Shadow's Son (35 page)

"I don't care." Ral's words rang across the hall. "Drive them away. Kill
them, if need be. Just get them away from the gates."

Markus saluted and stalked out of the hall. When Ral looked over,
Josey met his gaze without backing down.

"A vast improvement." He treated her to a slick smile as his gaze
wandered up and down. "Now you look the part of a princess."

"I'd throw this dress in your face if I had anything else to wear."

"Tsk, tsk. No need for hostility, Josephine. We need each other."

"I don't need anything from you. You're the one who killed my father.
Don't try to deny it. I know everything now."

"Everything? Do you know that without the Council to control the
people, the city is tearing itself apart?" He stepped closer, until the scent
of his oiled hair clogged her nose. "Do you know that you're completely
alone, a young girl in a perilous place surrounded by perilous people?"

"Caim will-"

He cut her off with a laugh. "Caim is dead in some gutter, or soon will
be. Look around you, Princess. I hold the palace, and with it, the city. Perhaps someday the entire country will bow to me. Forget Caim and whatever
romantic notions have been bouncing around inside that little skull of yours.
Think of the big picture. An alliance with me would benefit us both. You
would enjoy my protection, and I would gain a measure of legitimacy."

Josey could have been slapped across the face for all the shock she felt.

"You mean marriage. Us? You're insane. I would never-"

"It's not so far-fetched, my dear." Ral sauntered toward the dais.
"Worse unions have been forged for the sake of politics. Our marriage will
cement my hold on the throne. You will be an empress with all the wealth
and splendor a woman could ever want."

Josey resisted the impulse to lift a hand to her temple, where the
beginnings of a frightful headache throbbed. Her bodice was too tight,
making every breath more difficult to inhale.

"You might hold the palace for now," she said. "But the Church won't
sit idle. Once the riots are quelled, they'll put you ..."

Her words died away as Ral opened the wooden boxes on the dais, one
by one lowering the front sides to reveal their gruesome contents. Thirteen pairs of glassy eyes stared at her in various states of shock. She recognized their pale features. From their wooden prisons, the heads of the
prelate and the Elector Council confronted her.

"As you can see, the Church is no longer a concern. With the Brotherhood firmly under my command, thanks to the largess of my benefactor,
none remain in the city who can challenge me." He laid a hand on the box
holding the prelate's head. "Call it a wedding gift from your betrothed.
After all, these are the men who killed your real father."

Josey shook her head. Tears wet her lashes and gathered in the corners
of her eyes. She wouldn't give in to this fiend, wouldn't allow him to twist
her thoughts. She drew herself up straight. "The people of Othir will
never stand for it."

"The people will do whatever their lord governor demands of them."

"And what of the mob gathered outside your gate?"

A grimace broke the hard planes of Ral's face for a moment. She had
scored a hit, but then the calm returned as if nothing had happened.
"Those who refuse to obey will be dealt with harshly and permanently."

She scoffed. "There aren't enough Sacred Dogs in Othir to subdue the
entire city. Even recalling the nearest garrison-"

"I have," he said with a mocking grin, and waved a hand, "other
resources at my disposal, my dear."

Josey started as a shadow detached itself from the darkness draping
the wall behind the throne. The shadow resolved into the shape of a man,
tall and lean, garbed in a monk's robe of purest black. There was something eerie about his movements; the intensity of his gaze was unnerving.
Everything about him suggested barely restrained violence, a dangerous
animal coiled to spring at the least provocation. An image flashed through
Josey's mind, of the ebon serpent uncoiling from the ceiling in Calm's
apartment, and she knew what this creature was at once.

Sorcerer. Trafficker of the black arts. Agent of the Dark Ones.

"What have you leagued yourself with?" she whispered.

"A power from beyond this world." Ral nodded to the newcomer.
"Enough to rule a nation and rebuild an empire. You should thank me,
Princess. I intend to restore your birthright."

Whatever Ral intended to say next was interrupted by a commotion
at the entrance. Sacred Brothers ushered a throng of men and women into
the hall. She recognized one face in the group: Anastasia's father, Lord Farthington. She started to lift her hand to catch his attention, but hesitated
when she got a better look at him. Lord Farthington looked drawn and
haggard, his face more deeply lined than she remembered. His mouth
quivered as he was herded inside with the others.
He's terrified.
A tiny
shudder fluttered her belly. If such a powerful lord was afraid, what chance
did she have?

"My lords and esteemed ladies." Ral lifted his voice. "Forgive this dis turbance of your persons at such a late hour, but there are matters of great
importance at hand which require your attention."

Josey chewed on her bottom lip. The words sounded rehearsed. Ral
was playing some sort of game, and she wanted nothing to do with it. She
cast her gaze about the chamber. The robed man had vanished when the
aristocrats arrived, as silently as a phantom, but she got the feeling he was
nearby. She sidled over to a side wall, pretending to admire the tapestries
while she checked the exits. She didn't know the layout of the palace very
well, but if she could get away from the hall she might be able to find a
way out. Getting away was all she could think about.

Behind her, Ral climbed the dais as he addressed the nobles. He
kicked over one of the wooden boxes on his way up the steps, sending its
contents tumbling to the floor. Gasps rose from the crowd.

"Good people, don't be alarmed," he said. "This is a glorious moment.
This is the day you shall long remember as the beginning of a new era of
prosperity and majesty."

As Ral sat in the center throne, an old nobleman staggered forward as if
to admonish him, but a hulking soldier shoved him back into the crowd.

"Nobles of Othir," Ral said. A pair of golden ravens rested atop the
throne's tall back, as if perched upon his shoulders. "I proclaim myself
your sovereign. As a merciful man, I am granting you the opportunity to
be the first to bow to me and swear your allegiance."

He gestured to the wooden boxes. "Or be declared traitors and face
immediate execution."

While the gentry sputtered and clamored in indignation, Josey
picked up her skirt and tiptoed to a narrow archway tucked between two
arrays. She was almost there when a large frame filled the opening. Her
silk slippers slid to a halt as Markus loomed before her. His scarred cheeks
twitched into a mockery of a smile as he stared at her with cruel intensity.

Ral's voice called from behind her. "Ah, it is time for your most excellent personages to meet my betrothed. Allow me to present Princess
Josephine of the House Corrinada. My bride-to-be."

Tears formed in Josey's eyes as she turned to the crowd. They watched
her with various degrees of astonishment.

Ral extended a hand from the throne. "Come, my dear. Stand beside
me so we can address our subjects together."

As Markus took her arm in a painful grip, Josey moved her feet to
keep from being dragged across the tiles. With every step the turmoil of
dread grew within her bosom. She cast her gaze about the hall, hands
bunched into the folds of her skirt.

Caim, where are you?

Nightfall greeted Caim on his return to Othir. He didn't need to use the
Ereptos tomb tunnel; the soldiers had abandoned the gates, and for good
reason. The city was destroying itself in a tumult of blood and fire.

He slipped in through the Black Gate and stalked down streets
scarred by fighting and mayhem. A smoky miasma hung over the city.
The Processional was in shambles, with sodden furniture, broken streetlamps, and heaps of trash, some draped with dead bodies. A team of
slaughtered draft horses lay in Dawnbringer Square, still in their traces.
Makeshift barriers showed where the city's forces had tried to contain the
violence and failed. Above the carnage, Celestial Hill loomed over the
rooftops, its pristine walls gleaming like ivory in the moonlight.

"This place is a mess," Kit said as she floated over his head. "Are you
sure you're going to be able to find him?"

Caim turned down a narrow lane. "I'm going to try."

A light rain filled the cracks in the street and collected in shallow
pools. With knives drawn, Caim watched the dark nooks and doorways on
either side of his path. His father's sword hung between his shoulder
blades with strange familiarity. He wasn't sure why he had taken it. His
knives had served him well enough these many years, but he was running
on instinct now, and taking it had felt like the right thing to do. From
time to time he found himself reaching up to touch the shagreen-wrapped
hilt, and a shiver would run through his arm. After this night was over,
he'd be happy to bury the thing again.

As he entered the Gutters, Caim almost ran into the backs of a gang
of citizens. They marched down the center of the street, truncheons in
hand. With soot and bloodstains on their clothing, they looked like they
had already seen some fighting. He waited until they passed. As he
crossed the street, his gaze was drawn to the hulking specter of the work house, resolute against the city skyline, walls glistening in the rain,
affecting everything in its vicinity like a bloated spider in the center of a
tattered web. Calm's fingers tightened around his knives as he went on his
way.

He dipped into a crooked side street. It was so dark he had to navigate mostly by feel, following its meandering length for two blocks to the
mouth of a constricted intersection. Water dripped down onto him from
the eaves above as he stood in the safety of the alley's shadows. By its
looks, Ale Street had escaped the worst of the rioting so far. A man's body
in the uniform of the night watch was sprawled in the gutter outside the
Blue Vine beside an overturned cart. Blood clotted in the reddish hair
where half his head had been caved in.

"I'll check around back." Kit darted away.

Caim stared across the street. Slivers of light leaked from gaps around
the wineshop's shuttered windows. A soft clack on cobblestones drifted
through the rain. A horse, its chestnut coat rain-soaked and soiled with
grime, nosed through piles of garbage. The ends of leather reins trailed in
the puddles.

Caim opened and closed his fists. What was he waiting for? Josey
needed him, and yet he hesitated. He had fought for her, killed for her,
sacrificed everything. Was he prepared to die for her, too? He could run.
Start over. Kit would be ecstatic. All he had to do was leave Josey to her
fate. Just walk away.

Caim caressed the ice-cold amulet that hung from his wrist. He
couldn't do it. He couldn't leave her to Ral's tender mercies. And though
he was loath to admit it, he had become fond of this tired old tramp of a
city. If he ever left, it would be on his terms.

Having decided, he crossed the swampy street and nudged open the
door. Faces looked up as he stepped into the common room. Half a dozen
men and one woman sat around the hearth. Several hands stole inside
clothing to reach for hidden surprises, but one look from him was enough
to stop them cold. Mother stood behind the bar. A heavy mallet rested on
the counter beside her, the kind used for breaking open cask bungs.
Or
caving in the skulls of young soldiers.

Caim scanned the room for a specific face, but didn't find it. "I'm
looking for Hubert."

"He ain't here," Mistress Henninger replied in a terser tone than her
usual. "Haven't seen him."

"Since when?"

She shrugged, one sleeve of her heavy blouse slipping off the shoulder.
She reached up to put it back. "Earlier. Before sunset."

"Any idea where he is now?"

A bearded man stood up clutching a stick of firewood in his fist.
"You'll get out of here if you know what's good, young buck."

Caim stared at the speaker. After half a dozen heartbeats, the bearded
man settled back in his seat.

Mother came around the bar. "Don't mind him, Caim. You're a welcome sight. Hubert came by a few hours ago when the fighting took a
turn for bad, and he grabbed up all the men to go with him." She shot a
scornful look at the group huddled around the hearth. "At least, all the
real men. Anyways, no telling when he'll be back."

"I'll wait." His voice, though hardly above a whisper, carried across
the room. No one objected.

"Drink?" Mother asked.

With a nod, Caim took a seat. He tucked his knives away, but kept
them loose in their sheaths. Kit floated down from the ceiling and
alighted beside him.