“Smells like a trap to me,” Zo said. “Best keep moving, Blacksword.”

  “How did you escape?” Tarana asked. “If everyone else is pinned down, how did you get out?”

  A shadow crossed the boy’s face. His eyes trailed down to his bare feet. “Three of the guards cleared a path for me. They said it was because I’m small and slippery, and I guess I am, because I had to dodge a few swords on my way out. Didn’t get cut, though.”

  The choice before them made Tarana’s heart race. If Zo was right and it was a trap and she fell for it, they would all pay for the mistake with their lives. If it wasn’t, then –

  “The doll!” the boy blurted out, interrupting her thoughts. “She said something about a doll, and you thought she thought you’d destroyed it, but you carry it with you still!”

  Blood thundered in her ears, demanding action. She took a step forward, certain she believed the boy.

  And then she paused. Thoughts of her confrontation with Fevre warned her against rash action. Each time I act without thinking – especially against the advice of others – it costs me. I won’t let Calamity get the better of me. I have to master my emotions.

  “Zo?” Tarana asked, inhaling slowly to give herself something to focus on. “Do you believe the boy?”

  “I don’t know. Seems a bit far-fetched to me, to tell you the truth. They could’ve sent any number of orphans out with the same story. Would be a great way to set a trap.” Her fingers played on dagger hilts. “I think the question is, who knew about that little detail with the dolls he shared?”

  “You mean did Mer know about it?” Tarana sighed. “He did. So what do you think we should do?”

  “Not up to me, sir. You’re the one who has to live with this decision. Either way.”

  She considered it for a moment longer. “We stick with the original plan. Someone bind up the boy.”

  “You have to believe me!” the boy pleaded. “Please! They’ll die if you don’t come!”

  Ran approached the boy, one hand held up in a pacifying gesture. “I’m sorry,” he said, retrieving a small piece of rope from his belt. “But orders are orders. If it turns out you’re telling the truth, no one will be sorrier about it than us.”

  The boy had fallen into the fetal position, rocking himself as Ran tied his hands behind his back. They moved the boy to the side of the street and continued on.

  Doubts ate away at Tarana, making her every footstep feel like a betrayal. She forced dark thoughts away as they reached the base of the plateau stairs. Ran was the first one up, jogging out of view of the rest.

  “Damn rockhopper,” Zo muttered. She raised her voice to shout to him, “When you make it to the top, try not to die until we have time to catch up, would you? Fevre will want us to be able to tell your story so she’ll have one last opportunity to curse you.”

  Their progression felt like a stilted thing to Tarana; anxious as she was, she kept bounding up the steps until she came close to Ran, and then forcing herself to slow down to wait for the others to catch up. Every once in a while she glanced down at the city; as far as she could tell, the lines in front of the main gate still held, although they were beginning to bulge as Ma’isans carved cracks in the formation.

  The next time she looked, she saw a small group break through to an alleyway. They made swift progress, exiting onto the street where Tarana had seen the priests of Calamity preparing. Fire erupted in the midst of the soldiers from one of the glass orbs the priests launched in their direction. Tarana reached out to it through the threads connecting her to the power of Calamity, making the flames spread amongst Ma’isan soldiers until no one was left untouched.

  She returned to herself to see Zo and the other rangers had nearly caught up. After a labored breath, she continued on.

  Ran was visible around the next bend. He stood facing the crest of the stairs, one hand on the bastard sword at his waist. “No sign of forced entry at the castle, but the gates are wide open. Could be a trap.”

  “Could be,” Zo agreed. “But at this point, what other choice do we have?” None of the other rangers bothered to disagree, and after a moment they started forward.

  Tarana glanced at the Temple of the Aspects as she passed. The doors hung open, a layer of debris gathered on the threshold. No one stood at the castle gates; as Tarana and the rangers crossed the drawbridge, a whistling wind was their only greeting.

  Ran reached the doors first. He turned to look at Tarana, awaiting her nod before pushing the left one open. “Skora!” he cursed, covering his nose as he withdrew. After a steadying breath, he led the way inside.

  The scene in the main hall stole Tarana’s breath. To the left, a man’s head had rolled several paces from what remained of his body. The wound where it had been severed had turned a deep shade of green that was the source of the rotten smell. To the right, two more bodies lay, their once-shining armor sporting dozens of holes. The closest one wore a permanent scream, as if his fear had run so deep even death couldn’t banish it.

  They advanced to the throne room, where yet more guards had fallen. Tarana’s steps echoed as she ascended to the golden throne. The king sat motionless, pinned against his throne by a long spear that had caught him in the Adam’s apple. His face bore more lines than she remembered; eyes once a soft brown had faded to gray. Tarana could barely see the light of his pupils beneath the cataracts.

  She reached out to touch his hand. “Father,” she whispered, her voice stolen by emotion. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could have seen you one last time, so I could tell you…” She didn’t know how to finish the thought. That I’m okay? That I’ll keep Cora safe? She closed her eyes, swallowing back a wave of sorrow tinged with regret.

  A hand on Tarana’s shoulder made her turn. She saw Ran there, a sympathetic expression on his face. “Awful to have a parent die. Trust me, I know.”

  Zo snorted from her position near the base of the stairs. “What do you know, Ran? Was your father run through by a spear, then?”

  “Well, no. I’m just saying –”

  “You’re just saying whatever comes to mind. Like you always do. Only, there isn’t anything you or any of the rest of us can say that’s going to help.” Zo placed a hand on the handle of the axe at her side. “Blacksword, whatever you’re feeling, there’ll be time for it later. But if you look over there, you’ll see one of those that call themselves the Wolves fell near the door. Which means there was fighting that way. And based on the pattern of blood, I’m guessing someone made it out.”

  Tarana summoned her strength; a piece of her felt numb, and she sought it out. She shook off Ran’s hand from her shoulder. “Let’s go find them, then.”

  Chapter 27

  Micol

  “Here’s the petitioner we were telling you about, Your Highness.”

  “Yes, yes.” The Tevulun king scowled down at Micol from his gilded chair. “You said you had news from my daughter? Given the only daughter I have left is still asleep in her chambers, I can only assume you meant you had news from Calamity. What does the aspect want from me? Now that she’s spent her powers, does she want me to open the gates for her? Allow her to hide in my castle like all the other rats that come knocking at my door each day?”

  Micol glanced to either side; the guard who’d introduced him stood to his left, a couple paces away. On the right side, a pair of guards who’d been chatting watched him carefully. None of them would be able to move quickly enough to stop him. The only one that gave Micol pause was the man standing to the side of the throne. No doubt he would step in front of the king when Micol made his move, leaving few options to avoid killing him.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Micol said. “That is, Calamity is the one who sent me. The words she shared were meant for both you and her sister. If the princess could be brought here –”

  “I’ve already told you,” the king interrupted. “She is no blood of ours!”

  “Right. My apologies, Your Highness. Words for the king and his daughter, then.” Micol did his best to keep his voice from trembling; he felt as if his quaking limbs would betray him, as if those standing close by could see his nervousness.

  The Tevulun king regarded him in silence for several moments. “Do you presume to give me orders, boy? You will share the words with me now or my guards will throw you from the edge of the plateau. The only reason I have granted you this audience is to discover what Calamity could deem as important enough to breach the blissful silence that’s existed between us for more than a year. Do not test my patience.”

  “Very well, Your Highness. May I approach?”

  The king waved a dismissive hand. “You’re fine where you are.”

  Alright, then. Micol’s blood rushed in anticipation; the only weapon he’d been able to get past the guards was a leaf-bladed throwing knife Visala had given him. His right hand freed it from the hidden pouch in his sleeve. The moment it settled into his grasp he launched into motion, striking at the guard on his left.

  The man moved too slowly to stop him, falling with a gurgle. But Micol had already moved past, striding up the steps two and three at a time in a mad rush for the king. As expected, the guard who’d been standing by the throne stepped forward, drawing the longsword at his waist and falling into a ready stance.

  Time seemed to slow as the man’s weapon made a great arc, slicing through the air where Micol would have been – had he not planted his foot a moment before and stepped precisely half a pace to the side. The move allowed the guard’s strike to pass harmlessly; before he could change the weapon’s momentum, Micol had buried his throwing knife into the man’s right eye, stealing his sword from a weakening grip.

  The king sat frozen in place as Micol aimed the point at his breast. “Apologies for the mess,” Micol said. He raised his voice for the remaining guards to hear. “If anyone comes close, I’ll kill him. Now, bring me the princess. And open the gates.”

  The guardsmen rushed to do as he said, their faces wrinkled with concern. Micol watched them scurry, his gaze avoiding the fallen bodies he’d left in his wake.

  “This is revenge, I take it?” the king asked. “For granting Prelate Gratianos permission to replace her?”

  Micol was silent.

  “Will she be arriving soon? I’d like to speak with her one more time, before… well, before whatever’s about to happen.”

  The finality in the man’s tone made Micol frown. “What do you think is about to happen, old man?”

  The Tevulun king deflated visibly, adopting a slouch that revealed the weight of his years. “I think you – or perhaps Calamity herself – are about to kill me. I saw that look in your eyes just now. You want to do it.” He looked up suddenly, his eyes wide with regret. “If I don’t get to see her again, would you tell her I’m sorry? I tried to protect her – immortals know, I did everything in my power – but there had to be a Tevulun to take up the mantle of Calamity. I mourn for whatever pieces of Tarana are left within her.”

  “Calamity didn’t send me. Death did.”

  “Ah. Fitting, I suppose. No final apologies for me, then.”

  “This doesn’t have to be your deathbed. We have no orders to kill you.” In fact, Micol mentally added, we have orders not to kill you. Visala had been clear: if the king could be saved, they should do so. Failing that, the sister must be taken alive.

  The doors of the main hall opened, revealing a trio of guards and a group of Wolves led by Vasha. Smooth as a cutpurse, he freed Micol’s sword from its scabbard and brought it to bear on the closest guard. A surprised groan escaped Micol as the man’s head separated from his body and fell to the floor.

  A shout of surprise rose from the other guards, who rushed to free their own weapons. The Wolves Vasha had been leading fell on them, stabbing through gaps in the guards’ armor with swords, daggers, axes – any weapons they had managed to pick up in their battles throughout the city.

  Vasha continued on into the throne room, his arms spread wide in triumph. “Well done, Micol. Who would’ve thought a deserter and a street thug would wind up in the throne room of the Kingdom of Accalia?”

  Micol met Vasha’s gaze, his eyes narrowing. “You didn’t have to kill them. They were doing as we asked.”

  In response, Vasha approached the body of the guard at the foot of the stairs and kicked it with a leather boot. “Not really one to judge, are you?”

  A wave of nausea swept over Micol. He shook his head, ignoring the jibe. “They will be arriving with the princess soon. We should get ready to leave.”

  “They will not let you take her,” the king said. “I have ordered the palace guard to ensure her safety over mine.”

  “Well,” Vasha said, inspecting a spear one of his men had picked up from a fallen guard, “That would be a problem, wouldn’t it? When their oaths bind them to the protection of your life but your orders bind them to that of your daughter, which will they choose?”

  The sound of footsteps came from behind Micol. He turned to see a dozen guardsmen come into view, weapons readied. A girl in a flowing yellow dress stood in their midst with an imperiousness that marked her as the princess.

  “Princess,” Vasha said. “As you can see, we have your father. Tell those guards to lay down their weapons and you won’t be harmed. It’s your sister we’re after. Not you.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed. “I would sooner kiss a viper. You won’t get to her through me.”

  Vasha snorted, hefting the spear he’d been inspecting in one hand. “You’ve heard of the Wolves of Vicrum, yes? Good. So you’re aware of the fact we’ve robbed nearly half of the noble estates in this city. In each robbery, there’s a moment like this: those who are used to being in power make bold statements to show each other things haven’t really changed. How could they? We’re just a pack of starving animals. What chance could we have against the brave knights in their shiny armor?

  “And eventually, people start dying. Those bold statements fade away like whispers on a summer wind.” Vasha turned back to the king. “Tell them to put down their weapons, old man. Do it, or I’ll skewer you against that golden stool.”

  Micol saw the king straighten, regaining his original stature. “Yone, my earlier orders stand.”

  The group surrounding Cora leaped into motion; two of them pulled her away while the rest moved to block the door.

  “Micol!” Vasha shouted. “After her!”

  “What am I supposed to do with him?”

  “Move out of the way.” Vasha advanced, approaching the first stairs of the throne. Micol moved to allow him to take his place in keeping an eye on the king.

  Instead, Vasha hefted the spear in his hand, launching it in a single, smooth motion. A sickening crunch came from the throne as it impaled the king; Micol grimaced, looking away as quickly as he had glanced back.

  “Well?” Vasha said. “Our target is the princess! After her!”

  Pushing down the sick feeling in his stomach, Micol joined the group of Wolves in a charge at the four palace guardsmen in the doorway. He reached the rightmost one first, landing a blow with his sword that reverberated harmlessly against the other man’s shield. A blade tested out from above the shield’s lip, tearing his tunic at the shoulder.

  Micol slapped aside the weak blow, replying with a kick that made the shield’s holder take a step back. He pressed his advantage, reaching out with a free hand to grasp the shield’s edge. A strong wrench turned it sideways, pulling the holder off-balance; Micol struck with his sword for the man’s breast, but it clunked ineffectually off of the mail.

  Another Wolf slid in on her knees, dagger plunging for the eye slit in the guardsman’s helm. Micol felt the man’s body give a great jerk and then he fell still. He had barely had time to process the events before the Wolf who’d killed the guard had liberated a shield and mace.

  Someone tapped Micol’s shoulder. He had to bite back revulsion at the sight of Vasha’s grim smile. Vasha held out a sword belt. “Here, I believe this is yours. Find someone else to take that sword you won. We can always use more good weapons.”

  He had barely to turn before a short man’s outstretched hand grasped at the sword he’d been using. Micol handed it off, looping the belt with his own sword around his waist as the last of the guards at the doorway fell.

  “They’re coming through!” someone shouted as they passed the threshold. “Tell Yone he doesn’t have much time!” The hallway in front of them had been blocked off by a line of little more than a dozen – only three of them wore the colors of the palace guard, while the rest appeared to be servants.

  The Wolves around Micol started forward, but he held out an arm to stop them. “Please, don’t make us do this,” he said to the group ahead. “We were all like you not long ago. In one way or another, we all served the noble families. But you don’t have to let them control you; you can throw off your shackles and join us.”

  “To the Everlands with you,” a portly woman replied. Judging by her clothing – and the fact she was holding a bloody cleaver – Micol guessed she was the castle cook.

  “Don’t worry,” Vasha whispered from Micol’s side. “You can keep your hands clean. Stay back if you’re afraid. I’ll give the order.” He raised his sword. “Charge!”

  Micol stood frozen in place, watching in horror as the two groups crashed into each other. The castle cook fell on one of the Wolves with a savage snarl, her cleaver tearing into his neck as readily as it would any other cut of meat. She in turn fell to a mace-blow, yielding her spot in the line to a boy in rags.

  This, Micol thought as he watched two guards pin a gaunt man who had recently joined the Wolves to the wall and remove his hand with an axe-swing. This is the problem. Commoners fighting commoners, all for the benefit of those who’ve spent the whole siege comfortable in their castles.

  The hallway fell silent as the last of the defenders fell. Vasha led the way forward, urging the group on toward the great hall. They ran as a pack, encountering no resistance from the few remaining servants they encountered.