One of the assassins moved toward Catherine, dagger held low. She backed away, heart thumping with terror. Then, impossibly, Ambrose was beside her, sword in hand. He flashed a glance at her, long enough to check she was unharmed, then darted forward, his blade a blur as he cut down her assailant.
The king was still on the floor, blood running from his back, but more guards were pouring into the room now, and the assassins were being driven off. Catherine pressed herself into a doorway, trying to keep out of the way.
Ambrose advanced on the assassins. “Drop your weapons.”
One of the men spat at him. “We’d rather die, traitor. And we’ll take you with us.” He rushed forward with one of his comrades. Catherine was safe in her doorway, but Sarah was standing closer, frozen with fear, and one assassin stepped to her and slashed her across the neck with a dagger as he passed. She looked at Catherine and clutched her neck as blood spurted through her fingers.
Catherine screamed as Sarah’s body fell to the ground, a pool of blood growing around her face. Keeping low, Catherine ran to her maid. Sarah’s mouth moved, but no words came, just a dribble of blood.
Ambrose sidestepped his attacker and chopped down into the man’s shoulder, almost severing his arm, before whirling his sword round in a reverse sweep that took off another attacker’s head.
Catherine was shaking. She felt like she might be sick. Sarah’s body was pale and surrounded by a pool of dark blood. Her own hands and clothes were sticky with it. Then Ambrose was beside her, hugging her close, and then forcing her to look into his face. “You’re safe now, Your Highness. You’re safe.”
“Sarah. They killed Sarah.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
She clung to his arm as more guards ran in, bending over the king and shouting for a surgeon.
“Is he alive?” she asked.
But no one answered. There were bodies everywhere Catherine looked. Purple-haired guards and black-clothed assassins. Ambrose guided her to a chair. “You’re shaking.”
They sat together as a surgeon arrived and the king was hurriedly lifted from the floor and carried into his bedchamber.
Her father had done this. Killed all these people. Killed Sarah.
Then another of the king’s men arrived and took charge, ordering the bodies be removed. Ambrose wanted to look at the faces of the assassins, but he was reluctant to leave Catherine even for a few moments.
“I’m just shaken. But I know I’m safe, Ambrose. Do all you can to help.”
Catherine watched him as he walked among the bodies. How many dead were there? Too many. Again she looked over at Sarah. Catherine couldn’t think at all. Couldn’t get her body to move. She could only look. There was nothing else to do.
Ambrose came back to sit with her. “Two are Noyes’s men; the rest are Boris’s.”
“All are my father’s men. He’s responsible.”
As Catherine shivered and shook, Sir Rowland arrived.
“Thank goodness you’re safe, Your Highness. The lord chamberlain told me you were here. He said the king had been attacked.”
Sir Rowland was pale and his jacket was slashed—not because of the Pitorian fashion. It had blood on it too.
Ambrose answered, “Yes. The king is badly hurt. But what happened to you?”
“I was in the great hall for the feast, when men arrived dressed in black. They attacked the guests and the servants . . . anyone in their way. There are many dead. Five of the lords at the feast have been killed, twelve wounded, and many servants, all unarmed. It was a massacre.” Sir Rowland had tears in his eyes.
Catherine swallowed hard. “Tzsayn and I were meant to be in that room. It should have been our wedding banquet. Do you think they’d have tried to kill Tzsayn if he was here?”
Sir Rowland nodded grimly. “I do, Your Highness.”
“They would have killed me too then.” Her father and her brother.
“Boris probably intended to take you back to Brigane.”
Catherine shook her head. “No. They had no thought for me at all. Me or my maids.”
Catherine stood as Ambrose backed respectfully away. She’d known Sarah for six years. Sarah—the most sensible, most reasonable, most calm of her maids—had been cut down like an animal. Suddenly she wanted to be far from that room, safe with Jane and Tanya.
Sir Rowland said, “The assailants were all Boris’s and Noyes’s men. None have been caught alive.”
“And Boris?”
“There’s a search out for him, his men, and Noyes. If they are clever, and Noyes is nothing if not clever, they will already be out of the city and on their way to the coast. This was all well planned; they’ll have their escape route thought through.”
Catherine turned to Ambrose. “And this attack confirms that the invasion in the north is true.”
“What?” asked Sir Rowland.
Ambrose briefly explained. “This—all this—the wedding, everything, is a diversion. Aloysius is invading Pitoria even as we speak. That is why Tzsayn left.”
Sir Rowland shook his head. “Why am I surprised?”
“Fortunately Tzsayn is unhurt, and riding north to repel the invasion,” said Ambrose. “Many of the lords are still alive too, and with luck the king will survive.”
“But if he doesn’t”—Sir Rowland looked at Catherine—“you will be in great danger, Your Highness.”
“I’m already in danger. I came here with Boris,” Catherine said, her voice low and furious. “I brought him and fifty other assassins into the royal palace. If the king dies, I will be blamed. People will think I was party to the plan. I’ve won many people over, but I’ll lose all that favor faster than I gained it if there’s a war with my father. We must go to Tzsayn. We’ll only be safe with him.”
“Run, you mean?” Ambrose looked concerned. “But they will think you’re guilty.”
“Everything I’ve done makes me look guilty. For now, I need to be with Tzsayn.”
“He’ll be halfway to Rossarb. It’s a long hard ride.”
“I can ride well enough, you know that.”
“And your maids? They’ll not be safe here either.”
Catherine nodded. “We all go.”
MARCH
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
HOLYWELL WAS in a foul mood and he was forcing the pace. They had covered little distance over the last few days as they crossed a flat expanse of icy rock riddled with gaps. Some gaps were narrow enough to step over, others were not, and all that could be done was to go along, or back, until a way through could be found. The wind was harsher and colder. Thankfully they were now in the shelter of the thin trees, but they had been five days on the plateau, food was running low, and the cold was relentless.
“Look!” March pointed to a large fallen tree just to their left. It was dead and rotting, with broken branches scattered around. Most of the wood was dry and perfect for the fire. He called to Holywell, “There’s plenty of wood here. We can load the pony up.”
Holywell, who was leading the pony, didn’t even turn, but muttered something to Edyon.
Edyon hesitated, then ran over to March.
“What did he say?” March asked.
“Something about the noise carrying and that if you didn’t stop shouting he’d use you for harpoon practice.”
March hadn’t shouted very loud, but sound did seem to carry a long way here in the still air.
“And I think he wants me to do the job of the pony.” Edyon smiled.
“We’re all supposed to stay together and we’re all supposed to collect wood.” March set his harpoon down. He said, “If you load up my arms with the bigger pieces, then bring the harpoons, Your Highness, we’ll have enough wood for tonight.”
Though if Holywell had stopped, they would have had enough for two nights.
Edyon piled the wood up to March’s chin and asked, “More?”
“Yes. Thank you, Your Highness.”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling me that, March. We’re traveling companions and fugitives from the law together.” Edyon picked up a couple of branches and the harpoons. “And wood collectors.”
March half smiled. “But I am a servant and you are the son of a prince.”
“Yet hardly princely material.” Edyon sighed. “What do you think my father will make of me?”