing up. Her brother had hated the storytellers, who always seemed to weave the power of the seers into their tales. He refused to believe in the seers. Because believing in them would be admitting that his illness—his curse—could lead to the downfall of Eden. So, while the rest of the court listened with rapt attention to the traveling storytellers, she and Andreus had been in the tunnels of the palace pursuing other entertainments. Now, with the wind whispering in her mind, Carys wished she had paid more attention.
“My grandfather used to say the storytellers were wrong about the Xhelozi.” Garret cocked his head to the side as if trying to hear the words his grandfather spoke. “That the Xhelozi were not spotted outside the mountains until a few years before the Bastians lost the throne. I assumed it was because there were more hunting parties searching the mountains for kills then. My grandfather liked to regale everyone with those stories, too.”
“Perhaps,” she said. Or maybe there were forces—things besides the cold and dark that called the Xhelozi to hunt in greater numbers.
“After what happened the past few weeks, it is hard to be surprised by much of anything and my guess is there are more surprising things to come before you ascend your rightful place on the throne.”
“You speak in riddles, Garret.” Carys reached under her cloak for the hilt of one of her stilettos as her horse danced beneath her and dead leaves swirled from the ground up into the air. “I am tired of your knowing nods and secretive smiles. It is time to share with me what you know about your uncle and what the Council has been plotting. And why you insisted on coming with me when I feigned death and fled the Palace of Winds.”
“I wanted to make sure you returned and used your power to help Eden as I promised my uncle you could,” Garret said smoothly. “I know you are the reason the arrows broke before striking Larkin. I’ve suspected what you can do for quite some time.”
Carys stilled. “Why would you think I had anything to do with that? And your uncle thinks I’m dead.” The Chief Elder of the Council would never have allowed Andreus to be installed as King had he thought there was a chance she was alive.
Garret smiled. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he has understood the advantages of turning a blind eye. As for the other, I have watched you more closely than you think. I have studied what I believe you can do. You don’t trust me, but once you do I will be able to help you . . .”
A scream pierced the air. A woman’s scream.
Larkin!
Carys wheeled her horse toward the rocky hills to the south and squinted into the sunshine. The shout echoed again. Carys drew her stilettos with one hand and urged her horse toward the sound at a gallop. The clattering of hooves behind her said Garret had done the same.
Her mount slipped on a patch of mud and Carys almost lost her grip as it regained its footing. Another shout echoed—a long, chilling sound that raked down Carys’s spine—as they crested the top of the hill and she could see the source of the screams.
Far in the distance, a girl was struggling with two men. Another man with a broadsword was standing over a white-haired body crumpled on the ground.
The restrained girl spat and one of the men reached back and slapped her across the face. Still, she continued to kick and bite, trying to free herself as the men laughed.
Garret pulled his horse up next to Carys. “It’s not Larkin.”
“We have to help her,” Carys said as the laughing man flipped open the girl’s cloak, grabbed the neckline of her dress and yanked it downward.
Carys nudged her horse forward and Garret’s hand clamped over her arm. “Don’t be foolish,” he hissed. “Look over there.” Carys followed his gaze to where seven horses carrying travel packs were tied near a small stone outbuilding not far from the farmstead’s windmill.
“Some of the brigands must be in the house,” Carys realized.
One of the men slapped the girl again. Even at this distance Carys could hear the contact of flesh against flesh and see the blood dripping from the crack in the girl’s lip. Blood pounded in her head. The whispering that had quieted returned louder than ever as the girl stopped struggling and the man with the broadsword strutted in her direction.
Carys started her horse forward and Garret grabbed the reins. “We’re outnumbered and there is a chance that you could be recognized. No one can know you are alive until you are ready to reclaim the kingdom.”
“I don’t care!”
A muted scream came from the direction of the squat farmhouse.
“A queen has to put the good of the kingdom ahead of any individual.”
The girl’s head, which had been hung in defeat, came up as she kicked the man who had laughed square in the groin. The man with the broadsword swept her feet out from under her and she hit the ground. Carys yanked her arm free of Garret’s grip and pressed her knees into her mount’s flanks.
The wind howled with rage as the horse shot forward down the incline, leaving the rest of Garret’s plea behind. A man pulled at the girl’s clothes while the other two, with their backs to her as she approached, cheered on the assault.
The first of her stilettos left her hand and buried itself in the back of the man climbing on top of the screaming girl. She clutched the other hilt tight as her horse closed the distance toward the other two, who had stopped cheering as their fellow brigand toppled to the ground. Two men with weapons. One stiletto.
The brigands spun, shouted as they saw her and her stallion bearing down on them. They fumbled for their swords. Shouted for reinforcements as Carys rode her horse directly toward a blond bearded man struggling to get his weapon free of its sheath.
The other dirt-streaked, dark-haired brigand raced, sword in hand, toward her. The girl on the ground scrambled to her feet.
Carys let the stiletto fly as her horse reared. She grabbed the pommel, squeezed her legs, and hung on with all her might.
Her horse whinnied. The wind roared, and the man spun in the air. He cried with fear and begged. “Stop! Please stop!”
Begged. Like the girl he had been attacking. The man wa
nted mercy, but he would get death.
The wind twisted. Rage burned in Carys, hot and thirsty for blood.
The man screamed in horror.
Carys smiled at his fear.
His head snapped and the scream was gone.
The air went still and the man dropped to the ground with a thud. Carys’s horse reared again and there was a sickening crack of hooves connecting with flesh.
Anger was replaced with a different feeling. Gone was a fatigue and the deep ache of withdrawal and the lack of control she had felt her entire life. The chill that had plagued her vanished in a flash of heat.
Sastisfaction, that was what she felt. The whispers roared approval as she turned to look for something else to destroy.
Then she heard the whimper and turned to see the girl looking with horror at the broken man on the ground. His arms and legs were bent in abnormal directions like a doll that had been stomped on in a tantrum.
And his neck.
Its flesh was twisted and ripped—gaping from the force of the wind and her anger.
The air went still. Carys gasped. The whispering disappeared as bile rose in her throat. She had meant for the man to die. But she hadn’t meant to do that.
Shouts rang out from one of the buildings.
“Are there others?” Carys asked as the girl climbed to her feet.
“There are at least four more. Inside the house.”
The wind rustled her cloak and the whispers began again. Carys shook her head and pulled her bow and quiver out of one of the side travel packs. She flung her leg over the saddle and leaped to the ground.
“You have to hide.”
The dark-haired girl shook her head. Her winter cloak was unfastened. The front of her dress was torn to her waist, but the girl didn’t try to cover herself. Instead she reached down, grabbed the large, bloodstained broadsword from the ground with both hands, and slowly raised it. Her arms shook from the weight that she would never be able to swing with any force. “They have my family.”
The girl’s eyes flicked to the house. Muted shouts floated on the air. Something clanged. There was a clatter of hooves to the right of her as a man emerged from the house holding a sword dripping with blood.