chapter NINETEEN
Panting, lungs and throat both burning, Corin found his feet. He moved with practiced efficiency, checking pulses, searching for weapons, and sliding the bodies out of sight. The crossbow lay in pieces where it had smashed against the wall, but Corin stole the younger soldier’s rapier and scooped up Kellen’s from where Ephitel had dropped it.
The younger jailer was still breathing, though he showed no signs of waking soon. Corin dragged him to the farthest cell and bound him with the shackles he removed from Maurelle’s wrists. Then he locked the door, recovered his lockpicks and other effects from the table in the corner, and turned his attention to the other men.
Avery still leaned against the bars, where he had been when he threw the knife. But he had fallen to his knees, and he was trembling. The fancy gentleman had gone all pale, and he was gibbering beneath his breath.
Corin turned the key in his cell door and approached to lay a hand on his shoulder. “It’s easy to call a man a coward who hesitates to do what you’ve just done,” Corin said.
Avery turned his stricken gaze to Corin. Tears shone in his eyes.
Corin nodded. “Then you do it once, and you think differently. Stick to sleight of hand. Leave the murder to crooks and kings.”
Avery flinched at the word murder, but a moment later he drew a shuddering breath and began to pull himself together. Corin left him to that task and went to gather Kellen.
To his surprise, the yeoman was in no such state. Perhaps his face was paler, perhaps his brow a little drawn, but he accepted his sword belt calmly and buckled it around his waist. “Corin, take the lead. You three go in single file. Pretend your wrists are bound. I’ll come along behind like I’m your escort. My uniform should be enough to get us past the other wardens as long as we move quickly.”
He stopped talking when he noticed the surprise on Corin’s face. The yeoman nodded in recognition and said simply, “For the king.”
“For the king,” Corin echoed. He turned to Maurelle and Avery. “Are you ready?”
They nodded, though without much vigor. Gone was the naive thrill that had lit the lady’s eyes. Gone the condescending pride that had stiffened the lord’s spine. Now they both looked apprehensive of the real risks they faced. But neither one broke down. Neither one gave up.
Corin offered them a soldier’s salute, then turned and led them away. He held his breath as they approached the first landing, every muscle tensed, and he jumped when Kellen shouted from below him, “Prisoner transfer! Three to go before the king!”
But the wardens at their stations merely turned away when they saw the yeoman’s uniform. Up and out the prisoners marched, unchallenged even when they left the carriage yard. Someone called a gibe at Kellen, but he went stoically ahead, and somehow, as a brilliant dawn exploded over the strange city, Corin found himself at liberty upon the palace grounds.
They left the cobbled, siegeproof prison yard and emerged into a wider barracks, surrounded on all sides by a high stone wall lined with long, low buildings and spotted with roped-off yards where soldiers trained in combat. Kellen led them on a beeline across the barracks and toward another inner gate in the stone wall. The silver palace climbed high into the sky just beyond that wall.
But when they passed through the arch, they stepped into a luscious garden. Living things were everywhere, bright and beautiful and dancing to a gentle song woven of a thousand pleasant noises. Water rolled and leaves fluttered and singing birds gave voice. It was a park drawn out of dreams.
Corin could scarce enjoy it. His eyes darted, searching ceaselessly for some sign of threat. He sought the palace, too, expecting another carriage yard or some broad, marbled boulevard approaching its high doors. Then, through a gap in the thick green canopy above, he happened to glance up and see the shining gold-and-silver walls directly overhead.
He jerked his gaze back down, expecting to see walls within a pace or two, but there was only the flowered path. On the left, a handful of lords and ladies lounged around a quiet pool fed by a babbling brook. Ahead and to the right, a pair of guards in uniform stood in quiet conversation, but they paid the prisoners no mind.
They left the sentry guards behind, and when Corin judged it safe, he slowed his pace so he could ask Maurelle, “Where is the palace?”
She frowned at him. “Here!” Her gaze drifted, and as it roamed, the anxiety drained from her expression. A wistful ease settled in its place.
Corin risked a glance back at Kellen and hissed, “This is not a palace! This is a bower!”
Kellen shook his head. “This is the court of Oberon. What else would you expect of the king of fairies?”
Slowly, Kellen’s meaning sank in. There was no handiwork of man here. There were no walls or doors, though the glamour of a kingly castle hung over the place. Still, Corin saw the avenues among the elms, the corridors and sitting rooms laid out by hedge and creeping vine. He even saw a banquet hall, where willow branches twisted together overhead, and a single sprawling granite slab made a table for a host of hungry lords.
He walked the halls of Oberon’s living palace and wondered what manner of king he would find upon its throne.
Kellen interrupted Corin’s awe with a curt command. “Take her arm.”
“What?”
“Take Maurelle’s arm. You’re her plaything.”
Corin and Avery responded in perfect time. “What?”
Kellen rolled his eyes. “We can drop the act of prisoners now. It’s only making you conspicuous. But Corin should take Maurelle’s arm—”
“I will be her escort,” Avery insisted.
“No,” Maurelle answered, just as stern. “We two together would be recognized. The House of Violets is out of favor. But if you do not draw attention…”
“I can hardly hide my face,” Avery said.
“Turn it to Kellen,” Corin suggested, while he offered his arm to Maurelle. “Share a quiet conversation. It makes a good excuse for ducking, and if you look engaged, even those who recognize you are less likely to interrupt.”
Avery stopped, stunned. For a long moment he favored Corin with an appraising gaze, but then he started walking again. “You have a gift, manling. I would fain know where you learned these things.”
From the Nimble Fingers at Aepoli, Corin thought, but he kept that to himself. He leaned his head toward Maurelle. “Can you lead us to Oberon?”
“In my sleep. In my fairest dreams.” She sighed, content. “It’s just this way.”
Corin let her lead him while he discreetly strained to hear the conversation between Avery and Kellen. He’d feared another trade of jabs that he would have to interrupt, but instead he heard a heartfelt question from Avery.
“What manner of man draws duty in the lowest of the dungeons? That whole floor was empty until we arrived.”
Corin winced at the question, for he could guess the answer.
And Kellen did nothing to soften the blow. “Heroes who deserve a spot of rest. And fools who cannot be trusted anywhere else. Most often, there is one of each.”
They walked ten paces in gloomy silence, until Corin feared he would need to remind them of their ruse. But Kellen spoke again. “A fortnight gone, I was the useless fool.”
“You have not been useless today,” Avery said. “You have given us our freedom. I…I regret the things I said before.”
Kellen grunted. “I require no apology. What I do now, I do for the king. It seems you do as well. That is all I need to know.”
Four more paces passed in silence. Then Maurelle squeaked a tiny, startled, “Oh!” and Corin moved on instinct. He tugged her off the path, slapping Kellen’s chest as he passed. By the sound of it, Avery was the first to understand, driving Kellen after Corin with a rustle and a grunt.
They darted into one of the verdant sitting rooms, a wide, low grotto beneath the canopy, spotted here and there with trees and bushes bearing aromatic fruits. Corin darted from the entryway and down the hedge to peek back out upon the path. Avery joined him right away while the other two hovered nervously behind him.
Through a narrow gap in the interwoven branches, Corin watched Lord Ephitel come storming down the palace corridor. He had a lieutenant at his elbow, and as he stomped along, Ephitel rattled off orders the lieutenant couldn’t hope to keep track of. Ephitel spoke of dwarves and regiments and writs of provender, but between every irritated order, he paused to curse the druids and the king.
Corin grinned at that. The prince would add more names to that list when he learned what had happened in the dungeons, but for now he hadn’t spotted them. Corin watched Ephitel pass their quiet grotto, never slowing, too distracted by his irritation.
“Fortune favors us again,” Corin said. “Now come, let us see the king.”