Kel shouted, scrambling down the tiles. He was not sure, later, what he had shouted exactly. Something like: Who are you? Who paid you to do this? Something pointless, anyway.
The assassin did not move or seem to hear Kel. A slim figure, and tall, they seemed fitted into some kind of tight black uniform, flexible as a second skin. And yet Kel could not tell if the stranger was male or female, old or young, Castellani or foreign. Only that whoever it was seemed to have no fear of heights.
As he crept closer, the dark assassin turned toward him, slowly. Kel almost yelled aloud. The stranger had no face, or none he could observe. Only a smooth and featureless dark expanse. The black uniform, whatever material it was, covered everything entirely.
And yet, somehow, he felt strongly that the stranger was smiling.
“Sword Catcher.” The voice was a low hiss. “Királar. You ruined my plans, you know. But do not be afraid. Tonight is not your night to die.”
“How reassuring,” said Kel. “And yet, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find you entirely trustworthy.”
He took another step forward. He could not tell if the figure was watching him. It had no eyes, only pools of darker shadow amid the pale shadow that was its face.
“You stand upon the threshold of history, Sword Catcher,” said the figure. “For this is the beginning of the fall of House Aurelian.”
“And are you the architect of that fall?” Kel demanded, desperation and fury hot in his veins. “Will you buy their destruction with a child’s blood?”
The figure chuckled. “The fall is all around you,” it said. “Tread carefully.”
And with unbelievable speed, the assassin caught up their crossbow and sprang. Not toward Kel, but off the roof’s edge. The dark figure seemed to hang for a moment against the moon before hurtling silently toward the ground.
Kel raced to the edge of the roof, nausea roiling his stomach as he looked down, expecting to see a body crumpled on the flagstones, dark blood pooling around it.
But there was nothing. Only the empty courtyard, the ordinary shadows, the sough of wind in the branches of the cypress trees. He moved closer to the roof’s edge—
You ruined my plans, Sword Catcher.
There must have been another crossbow bolt, one meant for Conor. Death before marriage to Sarthe. Cursing himself, Kel bolted back the way he had come.
He had only been gone a few minutes, maybe less than that. But by the time Kel returned to the Shining Gallery, everything had changed, because of Vienne.
He found out later that, a moment after Luisa’s death, Vienne had leaped onto the high table, flinging herself at a Castelguard; they went down together, and when they rose, she had his sword in her hand.
She tore through the ring of Castelguards and lunged, her body making one long line with the sword, as if it were part of her. It sliced through the nearest Skull’s throat; his head spun from his body. Blood spurted from the stump of his throat as he sank slowly to his knees, listing like a drowning ship. He hit the ground just as Vienne leaped from the dais and charged into the fray, heedless of the blood that soaked her silver slippers.
It was then that Kel came back into the gallery, racing down the stairs, his bloodstained sword in his hand. He looked first for Conor, and saw him with Jolivet. Conor’s gold coat was slashed nearly to ribbons, the white lynx-fur lining stained scarlet with blood.
But it was not his blood, not his injury. He had found a sword somewhere, and still held it. Its blade was red-black. And he was staring, as everyone in the room was staring, at Vienne d’Este.
Never before had Kel seen one of the Black Guard fight. Vienne’s sword blazed in her hand like lightning bursting from the palm of Aigon. She leaped and spun, cutting down Skull after Skull, leaving a trail of blood and innards behind her.
She was the north wind, the Wind of War. She was a comet formed of cold steel. She was Lady Death, with a blade that danced.
There seemed nothing for anyone else to do. Indeed, as Vienne fought, the Castelguards were ushering the rest of the nobility outside, through the broken doors. The room was swiftly emptying. Kel saw the Queen escorted out, with Mayesh; Lady Gremont, white-faced with shock, walked between two guards. Falconet and many of the others refused to be escorted, but instead stalked out, heads held high, as if insulted at the suggestion that this was a matter for the Castelguard now and not for them.
Conor had seen Kel, across the room. He raised a hand, beckoned to him. Kel started across the room, stepping among the bodies, the slick-drying blood on the floor.
He heard a groan. Looked down. Saw the sleeve of a torn robe, gray hair. A white beard, speckled with blood.
Gremont.
Kel knelt down by the old man, knowing instantly and terribly that there was nothing he could do. The blade of a dagger protruded from the left side of Gremont’s chest; the hilt of it had broken off, leaving only the blade, a broad sliver of steel, embedded in his body.
It was a miracle he was still breathing at all. Kel laid a hand on his shoulder. “Gremont,” he murmured, the back of his throat burning. “Gremont. It’s all right.”
Gremont’s eyes opened. They were blurred, rheumy. He looked up at Kel and said, “I told you—we had to speak. Urgent—”
He coughed. Kel stayed silent. Gremont thought he was Conor. He was not wearing his talisman, but still. It was dim and chaotic in the room, the man was dying, their eyes and hair were the same. It was understandable . . .
“Place your trust in no one,” Gremont whispered. “Not mother, not Counselor, not friend. Trust no one on the Hill. Trust only your own eyes and ears, else the Gray Serpent will come for you, too.”
The Gray Serpent? He must mean the Dark Guide, the serpent-headed boatman that met the dead at the door to the afterworld, and led them to the kingdom of Anibal.
“I did not know it would come so soon,” Gremont wheezed. “The Gods forgive me. I did not know when it would come, that it would start tonight, but I knew. They came to me—I would not—I could not—”
His wheezing choked off in a gout of blood. Numbly, Kel clutched at the old man’s shoulder. “Gremont,” Kel said. “Thank you. You have done your duty.”
If he had thought the words would comfort the old man, he had been wrong. Gremont’s eyes rolled; he plucked once at Kel’s sleeve, and died. Kel knew the moment it happened; between one breath and the next, he was gone.
Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)
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