Something dark eclipsed the sun; a sound like the sky tearing split the dusk.
The Han’s blade went spinning away, missing Lastleaf by mere inches, and Obolon’s feet scissored madly as the wyvern’s jaws snapped shut over his head. For just a moment Clay could hear the Han’s screams echo down the monster’s throat, until, with a wet crunch, Obolon’s torso was ripped free from his legs. The wyvern spread her wings and tipped her head back. Clay would have sworn he saw her throat bulge as the Cartean (well, half of him anyway) was forced down her gullet.
There was shouting—the din of general panic—among the gathered delegates, but no one actually moved. Even the Han’s Ravenguard seemed rooted to the spot, too afraid to draw their bows lest the wyvern single them out next.
Lastleaf was on his rump, apparently dazed, likely grappling with the fact that all his careful schemes had, for the space of a heartbeat, seemed as fragile as a spider’s web at the mercy of the wind. His long ears had gone limp. He raked red-gold hair from his eyes as he scrambled to his feet, then reached back and withdrew the topmost sword from its scabbard. The blade looked as though it were made of sun-baked stone laced with igneous cracks. The air around it shimmered with searing heat.
By now, however, most everyone on the hill had recovered from the shock of Obolon’s death. The druin spared a snarl for Gabriel before he turned, coat whirling at his knees, and stalked beneath the wyvern’s outstretched wing.
He shouted, “Ashatan!” and the creature stooped so Lastleaf could grasp hold of a spine and haul himself onto her back.
The wyvern’s powerful legs propelled her upward. Her wings thrashed the air as she soared out of bowshot, and Clay could smell her stink in his nostrils, a scent like carrion bloating in still water.
The Isle, meanwhile, dissolved into pandemonium. Pike’s warriors were scuffling with a number of Doshi’s pirates. The Han’s men scattered, racing toward their shrieking mounts. The Sultana’s Kaskars ushered her palanquin away; the storm-wracked sails of her skyship crackled and the tidal engines whirred to life. Crossbow turrets along its rails were aimed at the darkening sky.
Clay looked to his friends. “We should probably … what?” he asked. “Moog, what is it?”
Gabe’s eyes were skyward still, but the wizard was gawping downhill. Clay followed his gaze, and at first didn’t know what exactly he was seeing. Lights like blue-white candles were flickering all across Lindmoor, coalescing into the shape of …
Men. Or the ghosts of men. There were hundreds of them, and hundreds more sparking to life among the shadowed eaves to the east.
Clay decided now was a good time to conclude his earlier thought. “We should go,” he said.
“Matrick!” screeched Lilith, clinging tightly to her bodyguard’s arm.
The king, in a vain attempt to keep the peace, had wedged himself between a Kaskar twice his height and a Phantran with anchor-shaped tears tattooed on her cheek. “Yes, dear?” he asked, before catching sight of the wights glowing in the fen below. “Oh.”
He managed to extricate himself and ordered his guardsmen escort them, with haste, to the river. As their party rushed down the southern slope, Matrick fell in step with his bandmates. “I may be stabbing at spectres here, but I’d say the Council was a spectacular fucking failure.”
“Speaking of spectres …” Clay cast a wary eye at the iridescent figures plodding past them on either side, converging slowly on the Isle. “Should we be worried?”
“Nah,” Matrick waved a hand. “They won’t hurt us. Probably. Hopefully.” He whistled at the captain of his guard. “Let’s pick up the pace a bit, shall we?”
When Lilith swooned, overcome by exhaustion, Lokan hoisted her gallantly in his arms. When Matrick, wheezing, tripped over his own weary feet, Clay and Gabriel propped him up between them.
“Moog,” whispered the king, “do me a favour?”
“Anything,” said the wizard, drawing near.
“Kill me. Tonight.”
Chapter Fourteen
Farewell to the King
Matrick was found dead the next morning. Two physicians were summoned to the scene. The first declared that the king had drunk himself to death, while the second insisted he’d been poisoned. Shortly after a breakfast prepared by Lilith’s personal chefs, the second physician fell ill and died. The first physician wisely ruled his associate’s death a complete and utter mystery.
Clay and the others were permitted to remain in the palace, though it was made clear the queen’s hospitality would extend only until Matrick was buried. Lilith seemed eager to get the funeral under way, so the following morning they joined the royal procession as it moved in silence through the near-empty streets of Brycliffe.
A baker clapped her flour-dusted hands as the grave parade went by, and a pair of mummers paused their rehearsal to watch it pass. One of them had dyed his hair bright orange and donned a pair of ears that were likely meant to look druin but were obviously part of a rabbit costume. The other was draped in a black sheet and had rickety wings strapped to his arms.
“I thought there would be more people,” muttered Gabriel. “I’d heard he made a pretty good king.”
“Lilith didn’t tell them,” said Moog. “I heard she locked the servants up overnight and threatened to kill them if word got out the king was dead.”
“Why?” Clay asked.
“She said the crowd would slow us down, and that people would throw flowers, and that it was hard to clean flowers off cobblestone.”
“Seriously?” Clay glanced over his shoulder at the queen, sitting high and regal on her horse and laughing at something Lokan had said. “Gods, Matty sure can pick ’em, eh?”
They passed beneath a postern and followed a winding, switchback trail through the steep forest behind Brycliffe Castle. At last the procession skirted the stony shore of the river until they came to a stretch of sandy beach. Clay’s first clue that Moog’s not-so-elaborate plan to fake Matrick’s death and dig him up afterward was maybe not such a great idea after all was when the sombre march stopped at a pier and not, as was customary, in a graveyard.
A small cluster of nobility waited by the shore, and Clay sidled up to the nearest of them. “Isn’t there a … royal tomb or something?” he asked.
The man, who was holding a pristine white kerchief but seemed reluctant to tarnish it by dabbing his dripping nose, nodded. “There is—in the catacombs below the castle—but Her Grace has recently been fascinated by all things—” his eyes darted to Lokan and back “—um, northern.”
“And how do they bury kings up north?”
The nobleman looked out over the river. “I don’t think they do.”
A beautifully crafted boat was carried to the shore by a dozen strong men. Matrick’s body was laid to rest inside, rendered deathlike by a potion Moog had cooked up in the palace kitchen after the Council. His skin had gone white as bone—a perfectly natural side effect of something called shaderoot, the wizard assured them. The king’s sparse hair had been oiled back. His clothes were immaculate, and he was draped in so much gold—rings, chains, torcs, and a great gaudy crown set with precious gemstones—that Clay feared the boat might sink the moment they set it adrift. Roxy and Grace, his beloved knives, were crossed over his breast.