chapter THIRTY
Corin’s knee still twinged. His head pounded, and everything ached, but he was strong enough to walk. He pushed through the underbrush along the riverbank, climbing higher, and soon he broke free onto a narrow walking path. As he went, he worried at the questions he’d encountered underground. What was this place? What was this city, with its twisted fate? He traced the strange path of his journey here, considered all the strange events, and the more he thought on them, the more certain he became that there was some guiding force behind it. Some manipulating hand.
That thought lit a fire in his gut and drove him forward. He followed the secret footpath back to the winemaker’s shop, and this time he spent no time on subterfuge. He strolled through the back door, waved a greeting to the startled owner, and then went out onto the plaza near the palace.
Everything had changed. The crowd was pressing hard against the north gates, rattling the iron bars and shouting cheers while they watched Ephitel’s mansion burn. Corin scanned the crowd for some sign of Maurelle or the druids, but he found none. He did find evidence of Ephitel’s handiwork. There were bruises everywhere, bleeding wounds and black eyes where Ephitel’s guards had responded to the mob. Corin saw the fist-sized stones littering the courtyard, and he marveled that the crowd hadn’t flung them back. The people of Gesoelig were too kind.
There was no sign of Ephitel or his guards now, only rioters flush with victory, marveling at the bonfire atop the hill. That was no sure victory, though. Not while the wretched prince was still alive. Corin left them cheering and headed for the bridge.
When he reached it, soldiers barred his way. They did not seem hostile—not Ephitel’s men, then—but they were stout and they watched the thick black smoke with nervous eyes. Corin approached them at a stroll, trying hard to look uninteresting despite his limp. Despite the bundle in his arms and his mud-slick hair and clothes. He must have looked a sickly pauper, and the guards responded automatically with raised eyebrows and lowered pikes.
“Halt!” cried their commander. “The bridge is closed. No one’s to pass until that mess is sorted out.”
Corin went straight to him, heedless of the iron spear points aimed his way. “I’m on a mission for the king. He bade me bring him this—” he raised the bundle “—with every haste.”
The commander shook his head. “Orders were clear. No one’s to cross the bridge.”
Corin ground his teeth. “Very well. Send a messenger for me.”
The commander shook his head. “Come back tomorrow.”
“If I wait till then, we’ll all be rotting corpses,” Corin growled. “I have the answers you are waiting for. I can explain what happened over there, and I bring news of far worse things than that! Send someone to the king to tell him Corin Hugh—”
“You’re Corin Hugh?”
The burst of excitement in the soldier’s voice took Corin aback. He nodded slowly. “Aye.”
“You should have said! I didn’t recognize you under all that mud. Come through! Let him on through!”
Corin went mechanically, still shocked that it could be so easy. “Oberon’s expecting me? The king will see me?”
“Oh, not much chance of that. The king’s in a right pique. But you can wait with Lady Delaen and the others. They said you would be coming.”
Lady Delaen. The name curled Corin’s lip.
But the commander didn’t seem to notice. He frowned, lost in thought. “Where’s the other two?”
“They’ll be here shortly,” Corin said. “Send them on through, even if they’re dirty.”
The commander chuckled, his cheeks a little red. “I will. I will. I’ll see it done. But you go on to the Midnight Grotto. That is where they’re waiting.”
“To where?”
“Oh! Ha. She said you’d need a guide. Pothamer! Show the man the way, and make it quick. We wouldn’t want to keep the druids waiting.”
The Midnight Grotto proved to be the same chamber Corin and the others had ducked into before to hide from Ephitel. Corin’s escort pointed out the doorway, clearly hesitant to approach the room, and when Corin nodded understanding, the soldier turned and scurried back toward the bridge.
Corin watched him go, then steeled himself and slipped into the room. His gaze went to the distant corner, where delicious-smelling fruit had grown before, but now the bushes were picked bare. Corin sighed and turned himself to business.
Maurelle was there, and Corin was glad of that. The lady’s hair was disheveled, her sleeve ripped, and a scrape across her temple was just now beginning to bruise.
She was not alone. Aemilia was there as well, stretched out on the grassy floor, apparently asleep. And there, of course, was Delaen, expression grim beneath that stark white hair. She was watching Corin with appraising eyes, and as he considered her, he felt a rising tide of anger.
He stalked toward her. “Good morning, druid. You won’t—”
Maurelle wrecked his stormy entrance. As soon as she turned his way, she screamed, “Corin! You’re alive!” and wrapped him in a crushing hug.
“I’m alive,” he said, smoothing down her hair. “And Avery as well.”
“Where is Avery? And Kellen?”
“Together,” Corin said, not yet prepared to tell that tale. “In a cavern underneath the Piazza Autunno.”
Delaen spoke up. “There is no cavern under the piazza.”
“There is now,” Corin said.
Maurelle gasped in shock.
Corin nodded. “Ephitel’s handiwork. Just one of many ugly surprises he had planned.”
Delaen narrowed her eyes. “I hear a note of accusation in your voice, but I cannot guess what you mean to imply.”
Corin pushed away from Maurelle so he could face the druid. “Then I will tell you plainly. I begin to see a guiding hand at my every turn. Someone sent me to the Piazza Primavera at just the right moment to encounter the sister of Avery of Jesalich. Someone helped me when I went to rescue Avery. Someone arranged for me to pass the blockade on the palace bridge—”
Delaen tossed her hair. “If you object to friendly aid—”
“You do not aid me,” Corin said. “You use me like a puppet—like a blacksmith’s hammer—and I grow tired of the pounding.”
The druid frowned. “I don’t underst—”
“You sent me to the king! You told me what to say. You promised it would get me home, but instead he sent me on an errand.”
“The king has unpredictable—”
“No!” Corin snapped. “You did this to me! From the moment I arrived in this city, someone has been twisting my fate. One of your druids took me in? Oh, and just as Ephitel was at her shop? You showed me his tyranny. You gave me over to one of his pretty, pitiful victims—”
Maurelle squeaked in objection, but Corin paid no mind. He felt a throbbing fever in his temples, and he gave it vent.
“You handed me to Avery, whom I’ve admired since I was a child. You paired me with a noble warrior badly used. You primed me like a pistol so that Oberon could fire me upon your foes.”
Delaen arched an eyebrow. “Are you opposed to fighting Ephitel?”
“This is not my war! I only wanted to go home. But you have broken me.”
“I have done nothing,” Delaen said. “I could not arrange a tenth of what you say.”
“So it is chance? Pure chance I met the ancient father of the only dwarf I know in all the world? All my life I’ve walked with fortune near at hand, but even I cannot believe…what?”
The shock and fear in Delaen’s eyes stole Corin’s fury. He trailed off, then asked again, “What have I said?”
“I could not arrange these things,” Delaen said, her voice far off. “But there is one who could.”
Corin didn’t have to consider long. “Oberon?”
“Oberon. His will can tug the threads of fortune. He has been known to twist a fate.”
“I am done with being twisted,” Corin snapped.
“Then on your own, you would not have challenged Ephitel?”
“I never would have dreamed to! No!”
“And now that you have dreamed?”
Corin’s chest heaved, but he could not easily answer that question. He furrowed his brow, thinking hard, and when he spoke his voice rang hollow to his own ear. “That is why I rage. My heart is mine. It is not yours to manipulate, and it is not Oberon’s.”
“But you do not want to fight Ephitel?”
“I want to see him dead!” Corin shouted. “Like I have wanted nothing else in all my life. I want to kill that wretched snake…”
“And yet?”
“This is not my home. This is not my world at all. You have abducted me, and I may never see my home again.”
“Or Iryana,” Maurelle said, speaking to Delaen. “That’s what really troubles him. He loves her, and she does seem something wonderful.”
“I barely know her,” Corin growled. “But I owe her a debt. I should be focusing on that. I should be back in my own time.”
Delaen came forward and laid a gentle hand on Corin’s arm. Her voice was just as soft. “But you are here. It must be for a reason. If Oberon brought you here, he has a plan.”
“He’s mad!” Corin shouted. “I’ve spoken with him once, and his is not a wisdom I would trust to rule a household, let alone a kingdom. Let alone a world!”
“The elves do not think as we think—”
“He doesn’t think at all! He is a fool.”
“He is under such a strain.”
“And still he plays these games. Still he shuns his dedicated friends. Why are you waiting in this room while rebellion builds? Why won’t he grant an audience even to you?”
“He must have his reasons. We bide until—”
“No,” Corin said. “We bide no more. This kingdom is about to tear in pieces. I won’t just sit here.”
He headed for the throne room, and both women trailed after him. “I’ve told you,” Maurelle said, “it’s no use to try. You can’t get in unless they let you.”
“They will let me,” Corin growled. “I’ve brought a present.”
Maurelle brightened. “Oh? Did you bring the sword? That’s what we were waiting for.”
“Games,” Corin grumbled. “His head is on the block and he plays games!”
Corin burst around the corner onto the landing overlooking Oberon’s distant throne. The king was seated there, but he sprang to his feet as soon as he saw Corin, hope glowing like starlight in his eyes. One glance told him Corin didn’t have the sword, and that spark died as quickly as it had kindled. He clapped his hands together, no words spoken, and the courtiers formed their unbroken wall, locking Corin out.
Delaen sighed, clearly disappointed. “This is why we wait. You should have brought the sword.”
“I brought something better,” Corin said. He drew his bundle, shook the rags loose from Ogden’s pistol, and raised it overhead. He fired straight into the air.
The powder flashed unnaturally bright, flaring red and angry in the living cavern. The thunder crack rolled out, breaking all the careful decorum of the synchronized courtiers. Some screamed. Some fainted. No one held his ground. They broke apart like ocean swell against a ship’s bow, peeling back in a frenzy until a path opened between Corin and the throne. The king alone stood unmoved.
He stared at Corin across the gap, then raised his voice. “Ethan Blake never owned a sword like that.”
“No, he didn’t,” Corin called back. “But Ephitel did. And he has more.” He held the monster’s gaze for one heavy heartbeat, then he started down toward the throne. “Clear the court. It’s time we had a talk.”