Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

S onah sighed, following behind Lady Maranou as she whispered with Lady Serle, Matron to Lady Tollis. Usually when they strolled after dinner, Lady Maranou walked beside Sonah, freeing her from having to converse with any of the other ladies.

Tonight, however, it seemed the events of the day—the delay in departing for the north, Terena Luca’s arrival and most recently the arrival of Prince Isher—was too much fodder for gossip Lady Maranou could not ignore.

A commotion near the palace reached them and Sonah looked up. She thought nothing of it until she saw an Imperial Guard rush over to Captain Cortis, who had been standing near a few guards at the bottom of the steps to the lawn. Sonah watched as he then motioned for three others to join him.

The captain then turned his head every which way, his gaze finally landing on Sonah and, even across the distance, his eyes locked on her. She slowed her steps and frowned, staring back. A second later, he strode toward her, his face like thunder.

Something uncomfortable slid down Sonah’s chest, and she took several steps back, clutching her cloak.

Lady Maranou turned, noticing at last something was amiss, and made to step in front of her, but the captain pushed her aside as he snatched Sonah’s arm, his grip so hard it made Sonah’s knees buckle.

She cried out, even as Lady Maranou shouted in protest, and dragged Sonah along until two Imperial Guard reached them. The matron’s shouts and even Lady Tollis’s cries did nothing to stop him.

“Take her down to the dungeons and place her in a cell,” he bit out, dropping her arm to grab a fistful of her blonde hair, shoving her at the two guards.

Sonah saw stars, the pain on her scalp draining the color from her face, her mouth dropping open.

As the guards led her away, dread washed over her and she dug in her heels, screaming for Lady Maranou as the guards tightened their grip, almost lifting her as they carted her off.

Sonah could hear the matron somewhere behind her, yelling at the captain, at the guards, at everyone as more voices shouted behind her.

When they burst through a side door into the palace, Sonah paused her screaming for a heartbeat as she saw the chaos around her.

Servants ran as if they were headless chickens, some wailing or hugging others who sobbed uncontrollably. Others looked angry or frightened.

Frankel, one of the kitchen boys she’d befriended last summer, spotted her and she called out to him for help. The look he sent her was so filled with hate, Sonah could only gawk as he launched himself at her. He screamed obscenities at her as other servants and guards grabbed him, Sonah’s own captors hauling her off in a direction she’d never gone, through a door she never knew existed.

She sobbed as her confusion and terror mounted, dragging her feet as they pulled her along, bruising her arms with their grips. Sonah begged and cried, but still they half-dragged, half-carried her toward some unknown destination.

Sonah had no idea what she was saying, nonsensical words pleading with her captors while they dragged her down a stairwell, the steps turning from marble to stone as the surrounding walls became damp.

Down and down they went, Sonah tripping a few times during the descent, her knee hitting the stone so hard the shock of it arced up her leg. She looked down through blurry eyes to see blood trailing down to her foot, her stockings and dress torn.

When they reached the bottom at last, Sonah gasped for air and looked up, still crying and screaming for help she soon realized would never come.

For the room they had brought her to was one she’d heard spoken of so rarely she’d assumed it was only a legend.

As her vision cleared, she saw a large man standing in the far corner of the room, his face blank and his eyes dead. Dressed in black, he had a leather apron over his jerkin, and his long, thinning grey hair pulled back so his sallow cheeks appeared more hollowed out.

He looked like Death.

The man watched as two guards shoved her into a wooden chair in front of what looked like a stone altar, tools or she knew not what strewn about, as if someone had dumped it all in a rush.

One guard kept a hand clamped on her shoulder, but Sonah was too frightened to move. She continued to plead and cry, asking them to send word to Prince Lerek when the other guard turned, his face red with violence, and backhanded her.

The slap was so vicious, her head snapped back and the world went black.

Ormano had just fallen into bed with a contented sigh when someone pounded on his door, jolting him upright. He clutched the thin covers to his chest at another round of thwacking, louder and harder.

“Cleric Ormano!”

Orry scrambled from the bed and lunged for the door, yanking it open as he gaped at the offender.

The young guard’s face was red and his eye twitched as he bit out, “We need to leave immediately. There’s been an attack at the palace.”

He turned without another word, leaving Orry to gawk at his retreating back. Ormano shook his head and leaned out into the hallway. “What sort of attack? What’s happened?”

The guard didn’t bother to turn around, his answer carrying across the dark hallway and into Orry’s heart. “The princes. An attack on the princes.”

Slamming the door shut, Orry burst into action. Snapping up his meager belongings, he shoved them into the small pack he’d brought with him.

Hurriedly tugging on his pants and robes over his light undershirt, Orry did not bother to fasten the hooks and loops to secure his robes as he hefted his pack across his shoulder. He yanked open his door and fled down the hallway and stairs until he reached the foyer.

Chaos greeted him.

He paused long enough to take in the soldiers moving about quickly and efficiently, shouting at each other with instructions or requests. Orry’s eyes darted around, his mouth opened slightly as he eyed the organized frenzy. He darted out of the path of one soldier barreling right at him, and made himself as small as he could, despite his girth.

Orry squeezed past soldiers, wending his way toward the open double doors of the bathhouse entrance, and spied the general holding court outside. More shouts and orders erupted all around him as men gathered horses, some of them already leaping onto their backs and thundering down the cobblestones.

Orry’s eyes were round as saucers as he made his way to the general. The man’s usually ruddy face was even redder, his lips curled and snarling as he barked at the men closest to him. A path opened up as the men separated and Orry clutched at the pack strap across his chest as he leaned toward the general, cowering slightly as General Peleon pulled himself up to his full, considerable height.

Orry swallowed, hoping his voice wouldn’t betray him as he tried his best not to show this man any fear. “What’s happened, General?”

Peleon looked down his long nose at Orry, his lips thinned to a tight seam. “We make for Metilai. Someone’s made a move on the princes. ”

“A move?” Orry asked, wincing as a soldier bumped into him from behind and barreled past. “But Isher’s in Ermanel.”

“He was at Metilai,” came the gruff response.

“Is Lerek—are the princes all right?”

The general called out something to the soldier who appeared behind Orry. Orry whipped his head around, but the soldier was already gone, his strides carrying him past a group of men.

Orry turned back to the general who had turned away, his long legs crossing to the horses closest to them.

As he made to mount, Orry caught up to him, panting, and laid a hand on the general’s arm. “Please,” he gasped, “what of the princes? Are they all right? Is Lerek… Isher…”

General Peleon yanked his arm out of Orry’s limp fingers and sneered down at him before mounting his stallion.

He tugged on the reins to turn away, then looked down at Orry, his dark brown eyes burning.

“Prince Lerek is dead.”