The Hidden Queen, page 29
“It took longer than expected to remove your mother’s bed. It wouldn’t fit through the door, and so we had to lower it from the balcony. I’d thought to let the chamber air out and stoke the fire when we finished…”
“It’s all right.” I inhale deeply of the cold air, feeling refreshed after spending the day confined in Mother’s heated office. The guards follow as I move to the balcony, looking out over Mother’s gardens. She did love them so. Even in winter, they are beautiful.
There’s a sudden hiss by my cheek that ends in a thump as Faseek stumbles behind me. I turn and catch him, seeing the arrow embedded in his shoulder. From the tear in his shirt, and the dent in the armor plate beneath, it seems to have skittered off the armor over his heart to reach the nearest seam. The shot should have killed him.
I turn back to look along its path. I don’t have night eyes like Darin, or my helm with its wards of sight, but like my strength, my senses have always been sharp. Moonlight and window lamps are enough for me to spot the shooter, perched on the opposite rooftop of the inner courtyard, nearly invisible in Sharum black.
Already they have another arrow in the air.
I don’t know if it’s meant for me or Faseek, but my brother takes no chances, launching himself in front of me and taking a second hit. There’s a flare of wardlight, and this one strikes with a bang, punching through armor and a lung. My brother coughs blood in my face as I ease him to the floor.
The arrows are embedded deep. It would be foolish to remove them now, without proper equipment and a safe space to work. Looking at Faseek’s blood-soaked robes, I realize why the assassin shot him and not me. In Krasia, I wore only my Tazhan armor and Sharum blacks. The shooter must not have recognized the new attire, and mistaken my bodyguard for me. Likely they still haven’t figured it out.
Tarisa and the maids are shrieking. Becca is racing across the chamber, but she’s not fast enough. I grab the spear from Faseek’s shoulder.
“Sound the alarm and fetch a Gatherer!” I shout, racing onto the terrace.
I do not know if the shooter has realized their mistake or is simply responding to a new threat, but as I charge out, they raise their bow for another shot. I throw first, with little time to aim. It costs me my weapon, but I have no harness to stow it anyway, and will need my hands.
My aim is true enough for my purpose—causing the archer to fumble the shot as they dodge. I spin round as I hop onto the marble railing of Mother’s balcony, running two strides before I leap. My first two steps connect with the vertical wall, propelling me higher. I coil and spring on the second, catching the lip of the roof, twenty feet above the terrace.
Another arrow shatters against the stone, missing by scant inches as I kip and flex, swinging up onto the roof. I land in a roll, keeping low among the crenels. Unlike Faseek, I have no armor to blunt the impact. My stiff riding jacket looks quite dashing, but it might as well be a sheet of paper against a powerful Krasian short bow.
Another mistake. I thought here of all places I could feel safe, but perhaps the time has come to accept I will never be safe again. Any court garb will need armor pockets like the Krasians use, and I’ll need more than just my hanzhar about my person.
I catch sight of the shooter again, perched unnaturally on a sheer wall, bathed in shadow. He’s got hora, and the sun has set. I won’t have the advantage, as I did against my Krevakh brother.
But I do not hesitate, Faseek’s blood still wet on my face. I do not know if my spear brother will live, but I will not let his attacker escape. I keep low as I charge along rooftops to circle around to him in the skittering, irregular steps we use in the Maze to confuse wind demons.
The assailant does not waste his shots, but twice more, arrows shatter on stone, inches from my head or chest.
They do not flee, perhaps thinking me a fool as I make it to their side of the roof and emerge into their line of sight. Perhaps I am, but I have the archer’s measure now. The next arrow comes straight for my heart, but I am quicker, batting it aside with my hanzhar.
The assassin’s nerve breaks then, and they turn to flee as I pick up speed. They have a man’s build, but they move like a dancer, racing along what is no doubt a practiced escape route.
But I grew up running the rooftops of Mother’s keep with Darin and Selen. I know every inch of them, from the patrol areas to the rooftop gardens, every chimney and water tower, every slope of warded tile.
He disappears over a steep tile crest, but I know the wraparound terrace on the other side and take a shortcut, leaping onto one of the guest balconies and smashing through the doors to race through the thankfully empty chamber to the terrace doors on the other side. I fling them open just as the assassin drops down.
Somehow, he manages to turn and shoot one more time before I reach him. I twist, feeling the arrow punch into my side, but I am so full of fury I barely feel it as I tackle him into the marble railing.
We hit hard, but the archer is armored, and the blow does not break bones as I intended. He is strong, too, no doubt aided by hora jewelry under his clothes. He drops his bow and grabs me, lifting me clear off the terrace floor as he seeks to redirect the force of our rebound to throw me over the railing—a sheer drop of more than forty feet to the stone courtyard below.
I have to sacrifice my weapon as well, dropping my hanzhar to grab a rail post and heave, bungling the throw. The arrow in my side screams to life, so I pull it out and stab it into the armor gap on my attacker’s inner thigh.
He grunts and kicks me away as we both hit the floor and roll to our feet.
“Who are you?” I demand. “An assassin, or one of my brothers, too cowardly to state his name and fight with honor?”
I expected a moment to regroup with the assailant’s bow fallen over the rail, but his hand whips back and forth to a bandolier, flinging sharpened triangles of warded glass, like those my sister Micha favored.
I throw up my arms and duck, protecting my face and torso, but there’s nothing to do but take the hits. I feel the throwing glass thunk into my arms and stick. I bull through the pain and charge before he can throw more.
I thought rushing back in would take him by surprise, but my attacker is prepared, setting his feet as we exchange a quick series of blows. He’s undeniably skilled, but he’s given me a new weapon as I block with forearms studded with razor-sharp glass. He punches one of his own triangles of throwing glass and breaks away with a hiss, fist covered in blood.
I take the offered pause, studying my opponent as we circle. I recognize the Mehnding cut of his robe, and things click into place. Known as the far-reaching tribe, Mehnding specialize in ranged weapons, from artillery and missile fire to throwing weapons.
Again his hands slip into his robes, pulling out a dart and silk. An elegant weapon, the dart is a small throwing knife made of indestructible warded glass with a loop at the end for a long cord of lightweight, braided silk.
I pivot out of the path of his first throw, but am cut across a shoulder as he yanks the dart back to his hand, spinning it for fresh momentum. All around, the keep is coming to life with shouts of alarm. Guards are racing through the courtyard with lanterns, but none of them will reach me in time to make a difference.
I keep moving, but the spinning blade makes it difficult to get in close. I grab a heavy flower pot and hurl it his way, but it’s a clumsy missile and he sidesteps it easily, launching the dart at me before I can recover.
I think it a miss, but then the silk hits my leg, sending the blade whipping around to catch the limb in a twist of cord. He tries to yank me from my feet, but I am quick, too, closing the gap to slack the line before he can heave.
That, he didn’t anticipate, and I strike my first real blow, a punch to the chest that would have caved in the ribs of a normal man. But my fist hits armor, and not the clay plates of lesser Sharum that shatter upon impact. These, like my assailant’s weapons, are made of warded glass, and hurt my hand as much as my opponent.
Warded glass is fabulously expensive to make, and its presence tells me much, even if my opponent offers me little more than a grunt as he stumbles back.
“It is said the Mehnding are all cowards,” I growl. “The Majah call you gray robes, for you lack the courage of the black. Until today, I did not believe it…Prince Ramm.”
It’s a guess, but an educated one. I know the names of my siblings, if not much more. Ramm asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Mehnding is Father’s firstborn Mehnding son.
My opponent does not reply, but his eyes narrow, and it feels like confirmation enough. A powerful tribe, the Mehnding are numerous, in part because they do not put themselves in range of alagai talons when they fight.
But that can be a weakness, too. The Mehnding are not known for their close-quarters sharusahk.
Again, my brother spins and launches the dart from a new angle, but this time I am ready. The cord wraps around the arms I had raised invitingly, and my assailant spins, wrapping the silk around his shoulders to keep tension as he reels in his catch.
I stumble along for a moment, allowing myself to be drawn in close before I pull my arms apart, using the sharp, embedded glass in my forearm to shred the cord and free my hands. I catch the dart before it falls and launch myself the remaining distance. My attacker recoils from the lost tension, and for a moment his armpit is exposed—a notoriously difficult place to armor. I slam the dart into the gap.
The blade isn’t long enough to reach his heart or lungs, but the shock and pain are enough to break his defenses momentarily. I sweep his legs and bear us to the floor, pummeling him about the head. I land a punch on his throat, and he seizes up as I pull off his helm, recognizing my brother’s face from the crowd at the foot of the Skull Throne.
One will attack without honor, Asome had predicted.
Another opponent would have been crippled—if not killed—by that throat-crushing blow. Indeed, there is fear in Prince Ramm’s eyes now. But my brother is charged with hora magic and continues to struggle, threatening to dislodge me. He reaches behind his back and produces a small metal tube with a wooden handle. I stare at it in confusion for a moment, then my eyes widen as I remember where I’ve seen it before.
I throw us into a roll, sacrificing my dominant position to bungle his shot. There is a deafening bang, and a chunk of marble explodes beside my head.
I can’t hear anything, the air cloudy with an acrid smoke, but I see Prince Ramm raise the weapon again and I grasp his arm, pulling it away as I curl up and smash my forehead into his nose.
My ears start ringing, loud enough to split my skull, but I focus the pain into action, rolling again as my stunned brother attempts to recover. On top once more, I put a knee into his arm to pin the weapon hand, and keep him stunned with a punch to his unprotected head, followed by another. I hit him again and again, refusing to let him get his bearings.
And then the house guards are pulling me away, my fists bloody and Ramm’s handsome face swollen beyond recognition. He lies limp, and I wonder if I’ve killed him. The guards—many of whom remember me as a child scampering through this very place—look at me like I’ve become a coreling.
I gasp, trying to rein in my anger amid the endless ringing in my cranium. As I breathe, all the pains I embraced during the battle seep into the edges of my consciousness. My blouse and silk jacket are soaked with blood from the arrow wound, and there are still blades in my arms. My shoulder burns from the dart cut, and contusions make themselves known all over my body from the desperate race across the rooftops.
But the most disturbing feeling is relief. Asome’s prediction came true. There will only be one more to follow, and I can at least take comfort that he will announce himself honorably and give me time to set my feet before trying to kill me.
We send a runner ahead, and he’s back to let us know all will be ready on our arrival before Perin sets the steps on Rojvah’s warded carriage. I catch Selen’s scent on his collar, and wish there was a ward for scents as well as sound.
There’s a steady stream of folk heading to evening services when we reach the Cathedral of Hollow, a sprawling structure connected to an abbey that spans several blocks, enclosed by its own wall, intricately carved with the beautiful script of church warding. Sunset services are still an hour away, but I’ve seen the place with my night eyes enough to know that if someday the greatward fails, there’s no safer place in all Hollow than the cathedral.
We’re able to enter by a gate not open to the public and pull up in a private courtyard where Inquisitor Hayes and Dama Halvan are waiting to greet us.
Hayes, clad in fine brown robes with the crooked staff of the Tenders of the Creator emblazoned on his surplice, is the second-highest-ranking Tender in Hollow, ministering to a flock in the hundreds of thousands. Clad in robes and turban of pristine white, Dama Halvan ministers to the much smaller Evejan minority. But Duchess Leesha decreed the faiths share the cathedral’s nave, so the men are equal under Shepherd Jona in rank, if not power.
It ent frictionless. I can smell how much the graybeards dislike each other, even if they’re too proud to show it.
“Mr. Bales.” Hayes bows as I step out of the carriage.
Hate it when folk call me that. Mr. Bales is my da, and the less I’m compared to him, the better. Folk are only in for disappointment.
“I cannot tell you how pleased we were to hear you would be attending sunset services with us,” the Inquisitor goes on. “Your mother was…not one to attend mass.”
“Ay, that’s undersaid.” Mam never trusted Holy Men. Even if there is a Creator, she’d say, He’s got better things to do than worry about our problems. Can’t trust anyone to do what you won’t do for yourself, or tell you what the Creator wants.
Hayes clears his throat. “There was some bad blood between us, I fear.”
“Blood?” Arick is the next to step from the carriage, waiting halfway down the steps as he holds a hand out to steady his sister as she emerges.
When she heard where we were going, Rojvah had something close to one of my fits. She ent a priestess-in-training anymore. Not in her heart, at least. Her name’s still in the books. What to wear to a greenland temple? How can she respect the Creator while refusing His service?
In the end she had one of Olive’s green gowns pinned to suit her slimmer figure, taking a long scarf of matching green silk and draping it over her hair and to cover her shoulders and the gown’s immodest neckline. Her veil is made of at least a hundred glittering gold coins, each etched with wards, connected to a lattice of spun gold atop her head. She’ll have night eyes like mine when the sun sets.
I can smell how eager the clerics are to greet the newcomers, but Hayes does the courtesy of answering the question first. “It used to be my honor as Inquisitor to root out false Deliverers. I was sent to Hollow to expose a false Deliverer, your father, Arlen Bales, only to find he was who I was searching for all those years. But in those early days, I fear the…rigor of my inquisition was offensive to your mother. Nevertheless, I was honored to perform their wedding ceremony when they asked it of me, and to stand with them when the night tried to claim Hollow.”
“Ay, fair and true,” I tell him, but I don’t relax. Hayes wants something from me. I can smell it. Ent hard to guess what. Mam never liked this Deliverer business, and says Da had even less patience for it. Just lettin’ myself be seen here is giving the Tenders a boost.
“Prince Arick. Princess Rojvah.” Halvan doesn’t put his hands on the floor, but his bow is deep and long. I can smell competitiveness. “You honor us with your presence. I am Dama Halvan. It was my honor to train with Shar’Dama Ka in Sharik Hora.”
Rojvah blows a breath as she offers a shallow nod of her head in return. Behind her veil, she whispers, “Trained with is what dama say to save face. What they mean is Grandfather pummeled them in the sharusahk circles.”
I snigger, and both clerics narrow their eyes at me.
* * *
—
There’s an old Holy House at the center of the cathedral grounds. A tiny structure, it ent got room for more than a few hundred in the pews. It’s a protected landmark now, so out of place with the newer and more modern structures in the surrounding abbey. Out front is a statue of Da standing ten feet tall, appearing to float in midair. To either side is Duchess Paper with her hora wand, and Rojer Halfgrip—Arick and Rojvah’s da—with his fiddle.
Don’t have any more faith than Mam did, but I can’t keep my throat from tightening at the sight. It was here the elderly, children, and infirm of the original Cutter’s Hollow huddled in fear the night my da first came to town and taught folk to fight the corelings.
Used to come here at night when the clerics had gone to bed, just to stare a bit at Da. Mam caught me at it more than once. She never scolded, just sat with me. Din’t really look like that, Darin, she’d say. Wasn’t that big, or muscly, or square in the jaw. Din’t look that different from you, in fact. He just…carried himself big.
So I’ve got a bit of an idea of what Rojvah and Arick are feeling as they step forward, staring at their father’s likeness. Mam says that’s exaggerated, too. Rojer wasn’t a big man, but they’ve got him looking like he’s got less summers than you. Only thing they didn’t need to exaggerate was Leesha’s paps.
Took her word on that. Aunt Leesha I knew was a lot more modest than the woman in the statue.
They closed the place to the public for our visit, but clerics gawk and whisper just like everyone else as the three of us enter the little chapel.
The inside has become a museum, of sorts. Da used to go around in a worn brown Tender’s robe to hide the wards on his skin. Now it’s on display behind half an inch of warded glass, illuminated by lectric lights. Night, there’s kneeling pads in front of it.
