Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

“May he pass unhindered,” Kel whispered, for the second time that night, and rose to his feet. As he did, he could not help but think of the Ragpicker King. Andreyen had begged him to speak to Gremont. Had he done so, would things now be any different?

He forced his mind back to the moment at hand. The world, not knowing Gremont was dead, had gone on. Vienne was fighting the last of the Skulls now, a big man with a nicked bronze blade. If there was blood on him, his black clothes hid it, but Vienne was soaked in the stuff. It flecked her cheeks like freckles, soaked her dress. She had lost one of her slippers, and her bare left foot was smeared with blood. She looked like a fiend from a dream, but there was nothing dreamlike about her actions. She ducked the Skull’s blow, raised her own blade, and with a precision too swift to follow, cleanly sheared away the top of his skull.

He crumpled at her feet. Vienne looked around, as if in a daze, or waking from one. Kel saw her realize: There was no one left to fight. She was standing in the Shining Gallery surrounded only by a few Castelguards, the Legate, Kel, and Conor himself.

And the dead. Most assuredly, the dead.

She turned to look at the high table. Someone had lifted Luisa down, thank the Gods, and laid her on the table itself. She was very small, lying among the scattered plates; her white lace dress looked as if it had been dyed scarlet in blood.

“Sena d’Este,” Conor said. His voice was low, urgent. Serious. “We will find out who did this. We will discover the ones responsible. Sarthe will be avenged. The Princess—”

“This is your fault,” said Vienne. She said the words very carefully, as if each one were an effort. “She would not have been here if it were not for you. She should not have been here.”

“No,” said Conor. “She should not. But that part was not my doing.”

But Vienne only shook her head, her eyes widening. “This is your fault,” she said. And raising her blade, she charged at Conor.

Jolivet shouted. The Castelguards raced toward Vienne. Conor did not reach for his sword; he seemed too stunned.

There was a flash of silver. Steel slammed against steel; Kel had placed himself between Vienne and Conor. He did not even remember moving; he had been there, and now he was here, in front of the Prince, his body and his blade between Conor and a sword.

“Kel Anjuman,” Vienne said tightly. “I will not tell you twice. Get out of my way.”

He met her gaze. “It is as you said. I guard him, as you did Luisa.”

Her mouth softened. He thought, for a moment, she might have heard him—but her sword turned to a silver blur in her hand and Kel staggered, blocking the sweeping blow. His ears rang as she forced him back; it was all he could do to defend himself. He had been trained, well trained, but he was not Vienne. She would drive him to the wall, and she would kill him there. There was nothing he could do about it.

He heard Jolivet say, “You cannot. She is Black Guard, Conor, you will die. Conor—”

Kel moved back, and back again. The wall was steps behind him. Vienne raised her blade—

And was lifted into the air, as if she were tethered to strings. She was flung aside, the sword clattering from her hand.

Kel heard Conor suck in his breath. “Father,” he said.

It was, indeed, Markus. He seemed to loom over Vienne like a giant as she rolled aside, climbing back to her feet. He wore a plain dark tunic and trousers, his hands sheathed in their black gloves, though he was unarmed. Kel flicked his gaze toward the doors; Mayesh stood outlined there. He must have gone to fetch the King. But why—?

Vienne, her eyes blazing with a near-holy fire, swung her sword at the King.

With a movement so swift it was barely a blur, Markus reached up and caught her blade in his hand. It should not have been possible—even if the burns on his skin were tough as leather, his hand should have been sliced in half—but he caught the blade as if it were a sapling, and flung it back at her. She reeled away. Conor said something—Kel could barely hear him; it sounded like You can’t, though he couldn’t be sure, nor was there any time to ask. Markus had caught hold of Vienne and, as easily as he had lifted Fausten, jerked her off her feet and hurled her at the stone wall.

Kel cried out. He would never forget the sound of bone crunching as Vienne’s body struck the wall. She crumpled, sliding limp to the floor as Jolivet hurried to her side, his sword drawn. He bent down, touched the side of her neck. Shook his head. “Dead,” he said, and drew off his scarlet cloak, with its gold braid. He laid it over her body, rising to his feet.

Kel was surprised. It was what a soldier might do for a fallen comrade on the battlefield. Respect for the Black Guard, perhaps, if not for Vienne herself. Kel looked to the King for a reaction, but he was standing over Conor, his hand touching the once gold overrobe, his eyes narrowed.

“Your blood,” he said, roughly. “Is this your blood, child?”

Kel looked over at Mayesh, as if to say: What a strange way to ask if someone is hurt. If Mayesh thought it was strange, though, he gave no sign. He only watched, quietly, his hands folded, his face expressionless.

“No,” Conor said, stiffly. Everything in his posture screamed that he wanted to get away from his father, but Markus seemed not to notice. “I was not hurt.”

“Good.” Markus turned to Jolivet. “The Queen. My wife. Where is she?”

If Jolivet were surprised, he betrayed it with no more than a blink. “In the Carcel, my lord. Which is where you all should be,” he added, turning. “Monseigneur Conor—”

Conor held up a hand. “Are they all dead? The ones who attacked?”

“Yes,” said Mayesh, still standing in the doorway. “The lady of the Black Guard made sure of it. Not a one still breathes.”

Conor was pale, the blood on his face standing out like bruises. “And the Sarthians?”

“Also dead.”

“Will this mean war with Sarthe?”

“Yes,” Mayesh said, again. “Most probably.”

Conor sucked in a breath.

“That is not the concern now, Counselor,” snapped Jolivet. “We do not know if there will be another attack. We must get the family to the Carcel.”

Mayesh only nodded, but the Castelguards had not waited for him; they had already sprung into action. Some surrounded the King; another pair flanked Conor. Kel did his best to stay by Conor’s side as they were ushered from the room.

It was a relief to be outside. Kel had not realized how heavy the stench of blood and death had been inside the Gallery until the night air struck him, cold and clean. He felt as if he could drink it like water.