Guilty Blood (13 page)

Screaming I found my feet and yanked the ruby-hilted dagger from the ancient throne, brandishing it before me in trembling hands. The prince called my sad little bluff, tilting Rarentz's neck up and drawing his own blade to the lower corner of his victim's jaw. "Know that I take no pleasure in this," he lied, smiling mocking. "It's his duty to die."

"And it's mine to stop you," I said, lunging forward and driving the dagger into Rarentz's shoulder.

Instantly the dagger become hot as flame and I yanked my hands away. Its ruby hilt glowing a fearful, hell red, it thrummed swiftly, like the pounding of a panicked heart. Rarentz's body went rigid, convulsing wildly as the screams of two men howled from the bloody wreck of his face. I could see a smoky wisp drawn along the exposed length of the blade, draining from the body and pouring into the flickering hilt. Then something snapped, the swift sheer shriek of metal and suddenly the pounding light and shuddering body halted as if the moment had frozen, then collapsed. Rarentz's fell in an awkward pile upon a floor already slick with his lifeblood, the dagger clattering from his wound to skid away.

I knelt at his side, gasping, apologizing, crying. Desperately checking, I found his heart still beating and did my best to bind his wounds—not truly knowing who I was trying to save.

When next I looked up, the phantasmagoria of forgotten spirits was gone, the dead men lay upon the floor as they should, and the dagger lay at the center of the throne room, pulsing a waning bloody light.

∗ ∗ ∗

"No. You did well, dear," Ms. Kindler said, trying to disguise her lack of conviction. She still seemed to be working through the worst possibilities.

We were in our usual places back in Ms. Kindler's sitting room. I'd managed to get Rarentz here and Ailson had been quick to send for a doctor. The old man had just left, and to his credit had not asked how the young man had come by his wounds—he'd obviously dealt with Ms. Kindler before. With several days of rest he expected Rarentz to recover, though not without some weakness in his arms where the deepest cuts had been. The scars would never naturally heal.

Ms. Kindler had managed to resist interrogating me until the moment the door shut behind the doctor.

I leaned back on the settee and stared at the ceiling. I felt terrible, and still wasn't sure if we were nursing a monster just upstairs.

"Truly," she said, a measure more convincingly.

I huffed. My guilty conscience wouldn't let me off that easy.

Something landed hard in my lap, jarring me back to attention. It was small book bound in black leather. Flipping through it, every page was blank.

"Your next opus?" I needled.

"No," she scoffed, "Yours."

I arched an eyebrow.

"Its an old Pathfinder trick," she said. "Live it, write it, share it. If you did right, people should know and learn from it. If you did wrong, others make far better judges—saves you the work and helps you move on. Best thing I ever learned from that lot of fools."

"They're really that bad?" I asked, having always been curious.

"You'd fit in just fine," she shot back without hesitation.

I looked at her, assuming she'd be smirking over her quip. She wasn't.

∗ ∗ ∗

"Laurel."

I stepped into Ms. Kindler's darkened guest bedroom.

"Hey," I whispered in relief. "Didn't expect you to be up so fast. How are you feeling?"

Rarentz lay in bed, the covers rising shallowly, but steadily. The bandages on his face and neck muffling his voice.

"Laurel?" he said again.

I came to his side and kneeled down. "The doctor said you'd be out a while. Honestly, my coin was on you not coming back at all, but I've never been much of a gambler."

Rarentz rolled over in the bed, his one uncovered eye closed. He breathed a long soft snore.

Still exhausted. I smiled faintly and stood to leave. As I did, my eyes fell across the small writing desk. Something there was glowing, like an ember fallen upon a hearth.

I heard my name again. The light pulsed with every syllable, the infernal radiance illuminating the shape of a wretched dagger, the prince's dagger.

Gapping, I neared warily. "Prince Lieralt?" I whispered, doubting my senses.

"Laurel Cylphra," the prince's spiteful voice murmured from the blade. "Now my captor has a name."