Queen of Swords (25 page)

Chapter Thirty Three

Boone watched the white-robed figure carry Ophelia’s father to the center pole. It was hard to tell with all the blood, but it looked like they’d whipped him with a cat-o’-nine-tails. Typical treatment of a traitor—nearly enough lashes to kill him, then string him up for a public staking. As they strung Gerard’s hands above his head, he came to, saw his wife and daughter, and roared.

The gathered crowd took a few steps back, obviously fearing he was going to rip himself free and begin killing, but Boone recognized the sound for what it was. A last ditch effort, a plea to the gods that he was dreaming.

Boone had been praying much the same thing as he watched the tools of torture laid out on the table in front of the poles. For their part, neither of the women cried or begged—not that he expected anything different from Ophelia. She would go to her death with chin held high, cursing her enemies. Gods willing, that day wouldn’t be today.

He tensed when Hadriel squeezed his shoulder, drawing his attention away from the spectacle.
When are we doing this?

“We can’t move until Kristian shows. My challenge has to be public.”

Boone suddenly hated the plan he’d come up with, hated the fact he’d have to rely on the others to reach Ophelia and her parents before Sanctify began their gruesome work.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed his worries from his mind. There wasn’t room for them in the place he needed to be. Kristian would not hesitate to take advantage of any distraction. It would be a close match, both of them having the same trainers throughout childhood.

As if conjured by his thoughts, the golden man himself stepped through the castle gates and strode toward the stage, smiling and waving at the people gathered. He’d always had an easy grace that their people loved, a grace Boone lacked.

Kristian accepted a clip-on amplifier from one of his guards and laughed. Boone had never been able to figure out how he could sound so happy and carefree when his main hobby was making others bleed. Up on stage, Kristian gave a bow to those gathered, earning a cheer.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. I know some of you have heard rumors of my involvement with Sanctify, and I want to assure you that there is nothing to fear. They are not here to interfere with our lives, only to offer their support as we expand into the colony planets. With their fleet behind us, we will be unstoppable!”

The crowd cheered, and Boone hoped to the gods it was the mob mentality taking over. If these people actually thought Sanctify would allow their ships and members to be used without seeping their influence into Hansarda, they were insane.

Kristian raised his hands and instantly the crowd quieted. “But, for now, we have some entertainment planned for you. These three are spies, weapons runners who have supplied our enemies.”

A chorus of boos and hisses met his words. He smiled. “It’s not as bad as all that, but we must see our enemies punished, mustn’t we?”

Another round of cheering.

It was time to move.

A band of something like fear settled around Boone’s chest as he pushed his way through the crowd. At first there were protests, but as soon as the people realized who was moving through them, they stepped back, falling silent. Boone had nearly reached the stage when he spoke, his voice standing out against the quiet. “Hello, brother.”

Kristian’s eyes widened, but his public persona fell into place almost immediately. “The long lost son of the king, come back for the funeral, perhaps?”

Boone didn’t bother with the stairs, jumping straight onto the stage, just out of reach of his brother. “I challenge you, Kristian O’Keirna, for the heirdom of Hansarda.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Is there a witness?” Boone extended an arm toward the crowd, praying someone would step up and legitimize his claim.

A woman moved forward, her hair and skin the earth tones of the Drieya clan. “I stand as witness to your challenge.”

Something like panic leaked into Kristian’s gray eyes as he shot a quick glance at the people gathered. There was no way to escape. If he denied the challenge and tried to have Boone killed, he would face the stake.

Boone allowed himself a tight grin, very carefully not looking at Ophelia and her parents. Cole would save them. It was up to him to make sure they would never be hunted by his monster of a brother again. “Do you accept?”

After a long pause, Kristian answered with a grin. “I do. If only to see you bleed, baby brother.”

He’d stopped being a victim a long time ago. Now was the time to prove it. “So be it.”

…

Ophelia had no idea what Boone was up to, but she didn’t like it. The man didn’t even spare her a glance when he waltzed up through the crowd to the stage and challenged Kristian. To a Ladydamned death match. He’d lost his damn mind. The man could sure as hells kill that monster in a fair fight—but Ophelia didn’t exactly peg the prince as a fair kind of man.

Well, screw that. She might have to kiss her chance at Kristian goodbye, but there were plenty of other monsters around that deserved to be killed.

Straining on her tiptoes, she got the rope to slide down her wrist a few centimeters. Just enough to give her slack so she could rotate her hands. Keeping an eye on the members of Sanctify watching Boone and Kristian circle each other, she pressed the button, triggering her bracelet into a knife. It sprang out, cutting into both her wrist and the rope before she got a handle on it. Her breath hissed out as blood dripped down her arm.

“Shit.”

Papa lifted his head, but he didn’t otherwise move or make a sound. Ophelia sawed at the ropes, desperate to be free. Papa would have to wait, but she was sure her mother could fight. She needed to get to Boone.

The bindings gave way with a snap, and she took a step, only to go to her knees as her eyesight went funny. One of the men turned around and gave a shout, running at her. She put her hands up, ready to defend herself, and that’s when she saw the wound on her arm. It was sliced lengthwise, nearly halfway from her wrist to elbow. That much blood wasn’t a good sign.

Damn.

No. She wouldn’t go down like this, not slumped on the ground with one of the monsters bearing down on her. Ophelia straightened through sheer force of will, keeping her arms at her side until the man was within reach. Then she sprang into motion, stabbing him in the inner thigh, right through the femoral artery. The bastard went down, his screams so high-pitched they were nearly inaudible.

But there was still the second man to deal with and Mama to free. She tried to push to her feet, but her body didn’t obey her brain’s command to move. Instead she just sat there, staring at the dead man, watching the red stain spread over his perfect white robes.

“Move,” she whispered. “I need to move.”

A shrill scream brought her head up in time to see the second member of Sanctify go to the ground beneath a familiar brindled figure. Claws flashed and the man went still, an expression of horror on his face. Looking at Cole’s bared teeth and hearing his snarl, she could see why the man went to his death terrified.

She blinked and Cole was in front of her, his hair standing on end. “Diviner, we need to move. I cannot carry both you and your father.”

Another blink and he was gone, replaced by her mother. “Come along, daughter.” She pulled Ophelia’s uninjured arm over her shoulder and stood, wavering.

She could do better than this,
was
better than this. Ophelia forced one foot forward, and then the other, leaning heavily on her mother. For all that Mama looked frail, she kept them moving, down the stairs leading toward the castle.

Ophelia wasn’t sure this was the best place to run to, but Cole obviously had a plan and, since he had Papa too, they’d follow him. When a trio of men emerged from the shadows, she nearly passed out, but they resolved into the triplets. Hadriel took one look at her and scooped her off her feet, while Shadrach moved to assist Mama.

No one but Ophelia saw the High Priest materialize from the shadows.

He was quick for a man being courted by the Reaper, too quick, sliding between Shadrach and Caeden and grabbing Mama by her neck. He pressed a laser against her jaw. “I will see you dead for the sins of pride, of blasphemy, and of vanity.”

Mama met his gaze and spoke one word so softly Ophelia was sure she’d misheard. “Die.”

The High Priest backpedaled, swatting at his robes. His suddenly
smoking
robes. Mama moved to Ophelia’s side and grabbed her injured wrist, her voice rising, “You will burn for every life you are responsible for taking, for every death laid at your feet.” She was nearly screaming by the end, her violet eyes blazing. Her fingers dug into Ophelia’s wound, the pain sending starbursts dancing across her vision. Or maybe that was the ice spreading through her body as power leaked from her into her mother. The knowledge came to Ophelia that all she had to do was pull away and she could make it stop, could make everything stop. She gritted her teeth and grabbed Mama’s arm with her free hand, holding her mother in place. This monster had to die and Ophelia would do her part, no matter the cost. She would never be safe as long as this man lived. Her
baby
would never be safe.

The High Priest’s whimper became a series of shrieks while he rolled on the ground, smoke rising in waves from him. And still he burned.

Ophelia was so busy trying not to pass out, she almost missed the smoke wafting in from another direction. She turned, nightmarishly slowly, to look at her mother. Mama sagged to the ground next to her, one arm wrapped around her waist, a frown marring her forehead.

Something was wrong.

“Mama?”

She moved closer, but Mama released Ophelia, holding out a hand without looking away from the High Priest. “Come no closer, daughter. You have done enough.”

Then Ophelia noticed the way her mother’s hair curled, as if coming too close to an open flame, the smoke wafting off her skin. Oh Lady, she was killing herself. “Mama, stop!”

“What’s done cannot be undone.” Ophelia could barely hear her over the screams of the High Priest. “I love you, daughter.”

“No.” She tried to crawl closer, but Caeden intercepted her. “Let go. I need to help her.”

He only held her tighter, pinning her arms to her sides.

Mama went to her knees, a small sound of pain slipping past her lips. Her hair curled in on itself, blackening much the same as her skin. She lifted her head and gave a heart-wrenching wail that twined with the priest’s screams, both going silent as Mama’s body seemed to cave in on itself, dissolving to ash.

Ophelia’s arms went out, but Caeden didn’t give her a chance to hit the ground. Cole looked to the High Priest and she followed the movement. The old man was twisted obscenely, his mouth open in a silent scream, his skin blistered and covered in open sores.

Movement drew her attention—Oberon stood in the shadows of the castle, watching. He met Ophelia’s gaze, black eyes expressionless. Someone had to go after him, to end this once and for all, but she couldn’t make her voice work fast enough to give the order.

“We need to move.” Cole turned and led the way, taking them deeper into the castle.

…

Boone dodged Kristian’s blade and backhanded his brother across the face. He tried to take advantage of the move and follow up with his knife, but the prince was too fast, striking with the speed of desert snakes and opening a wound along Boone’s forearm. He caught sight of the blood and grinned. “Just like old times, little brother. You bleeding by my hand.”

In an instant he was ten years old and back in the dungeon, begging his big brother to put down the knife and unchain him. That this game wasn’t fun anymore and he was scared. Fighting against the fear threatening to paralyze him, Boone snarled, “Except now I’m going to make
you
bleed.”

He lunged, Kristian moving to meet him. Boone changed directions at the last second, leaving a cut along his brother’s side. When the prince instinctively went to cover his exposed flank, Boone kicked his legs out from beneath him.

He followed Kristian to the ground, pinning his arms. “Now, big brother, you’re going to die.”

“Think so?” There was fear in Kristian’s eyes, but he still dredged up a manic smile. “Where’s your lovely Diviner?”

Cole had her. Boone was sure of it. Even knowing that, he couldn’t stifle the instinct demanding he look. As soon as he took his eyes off his brother, Kristian pulled a fancy move, rolling them across the ground. He reversed their positions, knife hovering over Boone’s throat. “You know, I’m tempted to let you live, just so we can play some more. I’ve missed you.”

Boone would die before he let himself be chained again. He flailed, knocking the prince off him, and scrambled to his feet. A tide of words, far too many years stemmed, poured forth. “Why, godsdamnit? Why did you do it? I
trusted
you.”

The prince looked almost surprised, his blade dropping a few centimeters. Boone should have taken advantage of his lapse, but his brother’s torn shirt had gaped open, and he couldn’t move. Golden skin, crisscrossed with shiny scars—painfully familiar scars. What the hells? He staggered back, mind tumbling over itself in an attempt to make sense of what he was seeing.

Kristian licked his lips, a sick little smile appearing. “What? You didn’t think you were the only one?”

Boone’s entire world tilted on its axis. This was wrong. So wrong. “What?”

“Oh come now, little brother. You didn’t really think you were
special
, did you? Our father was working on me long before he ever turned an eye in your direction.” His laugh came out hard. “The old man certainly loved an audience. Should I tell you about all the times he forced me to watch as he played with his concubines? The way he’d—”