Kepi fetched the sparring clothes that Dagrun had made for her. She dressed, not caring that the soldiers watched her every move, that she was still smeared with Dagrun’s blood, like a sacrifice made to the gods. She was a widow, again. Her father was dead. She must be doomed to unhappiness. Whenever she found even a little bit of peace, a tiny sliver of joy, it would always be taken from her. She knew that now.
There was a commotion in the corridor outside. In the muffled distance, she heard men shouting, stomping in the hall. When the next wave of soldiers arrived, they were not Dagrun’s men. They did not wear the silvery tree of Feren upon their chests. Instead, they were dressed in the clothes of servants, of stable boys and slaves. Thirty or more of them crowded into the room, wielding dirks and other small arms, ones that could be hidden beneath a cloak or a tunic. Dagrun’s soldiers let go of Seth. They engaged the traitors. The king’s men held the mob at bay, cutting and stabbing, piling up bodies before them, but for each servant or slave who fell, four more arrived to fill his place. The traitors were standing shoulder to shoulder, their sweaty arms and bony shoulders jostling one another, pushing and shoving, trying to get their hands on the soldiers. Most wore nothing more than loincloths or homespun tunics. They were not soldiers; they had no training and no real weapons. Some fought with bits of broken pottery, or stones, bare hands or household items, anything that was sharp: a knife, a shovel, an adze.
There are too many of them and not enough of our own men, Kepi thought as she retreated across the room. The king’s soldiers would soon be overwhelmed. The turncoats were coming for Kepi. She was Dagrun’s wife and queen. They wanted her dead, just as they had wanted her husband dead. “False king!” they cried. “False queen!” they shouted even louder, their voices filling up the small chamber, echoing in her ears, driving her mad.
When Seth saw that they were coming for the queen, he threw himself between Kepi and the traitors, but they pushed him aside, knocking him to the ground as if he were one of Dagrun’s own men. Seth cried out. “Stop!” he said, shock on his face, terror too. He begged for mercy as they clobbered him with stones and shards of metal, trampling him as they came for the queen, their feet wet with his blood.
Kepi stood by her husband’s body, but the angry mob tore her away from him, pummeling her with rock-filled sacks and wooden spoons. They threw her to the ground. The men loosened their breeches, their intentions clear, their faces screwed into menacing snarls. She would not die quickly, or mercifully. They meant to have some fun with her, but before they could get about it, more of Dagrun’s soldiers charged into the king’s chamber, pushing back the traitorous crowd and pulling Kepi to her feet. They made a wall with their bodies.
“We can’t hold them,” cried one of the soldiers.
“Go to the Chathair,” said another. “The king’s sworn men hold the throne room. You’ll be safe—” A slender knife pierced the soldier’s throat, cutting short his words, dropping him to the ground.
Kepi ran, into the corridor, stumbling over bodies, making her way toward the throne room, but the hallway was already filling up with the traitors.
Through open arches, all around the caer she saw slaves and stable boys gathering in the corridors and on the walls. The traitors had men at all of the doors, and turncoat soldiers guarding the Chime Gate. Dagrun had said there were a few traitors in his midst, but he had not grasped the true size of the rebellion. There was nothing but traitors in the caer. Is there anyone left to help me? The common folk and the slaves, the soldiers and the cooks, all of them had banded together. In Feren, a monarch cannot rule without the kite. She knew that, and Dagrun knew that too.
She rounded a corner, her bare feet skidding on the stones. There were more guards, more of Dagrun’s loyal men lying on the floor, their skin pale, eyes red. There was no sign of conflict, no blood. “Help!” she cried, hoping desperately that someone would hear her. The caer held thousands of soldiers, but it seemed that all of them were unconscious or fighting for the turncoats. Maybe I am alone. In a moment she’d know the truth. The Chathair was just around the corner.
She stumbled into the great throne room, ready for the worst, prepared to find herself alone with an angry horde, but instead, men from both sides were gathering their supporters. Dagrun’s soldiers formed ranks. They ushered her into their midst, surrounding her with their shields. Dagrun’s loyal warlords, Ferris Mawr and Deccan Falkirk, stood at her side. Ferris shouted orders as the traitors scrambled for weapons, pilfering swords from Dagrun’s fallen soldiers.
A tall, gray-haired man in blue and green clan stripes stood at the center of the unruly mob. Gallach, she guessed. This must be the traitor. Seth had mentioned him once or twice. He had victory written all over his face. The traitors vastly outnumbered the king’s men. And everywhere there were soldiers lying on the floor, their skin looking sickly and cold—just like Dagrun’s. The sight of it made her realize what had happened. The traitors had poisoned Dagrun’s loyal soldiers. The scullery girls and the cooks, all of them must have been a part of this revolt. They had poisoned the amber and the bread, everything the soldiers ate. Hundreds were unconscious, drugged or dead—she didn’t know.
The traitors had taken what weapons they could find and were gathering into a mob, ready to advance. I’ll make my stand here. It was as good a place as any to die. At least I have a blade. Kepi would die like her father, with iron in her fist, fighting until the very end. Three years ago, in Feren, after her first marriage, she had escaped what seemed like certain death, she had evaded Roghan’s cruelty and the cell his men had kept her locked in for a year, but this time there was no escape. There was no one left to come to her aid, no husband and no father. Just as well, thought Kepi. I don’t want to be saved by anyone—I want to fight.
The chanting grew louder as the traitors gathered their nerve and made their final push. “Gallach!” they hollered over and over as their gray-haired leader raised a silver sword and beat his chest. Who is he? Kepi thought. Some minor lord, some half-blood trying to wring power from my husband’s throne?