Only the Bold

“No,” Dust admitted.

“No?” That seemed to take Lethe by surprise.

“The poison on it does not kill. I had nothing that would kill you. But I have things that can weaken you.”

“Weaken me?” Dust heard the fear there now.

“I love you, but I am Angarthim, and we can kill what we love if the fates require it.”

Dust struck out with a knife, the blade flashing across her throat. Lethe didn’t even have time to cry out as she fell. Dust had made her end as painless as he could, because what more could he do for someone he loved so much?

He knelt there, and he wept in his grief. He wept both because of what he had lost in Lethe, and because he still needed to be the killer he had been made into for a little while longer.

It seemed to take forever before Dust felt strong enough to stand again and make his way around the island. The place felt different now, as dead as the creature that had run it, lifeless and silent as Dust searched.

He found what he was looking for set a little way from a cabin-like home, discarded in a pile together as if they simply didn’t matter. Then, Dust guessed, they hadn’t mattered compared to the love of Lethe. Dust took the crystal sword, unsheathing it only long enough to admire how the blade shone in the moonlight before he put it away again. He wrapped it in the armor, taking both and moving back in the direction of his boat.

It took him another hour to carve a replacement oar, an hour beyond that to gather fruits and fresh water from the forest. Dust piled it into his boat and pushed it out into the water.

He started to row for the mainland, knowing that destiny lay ahead, for him, for Royce, for everyone.

CHAPTER THREE

Genevieve was finding that life in the king’s court was very different from life in the palace of Altfor’s father. For one thing, people actually looked at her as if she were noble, rather than giving her the looks of pity and disdain that had marked her out as a stolen peasant girl before.

For another, there was the constant sense of threat that came from knowing any misstep could get her killed.

“Will Lord Ber’s men be here before the final push against the enemy?” King Carris demanded of an advisor, standing from his throne and pacing the width of the audience chamber where he was discussing plans.

“There is no news yet, my king,” the man said.

“Which means that he doesn’t plan to be here,” King Carris snapped back. “He’s waiting to see who will win. Do our chances look so bad?”

“No, my king,” the man said. “Shall I send more messages to him?”

“Just one,” King Carris said. “Tell him that if he does not have his men with my army in time, I will kill him, and his family, and anyone else who stands with him. This is a fight against people who would take my kingdom from me; if he is not with me in that fight, then he is my enemy.”

“At once,” the man said.

More advisors and messengers came, each one with some fragment of news about the coming conflict. One lord came forward and knelt.

“My king,” he said. “I am Sir Verris of Yall. I have brought three hundred men with me to serve with your army.”

“You have my thanks, Sir Verris,” the king said. “You will be rewarded. Your place will be with the force that strikes from the north.”

Genevieve stood toward the back of the crowd of people, trying to take note of the names and the numbers as men came to swear themselves to the king’s cause. She would have written it all down to be sure that she got it, but someone would see.

Altfor would see. He stood toward the front of the room, where he could be seen by everyone there, as close to the king as possible. Even so, his eyes seemed to be following Genevieve, daring her to make a mistake in the dangerous game she was playing.

“Jani will return soon,” Genevieve said to herself. “I will remember everything until then.”

She had to hope that the spy who worked for her sister had gotten back to Sheila. With the information Genevieve had sent, maybe Royce would be able to win this without all the deaths that the coming battle promised. Genevieve had already sent information about the seaborne assault that would be coming from the north. Now, she hoped to be able to find something that would help them to win outright.

“Tell me about our flotilla,” King Carris said.

A man in what looked like expensive versions of sailors’ clothes stepped forward, jewelry adorning him that looked as though it had been stolen from a dozen different sources.

“We are ready and waiting to carry your forces, my king. Just as soon as we are paid.”

“Money is traveling from my treasury as we speak,” King Carris promised.

Genevieve found herself wondering if there might be some way to sabotage that delivery. If she could get that information to Sheila, then it might be possible to arrange for the money to be stolen, or at least delayed. She was about to find a reason to excuse herself from the hall when she stopped, feeling a wave of something like cold spreading through her.

It wasn’t the kind of cold that had anything to do with the physical world, though. Instead, it felt to Genevieve as though something papery was whispering across her soul, and she found herself turning automatically toward the door. Everyone else in the room did the same, moving as one mass to face the figures who walked in together.

There were a dozen of them, gray-skinned and shaven-headed, although several of them had beards, or golden chains wound around their skulls, or tattoos in the shapes of mystical symbols. They wore deep gray robes, some with the hoods up, and most of them looked around the room with piercing eyes. The one at their head was old enough that he had to walk with the aid of a staff, leaning on it with every step. His eyes caught Genevieve’s for a moment, and Genevieve shuddered involuntarily.

“Who are you?” King Carris demanded. “And why are you here, in my court?”

“We are the priests of the Angarthim,” their leader said. “We see all that must be, and we send the Angarthim to ensure that it happens as it should. I am Justinius, highest of the priests.”

“That still doesn’t tell me why you’re here,” King Carris said. “Or why I shouldn’t have you killed.”

“We are here because your cause is ours, King Carris,” Justinius said. “The boy named Royce can never be allowed to be king.”

“You’ve come across the sea to tell me this?” the king demanded, and for a moment, Genevieve thought he might react with all the anger she’d seen before, when he’d been killing prisoners himself.

“We looked into the futures, and we saw the destruction of our order in the rise of Royce as king,” Justinius said. If he was scared of King Carris, he didn’t show it. “We sent one of our Angarthim to kill him, but somehow, he has failed us.”

“So you’re failures?” King Carris demanded.

The air rippled, and in that moment, it seemed to Genevieve that something was standing beside her; something with claws and teeth and hunger. It took everything Genevieve had not to scream. Many of those there were not so brave. Several drew blades, and one man fell, clutching his chest.

As suddenly as it had come, the sense of creatures there faded, leaving the Angarthim priests standing still and deadly looking.

“We are not without power,” Justinius said. “When the time comes, we will bring that power to your aid.”

He moved to stand beside the king without being asked, while the others formed a line in the first rank of the nobles. No one tried to argue.

Genevieve thought that might be it for the audience, but she saw King Carris collecting himself with an effort.

“What else?” he demanded. “What other news is there? What news is there of my enemies?”

A messenger came forward, visibly shaking. “We have news of Royce, my king,” he said. “He travels the villages, recruiting the common folk to his cause. They are calling him an ancient king returned.”

“Then they are fools,” Lord Carris said. “And what is Royce trying to raise in the villages? An army of farmers?”

The nobles laughed, but not all of them. Some of them obviously understood that numbers would count, and Genevieve, at least, knew how hard people would fight to protect their homes.