Leesha had to hurry to keep pace as Araine led the way through the women’s wing of the palace. She was so used to the Duchess Mum’s doddering invalid act, this seemed another woman entirely.
Something is very wrong, Leesha realized, for her to have dropped the performance out in the open hall.
She smelled him the moment she entered the chambers. Araine had opened the windows and filled the room with fresh flowers, but the stench was unmistakable, even in the outer room. She felt a twinge behind her left eye, and knew it had just triggered a headache that would have her whimpering in bed by day’s end.
Briar waited in the receiving room, looking—and smelling—even filthier than last time. There was blood on his clothes, still wet from slogging through melted snow. What she could see of his flesh was covered in scrapes and bruises.
Leesha went to him, swallowing a gag. Pain blossomed behind her eye, and she swallowed that, too, searching him for injuries.
The boy was haggard, as if he hadn’t slept in a week. His feet were bloody and blistered, but there was no infection. The rest of his injuries looked painful, but superficial.
“What happened?” she asked him.
Briar’s eyes flicked to Araine, and it was she who answered as Leesha continued to tend the boy.
“Thamos led an attack to retake Docktown,” Araine said. “A joint effort with Lakton and the Rizonan resistance.”
“Why wasn’t I told of this?” Leesha demanded.
“Because I don’t trust you where the Krasians are concerned,” Araine said, bluntly. “You would have opposed the attack.”
Leesha folded her arms. “And what has Your Grace’s brilliant military strategy accomplished?”
“We lost,” Briar said quietly, and began to weep.
Leesha reached for him instinctively, breathing through her mouth and holding the boy as he cried, tears leaving streaks in the mud and hogroot resin staining his cheeks. A thousand questions swirled about her, but at the moment only one mattered.
“Where is Thamos?” she asked.
Still weeping, Briar shook his head. He reached into his robe, pulling out a folded bit of paper, stained and filthy. “Told me to give you this.”
“Eh?” Araine asked. Briar had obviously left this out of his initial report.
Leesha took the paper in shaking hands. The words, written in haste, were smeared, but in Thamos’ unmistakable hand.
The message was short:
My Darling Leesha,
I forgive you. I love you.
Doubt anything, but do not doubt that.
Thamos
Leesha read it three times, vision clouding as her eyes filled with tears. The sob burst from her despite her best efforts, and she dropped the paper, covering her face. Briar moved to her, holding her much as she had him.
Araine bent and snatched the paper from the ground, grunting as she read it.
“Will they even give us back his body to bury?” Leesha asked.
Araine pulled her shawl tighter and moved to the window, staring at the gray winter sky. “I expect an emissary will be sent from Krasia soon. If they demand money, we’ll give it to them, no matter the cost.”
“They don’t want money,” Leesha said. “They want war.”
Araine turned and met Leesha’s eyes. “If that’s what they want, we’ll give them that, too. No matter the cost.”
The Krasian emissary came two weeks later, a single dama, escorted by two dal’Sharum. The palace guards confiscated their weapons, eyeing them with open hostility, but the Krasians exuded the infuriating confidence of their people, acting no less haughty unarmed and surrounded by enemies than in their center of power.
Leesha watched them from the royal box, a row of seats behind the throne’s dais. The sun was low in the sky, beneath the high windows of the throne room. The natural light was dim, and her warded spectacles could dimly see their smug auras.
With her were the Duchess Mum, Wonda, and Princess Lorain of Miln. Melny’s flow had still not come, and Araine had forbid her to attend.
This was the first time Leesha had seen the Milnese princess since the news of the Krasian victory. Like Araine, Lorain had known of the attack in advance. Lord Sament was to ride beside Thamos as his cavalry led the charge, and there had been no word of him since.
Lorain had vanished into her heavily guarded embassy, Mountain Spears patrolling the walls and grounds until news of the emissary came. She seemed to have aged in those days. There were dark circles around her eyes that even paint and powder could not fully conceal, but at their center, her stare was hard.
Rhinebeck and his brothers glared down from their dais, but the Krasians were uncowed. The dama strode forward boldly, followed by the Sharum carrying a large lacquered box between them.
Guards stopped the dama before he could halve the distance to the throne, and the man gave a shallow bow. “I am Dama Gorja. I bear a message from my master, and speak with his voice.”
He unrolled a large parchment, beginning to read:
“Greetings Rhinebeck the Third, Duke of Angiers, in the Year of Everam 3784—
“I testify before Everam that you have broken faith with the Creator and His children on Ala, attacking on sacred Waning in the night, when all men are brothers. In accordance with Evejan law, you must die for this.”
There were angry rumbles through the court at that, but Dama Gorja ignored them, continuing to read:
“But Everam’s mercy is infinite, and His divine justice need not extend to your people, with whom we have ever wished only friendship and brotherhood. Set your affairs in order and kill yourself for ordering this abomination. On the first day of spring, your successor will deliver your head to me and be allowed to touch his forehead to the carpet at my feet. Do this, and your people will be spared. Fail, and we will hold all Angiers responsible, and bring Everam’s infinite justice down upon you all.
“I await your response—Jayan asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Kaji, Sharum Ka of Krasia, Lord of Everam’s Reservoir, firstborn son and rightful heir of Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, also known as Shar’Dama Ka, the Deliverer.”
Rhinebeck’s face was bright red as the dama looked up from the parchment. “You expect me to kill myself?!”
Dama Gorja bowed. “If you love your people and wish them to remain untouched by your crime. But even in the south, it is known that Duke Rhinebeck is fat, corrupt, and seedless, a khaffit who does not deserve his throne. My master expects you to refuse, and invite Everam’s divine wrath.”
“Everam has no sway here, Dama,” Shepherd Pether said.
Dama Gorja bowed. “Apologies, Highness, but Everam holds sway everywhere.”
Rhinebeck looked like he was choking on a chicken bone, his thick-jowled face nearly purple. “Where is my brother’s body?” he demanded.
“Ah, yes,” Dama Gorja said, snapping his fingers. The two Sharum approached the throne with their lacquered box.
Leesha felt a mounting dread as that box drew closer. Janson and half a dozen Wooden Soldiers intercepted it before they made it to the steps, and the Sharum stood impassively as the first minister looked inside.
“Night!” Janson cried, turning away in horror. He snatched a kerchief from his pocket, heaving into it.
“Bring it here,” Rhinebeck commanded, and two of his guards took the box up to the throne. Pether and Mickael stood from their seats, stepping up to see as Rhinebeck opened the box.
Mickael gasped, and Pether heaved. He was not as fast as Janson, catching the bile on his hand and the front of his pristine robes. Rhinebeck only looked coldly at the contents, then waved the box away.
“I’ll see that box, Wonda,” Araine said.
“Ay, Mum,” Wonda said, and she intercepted the guards, steering them to the royal box.
Janson rushed to her. “Your Grace, I do not advise …”
But Araine ignored him, opening the box. Leesha stood quickly. She had already guessed the contents, but the had to see it for herself. The horror inside was what she expected, but worse.
Inside were two great sealed jars of warded glass, filled with what looked like camel’s piss. In one floated Thamos’ head, the other, Lord Sament’s. Thamos’ genitals had been severed and shoved in his mouth. Sament’s mouth was filled with dung.
The sight cut through her like a demon’s talons, but she had hardened her heart, and gave no sign of her pain. Lorain, too, had more anger in her gaze than horror.
The same could not be said for Araine. Leesha had seldom seen a hint of emotion from the woman, but this was too much for even her regal aura to bear. Leesha watched her powerful spirit collapse as she reached out and took the jar with Thamos’ head, clutching it tightly as she wept.
“Guards!” Rhinebeck shouted. “Drag these desert rats to the dungeons!”
Dama Gorja’s aura changed at the words, his smug arrogance changing to a thrill of victory. He had been hoping for this response. Goading it, even.
Gorja bowed deeply to the dais. “Thank you, Highness. I was prepared to simply leave, as it is written in the Evejah that an emissary is as a man in the night, inviolate. Even in your heathen culture, these rights are granted a Messenger. As your guest, I could not honorably strike at you.” He smiled. “But since you choose to compound your crime, I am free to kill you myself.”
Rhinebeck’s snort of derision caught in his throat as Gorja whipped around, driving the heel of his hand into the nose of the closest guard. Cartilage crumpled and bone shattered, the shrapnel driven into his brain. Leesha saw his aura wink out, and he fell to the floor, dead.
The two Sharum exploded into action as well, breaking bones and bending joints in directions they were not meant to go.
Dama Gorja was at the steps of the dais by then, moving with impossible speed. Janson produced a knife from somewhere, but Gorja caught his wrist and pulled, hardly slowing his stride as he flipped the first minister onto his back on the hard stairs and continued.
He could have taken the knife, Leesha knew, but Evejan clerics were forbidden to use bladed weapons. Gorja needed no weapon in any event. His aura flared brightly when he began his attack. There was magic at work.
In an eyeblink, the dama was on Rhinebeck, landing heavy blows. The duke’s aura had already winked out as the force of the leap tipped the great chair back. Gorja took no chances, continuing to punch as he rode it down atop the duke. By the time they hit the dais floor, Rhinebeck’s head looked like a melon cast from the South Tower.