Chapter 26

F or a scant moment as I emerge from the dragon’s lair, I entertain the possibility of exploring another passageway. A quick glance around advises against that strategy. Guards now stand at the entrances of all three doors, including mine. Grateful that I’ve lugged the jar all the way back up, I duck and hurry past the guards like a scuttling beetle. They don’t spare me the slightest glance, but I only breathe easier when I’ve cleared the high table once more and set down my jar next to several others.

The Feast Hall is nearly empty, the revelers apparently having taken themselves outside to enjoy the fireworks. Servants swarm the tables and floors, cleaning away the leftovers into large burlap sacks. I don’t know if these scraps will go to feed animals or people, or if they’re intended for the glorious dragon below. Anger burns in my gut—no Divh should be so constrained.

I lift the hem of my overwrap to hasten out of the feast hall just as a knot of guards stride in. All of them are First House men in gold-and-black livery.

“Wine!” barks the man in the lead, and my heart stops in my throat. Fortiss , no longer appearing anywhere close to drunk. He jabs a finger at me and two of the closest servants, both women. “Wine and whatever is left of the bread and sweetfruits. Quickly.”

He sharpens his glance on me, and I lean down to scoop up a large mason jar that stinks of red wine. The other women grab platters of untouched bread and fruit, and we follow in the wake of the guards. As far as I can see, Fortiss is the only nobleman among them, but I don’t recognize the guards as his personal attendants. Has he been summoned by Lord Rihad?

Perhaps this night’s work hasn’t been in vain after all.

Once more we traverse the steps and pass the high table, but instead of angling right, toward the door that leads to the dragon’s cavern, we move beneath the leftmost arch. Fortiss’s pace is a long-legged, angry stride, and the women and I have to trot to keep up, no small feat with our long cloaks. The other two women are ahead of me and don’t speak, nor do they look at me sidelong. I get the sense they don’t know each other either, which is a blessing. The castle must be teeming with villagers to assist the First House with these enormous feasts. For Fortiss to have summoned us so carelessly means that we might not see anything interesting, but at least I can discover one thing of value: where this doorway leads.

We encounter more stairs, several short flights curling up into the mountain, finally leading to a long corridor. I stare, shocked to see that the corridor empties out into open sky at the far end—some sort of observation deck that clearly looks out over the marshlands. A breeze flows in from the deck, and as we turn away from the open doorway, I see that the airflow continues through a set of high windows at the opposite end of the hall.

“Faster,” grunts one of the guards, and I stiffen, realizing I’d fallen behind as I stared gape-mouthed at the open deck. I hasten forward, falling in line with the women ahead of me, and we soon cut to the right into another archway. Two guards stand on either side of the arch, and my stomach knots anew. If I’m caught…

But I can’t be caught. I won’t.

The arched corridor angles around, opening into several small antechambers, until it empties into a room dominated by a large fireplace. The flames within roar, and smoke licks up a slender chimney despite the warmth of the night. Rihad is surrounded by his councilors, everyone standing except Rihad himself. They turn to observe Fortiss striding in, then their eyes fall on us as we slow.

“Put the food and drink on the table and leave.” The voice is authoritative, crisp and certain…and female. Miriam. We all rush to comply, and I sweep the room hurriedly with my gaze, trying to glean any secrets from its very walls.

I’m almost to the door again when I glance back a final time toward the fire.

And then I see it.

Two great urns stand on either side of the fire, stone cylinders fashioned like quivers for arrows. But while the vases are of stone—the arrows that fill them aren’t. Their feathers stand out stiffly from slender shafts—all of them the same color. A dead, flat gray. Identical to the broken arrow still hidden in my bags.

My gaze darts from the left urn, which bristles with arrows, to the right, which appears to be only half-full. Half-full.

I blink, staring at the urn as if it holds the key to everything…and yet—how? How could that be possible? Only one arrow was loosed to take down Merritt, one deadly arrow of gray, but it seems like there are several missing here. Is that the case, or were they always arranged so haphazardly? My eyesight dims, as if to ward off what I’m seeing, what I’m clearly seeing, and my heart seems to curl up into a hard little stone in my chest. Could this be? Could the First House be behind the death of Merritt after all—and not a lesser house?

They’re just arrows , I remind myself sternly. Gray arrows made with care but gray all the same. Unhoused. Anonymous. They could be used for anything.

But why are they here?

The girl behind me nearly knocks me over in her haste, and I hustle out of the room as quickly as we’ve come, past the guards and down the many flights of stairs. When we reemerge into the great hall, however, I dally at the high table as the other girls flee, then grab another jar of wine.

Resolutely, I turn back.

The race back up the steps is short, and the guards at the archway don’t block my path, not when I’m merely carrying another jar of wine. As far as they know, I’ve been ordered to do it. But after I pass them and turn the first corner, I slow my steps to a crawl. As I creep forward, I can hear Fortiss speaking. He’s making a report, I think. I keep the jar with me in case I’m caught and hold its cool stone against my chest to quiet my heart’s thundering.

I’m all the way up to the final archway when Fortiss’s words finally reach me. “All the First House warriors have reported their tallies. The Tournament of Gold will see five more entrants in the coming days, and that’s all. As you have foreseen, Lord Protector, the doomed warriors from the Ninth and Eleventh Houses are dead. The newer delegations from the Fourth and Fifth have been plagued as well. Those houses are down to six warriors apiece.”

I jolt, momentarily frozen in wonder. Foreseen, not commanded? What is this? And, worse…the Eleventh has been struck as well?

I set the wine jug down carefully, silently, deep in the shadowed alcove. Inside Rihad’s chambers, the council erupts in indignation, peppering Fortiss with questions. How can there be these attacks on so many warriors? How have the marauders grown so bold, so quickly?

I edge forward, emboldened by the councilors’ distraction as Rihad lets their outrage swell. A second later, I can peek into the private chamber once more. My attention fixes immediately on the grand fireplace. The flames leap in the grate, and in their flickering light, I see once more the two stout urns of arrows.

And though I can’t be wholly sure, can’t say without a doubt that these truly are arrows in those urns and not simply decorative shafts, in my heart, I know the truth. Rihad is to blame for my brother’s death. Rihad pulled those arrows free and handed them to one of his warrior knights, signing my brother’s death writ as surely as if he’d wielded quill and ink. My brother and apparently other innocent warriors as well.

I stare at the urn half-filled with arrows. Who else will bleed by Rihad’s decree, I wonder…who else will die?

Fortiss continues, “No further damage has been caused to the southern delegations so far, though we’re watching the Third House’s newest company carefully as you’ve requested. I should be out there with them.”

“You had your chance to track down the marauders, Fortiss,” Rihad says dismissively. “Your place is here.”

My brows shoot up at that, but Fortiss doesn’t falter. “Very well, Lord Protector. The bards have confirmed that the Ninth has no additional warrior to send. They’ll retain one warrior alone in the Tournament. The Eleventh, none.”

“Lord Beryl is too old to have another son, and too stupid to bend the old ways.” Rihad leans back in his chair. “The Twelfth?”

“The bard assigned to scout the Twelfth hasn’t yet returned.” Fortiss lifts a hand, drops it. “Lord Orlof’s son is only fourteen, though. He won’t venture forth. There will be no further entrants beyond the southern parties, and they are expected tomorrow, plus the five remaining warriors from the northern houses. The tallies are complete. The north is now fielding thirty warriors, the south twenty-five. We’re lucky that the Tenth survived the attack you feared for them and that I should have stopped, but…” He hesitates, and Rihad narrows his eyes.

“But what?” the Lord Protector demands, and I wonder the same. And more to the point, should have stopped ?

Fortiss remains resolute. “Lord Merritt still harbors deep anger over the attack his house sustained. He believes there’s retribution to be had.”

I watch as Rihad’s eyes narrow. “Against whom?”

“He doesn’t say, but he refuses to accept the idea that it was marauders who made the attempt on his life.”

I pin my gaze to Rihad as he considers Fortiss’s words. The Lord Protector’s face is an impenetrable mask, but I can see the fury hidden there. He has the same look my father always wears when he looks at me, a rage too cold to boil over, but nevertheless resting just below the surface. “And what did you say to him when he raised these doubts?”

“I told him he was wrong,” Fortiss says flatly, and my brows shoot up. He did no such thing…did he? I try to remember everything I said and all of Fortiss’s careful words—both to me and to me-as-Merritt, but my mind is a jumble.

“Good.” Rihad nods. “You’ve done well. You’re nearing your redemption.”

If anything, Fortiss’s body seems to stiffen further. “I’m honored to serve.”

He says more, but the roaring in my mind is finally strong enough to drown out anything else. I know the truth of what I’m seeing, finally. The Lord Protector of the First House won’t offer me justice for the death of my brother after all. Because he’s done more than foresee such death, no matter what Fortiss says, what he believes.

Lord Rihad had commanded the attack on Merritt. Possibly even commanded his death. Not the Second House, not marauders. It doesn’t matter what soldier loosed that arrow, it was shot from Rihad’s bow, as sure as if he’d drawn the string back himself. I have no doubt of it anymore.

And not my brother alone, but warriors from other houses as well, some with no more than one warrior to offer, like the Eleventh. What is the point of it? The worst hit seemed to be those houses bordering the Exalted Imperium, but we are buried deep in the mountains, difficult to reach. Our warriors would have posed no threat in the tournament; far from it. The Divhs of the Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh, and Twelfth Houses are smaller, and our training nonexistent. The threat to the Protectorate was never so great from the Exalted Imperium, after all. It was the right place for the smallest Houses to be stationed.

So why would Rihad have taken such a path…?

My head continues to spin, but some tiny ember of self-protection flares to life as movement stirs in the room beyond. Fortiss is leaving, the councilors all beginning to mill about as well. They’re leaving! I have no time to flee ahead of them. I dart into one of the small antechambers off the corridor, pressing against the wall as the lot of them passes. First Fortiss with his phalanx of guards in attendance. Then, more slowly, achingly slowly, the councilors.

They leave by ones and twos, and I wedge myself more thoroughly into the crevice in the antechamber, grateful for the darkness. Outrage and grief surges up within me at equal turns, until I’m wrung out.

Someone’s still in the room beyond, however, so I can’t leave. The conversation remains animated, Rihad talking to someone I can’t discern. I dare not venture forth, not when I have no idea where the guards are. Better to wait until everything falls silent and the Lord Protector himself has gone. Then, with any luck, the guards will be gone as well, and I can exit safely.

I close my eyes and steady my breathing, trying to put everything in its own separate box. Lord Rihad has commanded the killing of warriors—but the houses he has chosen don’t make sense. Targeting weak houses such as the Ninth, Tenth and Eleventh cannot help him…can it?

My hands clench as I force myself to the next subject. Was Merritt killed to prevent him from coming to the tournament—or to prevent him from buying more soldiers? Either way, such a murder was wholly unnecessary. Gent as he originally appeared was a rabbit compared to the wolves I’ve seen so far. If my brother had been foolish enough to enter, he and his Divh would have been defeated within the first round of the tournament, at no time a threat or a risk to the outcome.

A pang of misery rings through me. Merritt would have caused no harm…no harm!

There must be a reason, though. Such a horrific offense could not have been an act of random brutality. I need to think .

Despite my scowl, wetness scores my cheeks, and I press my fingers to the swollen skin beneath my eyes, willing the unwanted tears to stop. My brother had been so filled with joy at the idea of seeing the First House and competing with his equals amid all the pomp and finery of the tournament. For him to have been shot down so needlessly…

Move on, I command myself. But the inconvenience of grief won’t listen. I lean back in the darkness and let the tears stream down my face. Tears for a boy who would never see the coliseum of the Tournament of Gold. Tears for warriors I have never met, ripped from this life and their families, their Divhs dying as they took their last breaths, disappearing into the mists.

I wait and wait, and gradually, all goes still. And still I wait more. I cannot be found, I know. I cannot be found. Far better to stay here all night than allow myself to be taken, discovered, when I’ve already learned so much. I will simply rest here, in my quiet nook. Rest my eyes but briefly, my breathing soft and still, my body heavy, silent…hidden…

An unfamiliar sound jerks me awake. I nearly gasp then snap my mouth shut. I’m trapped in the antechamber, still wedged in the darkness. How long have I been sleeping?

Hastily, I wipe my hands over my face, patting my robes back in place, and ease forward out of my corner. The roar of the fire still sounds from the other room, but there is no other sound. It’s never wise to leave a fire unattended, but Rihad’s blaze was contained in a deep and generous fireplace, so perhaps he’s gone as well.

I poke my head out of my hiding place and peer into the darkness. There’s silence all around me, the only light coming from the flickering shadows in the other room, and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.

Then Lord Rihad’s voice echoes through the silence. “It is done,” he says.

I freeze.

Another voice sounds then. Its words twist and curl around on themselves, some language I cannot hope to guess at. Almost against my will, I find my body turning toward Rihad’s private council chamber. I bite my lip to quiet the chattering of my teeth as I move through the shadows. Finally, I reach the edge of the last archway and realize there are no guards there anymore.

There’s no one except Rihad, standing, hands clasped behind his back, staring into the fire.

Only, it’s not a normal fire anymore.

The flames that leap from the blaze are stained a deep crimson, throwing the entire chamber into shades of red and black. And in the center of the fire is a twisting, roiling column of smoke, with something slithering and hissing at its base. It’s a figure, I realize with surprise, who turns to face Rihad as I watch. It wears a cloak of fire, its head shrouded in darkness. Then it speaks in a raspy voice not unlike my own, its words picking out through the feral muttering of the creatures at its feet.

“The way must be made clear,” the voice breathes, and the foreignness of it arrows through me, making my bones ache. “Speed is of the essence.”

What way, speed for what?

Rihad merely nods, as if he’s expected this. His words are placating. “The entire eastern border is already opened. The tournament calls all the warriors from every corner of the Protectorate, and when they assemble, those already controlled by my house will far outnumber the rest. We will be ready to aid you in your time of need.”

Aid who? Questions crowd into my mind as the thing inside the fire changes aspect. It lengthens, still cloaked in fire, but now with arms that reach out wide as if in exultation. A face emerges from the hood for only a moment—a face? Or a reptilian maw? Then it retreats again, too quickly for me to get a fix on its features. Before the creature, Rihad falls to his knees, his arms also outstretched.

“See that you—” The fire demon stops midsentence and lifts its hooded head, staring out beyond Rihad…toward me . Unconsciously, I take a step back, deeper into the shadows, but the damage has been done.

“There’s no one,” Rihad begins, but he’s back on his feet again, and I know his half-hearted protests won’t last. “No one?—”

“A female!” spits the creature. “I can smell the stink of her.”

I turn, hiking up my dress as I run. My sight is still dazzled by the firelight, and I smack off one side of the archway, the sound unmistakable as Rihad roars in anger behind me. No guards come running, though—there’s only a single set of footsteps.

I turn down the long corridor and flee headlong toward the open doors at its end. I glimpse night sky beyond. As I run, I bend forward at the waist as Gent has done, the awkward position possible only because my right hand has knotted up my skirts to my waist.

My legs pump, eating up the distance. I hear Rihad’s sharp command behind me, but he’s too far—too far! He cannot catch me; he won’t catch me.

I burst out onto the wide veranda and the empty dark sky glares down at me, neither moon nor star evident in the inky blackness. Chairs and tables attest to the veranda’s use as an observation point, and in another three strides, I am almost at its edge.

Without thinking, without even breathing, I leap up onto one of the chairs, then onto a large table, gaining speed as I hurtle toward the brink of the overlook, my left arm outstretched, my hand reaching, straining, so much like Merritt had done for so many years that I once again see his face, hear his laughing cry.

I catapult over the edge and then I’m completely flailing, my legs suddenly churning though there’s nowhere else for me to run but onto the air itself. The word on my lips is torn from me in a ragged gasp as I plummet toward the marshy ground far, far below.

Gent!