The news hit Fletcher like a shaft of lightning. He had been exhausted, ready to sleep in the warm comfort of the library, but now he felt icy shock running down his spine.
Rufus had been dead when they entered the chamber beneath the pyramid. They had never seen what had killed him, only a deep wound in the boy’s stomach. Jeffrey must have thrown the crossbow bolt out of sight.
“But Jeffrey thought he had failed,” Cress gasped, clapping her hand to her mouth.
“It was out of the corner of Lysander’s eye, just after he was paralyzed,” Arcturus explained, his face drawn and grim. “His eyes closed a few seconds later. Jeffrey probably didn’t realize all of Hominum was watching—the only reason he was pretending to help Rufus was to trick the three of you when you came out of the tunnel. The bugger got lucky.”
“So everyone hates the dwarves again,” Othello whispered. “They think we sent an assassin to kill one of their own.”
Arcturus sighed and rubbed his eyes.
“Old King Alfric has already ordered the Pinkertons to surround the dwarven quarter. It’s a powder keg, waiting to explode. But that’s not the worst of our problems.”
“It’s not?” Fletcher asked, horrified.
Arcturus shook his head.
“After years of training, the newly qualified dwarven recruits have been sent to the front lines. They will pass through Corcillum on their march down from the elven border in two days’ time. When they get here and find their homes under siege, there will be conflict, one way or another. There is nothing we can do to prevent that.”
Arcturus stopped and looked at them, as if for the first time.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen when they find out you’re alive,” he said, half to himself. “But you can bet that Cress will be arrested, if not the whole lot of you as accomplices, given Fletcher and Othello’s history with treason charges. Sylva, just your association with these three alone…”
“We need to leave, now,” Sylva said, jumping to her feet. Arcturus waved her back to sitting, shaking his head.
“The students downstairs were all commoners, since the nobles didn’t bother attending. So, we’ve got until tomorrow before the word gets out. I’ve ordered them straight to bed and asked Dame Fairhaven to keep an eye on them, making sure they don’t leave their rooms. You’re safe for tonight at least.”
Fletcher couldn’t believe what he was hearing. From fugitives to fugitives. How could this be possible? They would have been safer living out their lives in the ether.
“Fletcher, what about the—” Sylva began.
But she never finished her sentence, because King Harold burst through the library doors, his eyes wide and unbelieving, sweat-slicked curls of gold plastered across his forehead. Lovett followed behind, wheeling herself through in a high-backed wooden wheelchair.
“So it’s true,” he panted.
“I told you,” Lovett said drily. She broke into a grin and shook her head in mock disbelief. “I bet they have quite a story to tell. Sixteen of the ether’s days, that’s almost a week in our time!”
But the king was not listening, or even looking at the four students seated at the large table in front of him. He was staring at Fletcher’s mother. As if he were a sleepwalker, he staggered to the armchair where she sat, her face cast in shadow by the flickering flames.
“Alice,” he croaked, kneeling in front of her. “Is it you?”
He looked at Fletcher with a questioning gaze and received a solemn nod back. There were tears in the king’s eye, and he took Alice’s limp hand in his own.
“It can’t be … Fletcher, do you…” Arcturus trailed off, his fingers straying to the long scar that marred his face. The same scar he had received while seeking revenge on the orcs that had attacked the Raleighs on that fateful night.
Fletcher could see Arcturus’s obvious joy at finding his old friend, the look of astonishment plain on his face, followed by a grin as wide as Fletcher had ever seen on the scarred man’s lips.
Arcturus lay a hand on the king’s shoulder, gazing into Alice’s blank eyes. As the two looked at her, Alice’s eyes flickered for a moment, and the barest hint of a smile played across her lips. Then it was gone, so swiftly that Fletcher couldn’t even be sure he had seen it.
“Alice, it’s me,” Arcturus said, squeezing her other hand.
But the moment had passed. Her eyes stared unblinkingly into the flames.
“Is she … always like this?” Harold asked, a slow tear rolling down his face.
“Yes,” Fletcher answered. There was nothing else to say.
CHAPTER
23
THERE WAS LITTLE TIME to rejoice at Alice’s return, bittersweet though it had been. The morning was fast approaching, and Fletcher’s team would need to be long gone by then.
Their urgency was further stoked when Lovett reminded them that a student was capable of sending a note by flying demon, and it was likely the Forsyths would have spies among even the commoners at Vocans. After all, they had gained the loyalty of two already: both Atlas and Jeffrey. An impressionable first-year commoner, stunned by the proffered friendship of a wealthy noble family, could be easily bought.
Lovett had already told the king and Arcturus of what had happened during the mission. So Fletcher stumbled through their journey across the ether, with interruptions from the others where he left out some important details. The revelations from his conversation with Khan about Alice’s treatment at the orcs’ hands elicited growls of anger from the others, and a tirade of furious swearing from Lovett.
By the end, Fletcher’s throat was dry and hoarse, leaving the rest of the table brooding over their predicament in the dim glow of the dying hearth fire. Sylva ended the tale with a summary of the contents of Jeffrey’s journal, and now it was passed around the table as they digested the new information.
Cress was the first to speak in the grim silence.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked, taking the slim volume from Arcturus’s hands and holding it aloft. “This is it. Proof. Proof that Jeffrey was a traitor, proof that he was behind every explosion, every death—hell, everything that humanity has laid the blame of at dwarven feet over the past year.”
Silence.
“They’ll know that I didn’t kill Rufus, and that the Anvil attacks were nothing to do with the dwarves,” she continued, brandishing the journal. “It’s enough to have Zacharias Forsyth and Inquisitor Rook thrown in jail.”
Still nothing. She turned to Harold, exasperated.
“What are you going to do about this?” she asked, taking the letter from between the journal’s pages and dangling it in front of the king’s face. Fletcher couldn’t help but grin. King or no king, Cress wasn’t one to stand on ceremony.
“It’s not that simple,” Harold said, his brows furrowing at her impertinence. “Who am I supposed to take this to? The Pinkertons? The Inquisition themselves? They’re under my father’s thumb. Even most of the Judges are under his sway.”
“But—you’re king…,” Cress said, her brows furrowed with confusion.
Fletcher understood her confusion. He had told the others that Harold wanted to help the dwarves, and was estranged from his father because of it. But he had never told them that it was Alfric who held the power in Hominum; that his son Harold was king in name alone. Even Lovett and Arcturus looked perplexed. This was news to them as well.
The king sighed and rubbed his temples.
“My father rules in the shadows,” Harold said. “I am no more than a figurehead, someone to take the fall if things go wrong. He wants to exterminate the dwarves, and has been looking for an excuse to do it for years. His aims align with the Triumvirate’s.”
“What about the council?” Cress demanded. “And the laws you passed to allow dwarves to fight, to remove the child quotas? Was that Alfric too?”
Harold sighed.
“It’s true that I have a majority in the council, which has some powers ov
er the rule of law, allowing me to pass minor measures. But for something like this … no.”
“Could we go to the generals of the army, my king?” Arcturus said, bowing his head in sudden reverence. His intent was clear—to leave Harold in no doubt of where his loyalties lay.
“Yes,” Lovett said, tapping her lips with a finger. “Could you not take the evidence to them?”
“And throw this country into civil war?” Harold asked, his words spitting like acid. “Many of the generals are on the Triumvirate’s side, and it’s the same with the nobles. Let me paint you a picture.”
He stood, and leaned his knuckles against the table.
“I would convene a meeting of the generals and nobility to show them the letter and the journal. Some would believe it and call for the arrest of perpetrators; others, like my father and his friends, would say you had fabricated it and call for yours. Lines would be drawn, sides would be taken. And in the middle of all this, the dwarven recruits arrive. A rebellion in the midst of a civil war. Can you imagine the chaos?”
“That’s not all,” Sylva said, her voice low and worried. “You would not just have the dwarves to contend with. If an arrest warrant is issued against me, a chieftain’s daughter, the elven council would go to war with all of Hominum over it too. Our army is mustering as we speak, to help in your war. Only now it would be used against you.”
Harold turned to her, shock stamped across his features.
“I had not considered that,” he said bitterly, his face draining of color. “The elven army is only just mobilizing, but they will be marching into Hominum when they are ready.”
“And all the soldiers on the northern borders have left,” Arcturus whispered, horrified.
“As soon as they discover you four are alive, there will be a warrant for your arrest,” Harold said. “Maybe I can convince them to leave Sylva out of it, but by then it might be too late.…”
He sighed and knuckled his brow.
“So, war with the elves if I don’t get you to safety … and a war with the dwarves regardless.”
“Aye, after seeing Rufus die, all of Hominum believes that Cress was an assassin,” Arcturus said. “And now they are even more convinced that the Anvil attacks were orchestrated by the dwarves. It will reach a boiling point, soon enough.”
“When the dwarven recruits arrive, my father will send the Pinkertons in to take over the Dwarven Quarter,” Harold said. “He has told me as much and will not change his mind, no matter what I say. The fighting will start that very night.”
Lovett finished his thought.
“Then, as we fall upon one another, the front lines left unguarded, Khan will strike and wipe us all out.”
The room went silent at her words, the horror of it weighing heavy in the air.
“So what are we supposed to do?” Fletcher finally asked. He was angry now. Angry at how the greed and hatred of a few power-hungry humans would lead to the slaughter of thousands of innocents. Angry that he and his friends were somehow at the center of it all once again. His pulse was roaring in his ears.
“We get you to the elves in the Great Forest,” Harold said. “You’ll be safest there, if—”
“No,” Othello interrupted, holding up his hand. “I won’t run. If there’s to be a war I’ll be here, protecting my family, not hiding like some common criminal.”
“Aye, I’ll stay too,” Cress said, crossing her arms defiantly.
“Don’t you understand, you’ll only make things worse,” the king growled. “Even if you aren’t captured, the Pinkertons will start searching for you, breaking down dwarven doors, tearing apart their homes. The dwarven rebellion would start tomorrow. If it’s known that the elves gave you asylum, that you have escaped … that won’t happen. It will buy me more time.”
Othello leaned back and closed his eyes. It looked for all the world as if he was taking a nap, were it not for the tight, whitened knuckles of his fists.
“If war breaks out, then the damage is done,” Harold said, his voice grim and terrible. “You can return then. In the meantime, you will go to the elves, while I try to stave off this disaster. In all honesty, your arrival has made things worse. Just do as you’re told. I have more pressing concerns than your safety at this moment.”
“What concerns could that possibly be?” Cress snapped, her lip curling with anger. “If the Pinkertons arrest us, you’ll have another public trial on your hands, followed by a swift execution. Remember how close you came to war last time that happened, when Othello was on trial for treason? That’s right: I, and every dwarf in the ghetto, knew what might happen if Othello had been executed.”
Harold turned to Cress with an icy glare.
“In light of Cress’s crimes and the Anvil attacks, my father will make an announcement to all of Hominum when the dwarven recruits arrive, rescinding the rights I have managed to give the dwarves over the last decade. The child quota laws will come back, the dwarven soldiers will be stripped of their uniforms. Worse still, he will enact crippling taxes on dwarven businesses, and decree curfews so that dwarves cannot walk the streets after nightfall.”
“Why?” Fletcher uttered, the word leaving his mouth unbidden.
“Because he wants the dwarven recruits angry when they get here,” Harold growled. “Imagine a few hundred armed dwarves being told they are no longer citizens or soldiers, after a year of training and misery on the elven borders. Then they are ordered to go home before nightfall under threat of arrest, and when they get there, the Pinkertons move in, patrolling their streets and terrifying their families.”
“They would riot,” Othello said quietly. “And Alfric would call it a rebellion.”
“That’s right,” Harold said. He turned back to Cress. “Do you see? I need to prevent that from happening. It will buy me a few more days to maneuver.”
Fletcher could not believe his ears: that Alfric could be so obvious, so callous. He needed to be stopped.
“So what’s your plan?” Fletcher asked.
“Captain, if you would.” Harold leaned back in his chair, covering his eyes with one hand and gesturing to Lovett with the other, as if too exhausted to explain.
“The scrying stones,” she said, leaning across the table. “The Triumvirate gathered all of them back after your mission, connected them to a single wild Mite and then redistributed them around Hominum. Alfric plans on making his announcement through the crystals. If Harold can kill or capture the Mite, it will delay the announcement long enough for the dwarven recruits to arrive. Of course, they might rebel when they arrive anyway, but it’s a start.”
“That’s it?” Othello asked, cupping his chin in his hands.
“That’s the long and short of it,” Lovett said. “And there’s something else. Alfric will be able to transmit his voice through the crystals as well.”
This was news to Fletcher. “I thought that was impossible,” he said, his brows furrowed with confusion.
“It was, but Electra has been busy in her laboratory while you were away,” Lovett explained. “I’ve been helping her alchemy experiments.”
She reached into her pocket and tossed a scrying crystal on the table. The surface of it was tinged with black, then the image shifted to the ceiling of the library as Valens emerged from the pocket of Lovett’s uniform. He buzzed onto her shoulder, and for a moment, Fletcher heard the faintest humming from the stone. Lovett turned her head and lowered her mouth close to the Mite. Fletcher saw her lips move, heard her say: “Can you hear me?”
But the words did not just come from her mouth. They also came from the stone, and loudly. The sound was tinny and rough, but unmistakable. Lovett grinned.
“The stone vibrates at the same frequency as my voice, creating sound using the reverberations. It’s like a string on a violin. All it requires is the use of the amplify spell on the corundum crystals, and that they are charged with a small amount of mana. Of course, the charge will run out sometime, but the vibrations use up v
ery little of it.”
“I don’t know why you’re smiling,” Harold snapped. “I wish you’d never publicized your discovery. It’s the perfect propaganda machine for my father. He’s been making speeches every day about how the dwarves are behind the Anvil attacks, how they assassinated poor, innocent Rufus as a warning to us. It makes me sick.”
“I only wish we’d had that ability before,” Fletcher groaned. “Everyone would have heard Jeffrey’s confession.”
Sylva stood. She had been sitting in silence for the last few minutes, but now her mouth was half-open, and her eyes were bright in the dim firelight.
“There is a way,” she breathed. “It could solve everything.”
Fletcher stared at her, unable to believe what he was hearing. What idea could she possibly have?
“You don’t need the generals,” Sylva continued, turning her gaze onto Harold. “Or the nobility. You need the people.”
“What do you mean?” Harold said. “What people?”
“Why do you think Alfric needs to make these speeches?” Sylva asked. “Why did he and the Triumvirate send Jeffrey to frame Cress; why did they set those bombs? Because he needs the people of Hominum on his side. The soldiers, the farmers, the blacksmiths, the miners, the factory workers. They are the sinews of war. Do you think that he could license the wholesale slaughter of the dwarves without their support? Without this lie he has fabricated?”
Harold stared at Sylva, his face expressionless; the only sign of emotion the gentle flexing of his jaw as he gritted his teeth.
“It’s true,” he said finally. “Of course it’s true. If the people thought the dwarves were innocent, that they had been duped, they would never allow this behavior to continue, or the perpetrators to go unpunished.”
He stopped, as if surprised by his own words.
“But what do you expect me to do?” He sighed. “Make my own announcement, show them the journal? My father has his spies watch me at all times, and tomorrow night I am to officially confirm Seraph’s and Didric’s noble houses at a ball. There’s no way I could slip away and get to the Mite undetected.”