The little girl gave him so strange a smile that the king nearly dropped the crown, but her tiny hands caught and kept it, and even jerked it from his hands. Al-Huk regarded her for a moment, then bowed and returned to his place in the line.

  Foscor looked at the crown with an obvious delight that bordered on naked hunger, but she turned away from the audience as she handed the crown to her twin, Prince Gavran. The boy bent to sniff the crown, and his grin was every bit as strange and ghoulish as his sister’s.

  Then the two children climbed to the top of the dais and stood on either side of the seated Witch-king. They each took hold of the crown and raised it as high as they could, though Lady Kestral had to take it from them and complete the action of placing the crown on the head of the Hakkian king.

  Lord Nespar banged his staff on the floor six times, spacing each blow so that it filled the air. Lady Kestral faced the audience, raised her arms, and asked the final question. On the surface it was a risky question, but the elements of the ceremony—most importantly the acknowledgment of correctness demonstrated by each of the gathered royals—made it pro forma. All details of so important a ritual must be obeyed because, as they were all aware, history itself was watching.

  “In accordance with the laws of Hakkia and of all sovereign lands west of the Cathedral Mountains,” she cried, speaking the words very slowly and clearly, “I ask that if anyone in this sacred place has a legal claim that disputes this coronation, stand and speak now or forever hold your peace. I ask this in the name of my king, my lord, my emperor, and the great god Hastur, who is patron of the new Yellow Empire.”

  Not one of the gathered submonarchs spoke, though they looked to one another.

  Mother Frey and Helleda Frost clutched one another. Hannibus Greel placed his hands on their shoulders and squeezed, and they all cringed beneath the weight of that silence. Tears ran down their cheeks.

  No one stood.

  Then a voice rang out.

  “By the Gods of the Harvest and the Gods of the Pit, I spit upon this false emperor. I deny him and his works and name him traitor to the empire, usurper, thief, and murderer.”

  The pronouncement was so shocking that Queen Weska of Behlia actually screamed. Several of the kings leapt to their feet, hands flashing to the hilts of their swords, as every set of eyes in the grand hall fell on the kneeling, chained, bedraggled man who had uttered such hateful words.

  Lady Kestral hid her own shock behind a sneer, but before she could speak, the Witch-king spoke, his voice oily and deep, filled with more mockery now than before the crown had been placed on his head.

  “Poor wretch,” he said. “Even now you seek to remain relevant in a world that has left you behind, Kagen the Damned.” He leaned on that word with obvious delight. “But your whore of a mother did not school you in the proper forms. One must stand in order to voice an objection. That is the ancient law.”

  Kagen looked up at him with awful hatred burning in his eyes.

  “Stand, you say?” he asked, then nodded. “If that is the law, Your Imperial Majesty, then that is the law. Five years ago I knelt in this very place to give my oath to Empress Gessalyn, whom you murdered. I swore to protect the Seedlings, her children, and to defend the empire. That oath is written in my heart, and so I must adhere to the law.”

  He smiled.

  And then he stood.

  As Kagen straightened, the chains that bound him wrist and ankle fell and clattered to the floor. He rose unfettered, as everyone gasped. Kagen spread his arms wide as if in mockery of the way the Witch-king had done so when he addressed the crowd. Except Kagen’s outstretched hands reached out and gently brushed the hands of Silverhair and the big Unseen, and they yielded, allowing him to grasp the pearl-inlaid handles of the long daggers each of them wore.

  Kagen whipped the daggers free.

  Silverhair tore off her helmet and the big Unseen did the same, and then they drew their own weapons.

  Kagen, Filia, and Tuke stood before the Witch-king, Unbladed in name only.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-ONE

  The shocked silence that followed lasted perhaps three full seconds.

  And then the pits of hell burst through the gates of reason.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-TWO

  The three warriors shifted to stand back-to-back, forming a defensive triangle, with Kagen facing the dais, Filia toward the royals, and Tuke looking across the sea of nobles and knights.

  On the dais, the Witch-king rose slowly from his throne. The yellow veil hid his face.

  In the back of the room, the rest of the Unseen stood where they were. Many people looked to them to see if they were part of this deception or not, but they held their place.

  Mother Frey and her companions fought to see past the crowd; everyone was on their feet.

  “Guards!” yelled Nespar. “Protect your emperor!”

  “He’s not the fucking emperor yet,” yelled Tuke, and then he laughed as if this was all great fun. He had a machete in his right hand and a short stabbing knife in the other.

  A knot of Hakkian Ravens surged forward, swords ringing from their sheaths. Kagen grinned. The room was crowded, and all of these men had longswords. None had shields. He did not wait for them but instead rushed the attackers.

  He even saw one Raven—a hard-faced captain—begin to smile, because by all sense and logic this was going to be a slaughter. Very brutal and very brief. And perhaps with another man that might have been true. The captain raised his sword and began a monstrous downward cut.

  Time seemed to lose all meaning. Everyone in the great hall seemed frozen into the moment—confused, conflicted, terrified, watching …

  Kagen saw the sword and the smile, and he laughed aloud. This is what he was born for. This kind of brawl of long weapons and power against short blades and cunning was what the Poison Rose had prepared him for.

  The big blade whistled as it cut through the air.

  He went in and left, parrying the fall of the Raven’s cleaver of a sword, and then he pivoted, slashing the side of the captain’s knee and then using the backswing of his parrying blade to take the soldier across the throat. Blood sprayed outward from the slashed throat, but the collapsing leg spun the captain so that the blood splashed the fighter to his right. As the gore slapped into the man’s face, Kagen shouldered the dying captain toward him, dragging the second man down, as well as a third. And then the rushing knot of soldiers was a stumbling, tripping, falling tangle.

  And Kagen was among them like a wolf among sheep. He used small and very fast slashes—no stabs, because he had no time, not even a fragment of a second, to waste in pulling his blade free. He twisted and turned, leapt and ducked, moving like a dancer in the midst of a complex ballet of slaughter. He fought to wound, to maim, to cripple and confuse.

  His blades wove a pattern of silver fire in the air, and that in itself was a statement to mark this moment, because here the Silver Empire was born and here the Witch-king was on the very brink of erasing it from history.

  * * *

  Filia had a dagger in her left hand and her right fist snugged into a cestus, the steel spikes glinting in the dancing firelight. The prince of Ghenrey began drawing his sword, and she stepped in fast and put the point of her blade under his chin.

  “No, Your Highness,” she growled. “This is not your fight.”

  The Ghenreyan’s eyes bulged, but he let the sword fall back into the scabbard.

  “You’ll get the rack for this,” he said.

  “And if I do, I will have greased it with blood,” she said. “Shall I start with yours, Highness?”

  The king froze, but then three of the other kings drew their blades. Filia shifted to put the prince of Ghenrey between her and them.

  “Go ahead, Your Majesties,” she said. “Cut your way through him to kill me, and start a war.”

  They paused, uncertainty warring with anger and outrage.

  * * *

  In the back of the room, Frey was trying to push through the crowd, but she was old and small and the tide was against her. Hannibus Greel moved past her and began shoving people out of his way. He was a big man and had spent much of his life on ships, fighting pirates to protect his cargo and crew. There was a score of shanties about Hannibus the Bull, and though he was older now, that younger self was not too deeply buried beneath beer fat and expensive clothes. He smashed his way through the panicking crowd like the prow of a warship.

  Helleda Frost caught Frey under the arm, and together they followed in the big man’s wake.

  “This is madness,” breathed Helleda. “Kagen is a fool. They’ll cut him down before he ever reaches the Witch-king.”

  Frey just shook her head, though the meaning of that was unclear.

  * * *

  Kagen jumped back as a Raven chopped at him with a ceremonial glaive, but then he stamped down on the shaft and used it as a step to propel him at the axman. He ripped the point of one dagger across the bridge of the man’s nose. The man screamed and staggered back, clapping his hands to his ruined face.

  “Alleyn,” bellowed Kagen. “Desalyn! I will save you and—”

  A sword nearly took his head off, but Kagen managed to crouch under it, turning on the balls of his feet to stab his attacker in the groin, angling his blade to slide into the gap between codpiece and thigh. It was not a deep stab, but deep enough to tear a whistling shriek from the man.

  Kagen jerked his weapon free and slid sideways in blood. He didn’t fight it—that never worked—but instead went with it, using the momentum of the slide to twist around onto one knee and one foot. From there he rose up sharply and let his blades cross and recross, cutting thighs and buttocks and the back of calves before he rose to backpedal away.

  * * *

  The Witch-king stood on the top of the dais, his sword still sheathed.

  “Kestral,” he snapped. “Get the children to safety.”

  “Majesty, I—”

  “Their safety is your only concern. Fail me at your great peril. Do it now.”

  The sorceress gathered the children in the circle of her arms and half ushered, half shoved them down the steps and toward a door that led to a secure hallway. As she got them out, she immediately began calling for more guards. Footsteps and yells filled the hallway in answer to her orders.

  Lord Nespar seemed too shocked to know what to do, but when the Witch-king growled his name, the chamberlain yelped, snapped back to awareness, and began screeching for more guards.

  The gathered hundreds seemed to each want to flee in a different direction. Some of the attending knights drew swords, but they were clearly uncertain as to what was happening, what their role was, and what, if anything, to do. So they mainly did nothing and created dangerous roadblocks with their naked steel.

  The Witch-king touched the jewel on the crown but otherwise did not move. He seemed particularly fascinated with the way Kagen was fighting.

  “A son of the Poison Rose, indeed…”

  * * *

  Some of the soldiers with clearer heads began moving in packs toward their respective kings or queens. As they approached, Filia faded back out of the way, releasing the prince of Ghenrey.

  The soldiers joined together to form a huge protective ring around their lords, but there was no clear exit because the members of the fleeing crowd were fighting one another to get out first and wound up choking the doorways. The monarchs were quickly surrounded by nests of drawn swords, and in the case of the Samudans, nocked arrows.

  “Kill that man,” ordered an officer, and one archer loosed a shaft. But fast as lightning, King al-Huk snatched the arrow as it left the bow.

  “Stand your ground,” he ordered fiercely, and all of his men—and even some of the soldiers from other nations—snapped to attention.

  “What are you doing?” demanded the King of Nehemite. “We need to stop that madman. It is our duty.”

  “Is it, brother?” asked al-Huk.

  “Yes, damn it,” said the Nehemitian. “For better or worse, he is our emperor.”

  The Samudian broke the arrow and let the pieces fall. “The ceremony was not completed,” he said. “Until it is, he is the Witch-king of Hakkia and the usurper of the Silver Empire.”

  The two kings regarded each other, and gradually the others looked at them. At al-Huk.

  None of them ordered their men to attack Kagen or his companions.

  Not yet.

  * * *

  Near the back of the hall, the contingent of Unseen was quietly edging around the melee, and with their concealing helmets, it was impossible to tell what their reaction was.

  Hannibus, who was closest to them, wondered if they were confused by having been duped by Kagen and his two friends. There was no time to ask Mother Frey about it, though. The world was falling apart around them.

  * * *

  A group of soldiers from the audience—senior Hakkians and their retainers—pushed through the crowd toward Filia and Tuke, both of whom were in a strangely isolated spot, as if they were on an island in the midst of the carnage.

  “Shit,” said Filia, setting herself for the onslaught.

  “For what we are about to receive,” said the big Therian, “may we be properly grateful.”

  They glanced at each other for a moment, and then both burst out laughing. The world was mad, and they madder still.

  The soldiers reached them, and then there was no time for anything except murder.

  * * *

  Kagen ducked low under a huge swing of a two-handed sword but did a following parry—one of his mother’s favorite tricks. As he ducked, he twisted and used one of his daggers to push the sword harder and faster in the direction of the swing. Since the sword missed him entirely, the extra force sent the heavy edge crunching into the cheekbone of a senior Raven. Kagen used his other blade to slash the inside of the swordsman’s thigh, opening up the big artery near the groin.

  He rose and then dodged left to avoid a downward lateral cut, plucking his right leg off the floor with less than an inch to spare. He pivoted on the ball of his foot and kicked the Raven in the knee, then recoiled and, with the heavy toe of his boot, kicked him in the balls. The man caved forward, eyes bugging and face purpling. Kagen kneed him in the face, knocking him into the spearpoint of the soldier behind him.

  Kagen danced left and right, parrying sword thrusts, riposting with little stings of one or the other dagger. One soldier even laughed at the scratch as he raised his own blade for a two-handed cut, but then his laugh became a cough and the man’s knees buckled. He dropped down, staring in incomprehension at the minor wound.

  “I don’t … I don’t…” was all he managed before his eyes rolled up and he fell forward onto his face.

  “Son of the Poison Rose, you jackass,” laughed Kagen, and whirled away.

  In his leather and carrying lightweight weapons, he was far less encumbered than the knights and soldiers in their armor and great swords. And there was a mad joy in his heart.

  Then he saw that there was a clear, though narrow, passage through the wounded and dying Ravens, and it led to the foot of the dais.

  If this is death, he thought, then let it mean something. Gods of the Harvest or Gods of the Pit, grant me vengeance.

  And with a roar of hate and madness, he ran at full speed toward the Witch-king.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-THREE

  Lord Nespar fought his way through the crowd to where the group of Unseen were clustered. In the absence of any other hope for order, the Unbladed elite were helping with the frantic exodus, shoving people through the doors.

  “Out!” they cried. “Get to safety!”

  It did not matter if they pushed a nobleman, an aged countess, or a confused Hakkian in armor. They worked fast, moved with precision, and their air of sensible command was—in the midst of the panic—a lifeline, a hope. Everyone accepted their commands and directions because they were the only ones getting things done.

  Nespar finally reached them and tried to take charge.

  “Get them all out,” he ordered. “Then we’ll lock the doors and deal with these barbarians.”

  The Unseen let him yell orders as the last of the civilians and guests fled into the outer halls.

  * * *

  Behind them, the room was still a melee. Tuke and Filia were fighting a bizarre battle, working together as if they had done so their entire lives. The big Therian chopped with his machete, sending limbs flying, and stabbed with his knife to destroy eyes and throats and hearts, while Filia used her blade to parry and her spiked cestus to crush knees and groins and ribs.

  They were fighting an ocean of swords, though. It was not a fight anyone could win.

  Even so, many of the soldiers they wounded collapsed to the ground from minor wounds—proof that the Lady Maralina’s poison worked on every kind of blade or spike.

  The strangeness of this gave many of the attacking soldiers pause, because it looked less like combat and more like some kind of magic, and the force of the onslaught slowed as the men in front became cautious and afraid.

  Filia and Tuke made them pay dearly for their hesitation.

  * * *

  Mother Frey, Helleda Frost, and Hannibus Greel stopped in a kind of niche between the last row of benches and a pile of Hakkians who were dead or dying.

  Frey saw that around many of their wounds the flesh had turned black, with jagged lines radiating out along the network of veins and capillaries. Proof that Kagen Vale had come prepared with poison.

  “Midnight blossom,” said Helleda.

  “You know your poisons,” said Frey.