Arion shifted his grip on his sword as the Beast stepped out from the shadow of a deep alcove. His black plate armor glistened like the scales of a serpent. The challenge was evident in the giant’s arrogant stance, the way his massive hands opened and closed within their black steel gauntlets. He made no move toward the mace-and-chain hanging from his belt, but Arion wasn’t willing to give him the chance to unfurl its deadly links. He ran at the witch’s spawn, swinging his sword with both hands. The blow struck Soloroth square on the crest of his helmet. The Beast staggered back a step, and for one brief moment Arion had hope that he had dealt a lethal blow, but his optimism was short-lived as Soloroth remained standing. Arion wound up for another swing, but the Beast moved with astonishing speed. The sword fell from Arion’s numb fingers. He gasped as steel fingers closed around his neck. With the pressure of a vise, they contracted to close off his air and lifted him off the ground. Arion gripped Soloroth’s wrist as his head began to ache, but the Beast could have been a statue holding him aloft in its adamant grasp. A gasp hissed from the throne.
“Please…” a rasping voice spoke.
Sybelle turned. “Yes, Erric?”
Arion prayed as the pain in his chest ballooned to block out the world. Typhon and all the gods that watch over Eregoth, damn the witch and her cursed son to endless night. Let them never see the sun again. Destroy them…
“Spare him!”
Darkness descended over Arion’s sight. Consciousness was slipping from his grasp. He clung to it for just one more instant, knowing he would never awake from this slumber. He felt himself falling. His feet struck the floor, but they had no strength to hold him, and he collapsed at the giant’s feet. Air-sweet, rich, and intoxicating-rushed into his lungs. He gulped it down like wine. His sight cleared enough to show him that the witch still gripped his father by the hair.
“Remember, Erric,” she said in a sickeningly playful tone. “You rule by my indulgence.”
With a smile, she released his father and walked away. She stopped beside Soloroth, both of them gazing down at him. Arion wanted to shout at her, to scream his defiance, but the only sound that came from his lips was the shrill whistle of his breath.
Sybelle nudged him with a toe. “Send this one back to the south to begin the next stage of the invasion. He will be forged into something worthwhile in the heat of conquest.” She shrugged. “Or he’ll cease to be an annoyance.”
Arion closed his eyes as the witch and her son strode away, her mocking laughter ringing in his ears along with the thundering pulse of his heartbeat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Josey yawned as she got out of bed. She hadn’t slept well. All night long the problems facing the realm kept her awake, from the riots in the streets to her problems managing the court, not to mention the continual threat of assassination hanging over her head. It didn’t help that Hirsch and Hubert had gone out again last night to renew their search for the assassin.
Amelia came in with an elaborate gown from the wardrobe, and Josey began the laborious process of getting dressed. With all that was going on, she had to make an appearance in court this morning even if it killed her. Josey exhaled as the corset tightened around her ribs.
“Not so tight, please, Amelia. I’m feeling a little ill disposed this morning.”
“I’m sorry, my lady. Shall I call for a physician?”
Josey glanced over her shoulder and faked a smile. “I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s just Josey. And, no. I’ll be fine.”
The maid gave another tug on the laces. “Yes, my lady.”
Josey sighed, but not too deeply, and sat down for her other maid, Margaret, to select her footwear. She declined the knee-high boots with four-inch heels and went with a pair of laced padded shoes. A selection of jewelry-earrings, necklace, golden tiara-and a bit of tasteful makeup completed the outfit.
“Tell them I’m ready,” she said.
As Amelia went to the door, Josey looked at herself in a large mirror. The blush on her cheeks was a little heavy, but she had to admit she looked like an empress, even though she didn’t feel it. Is this how all rulers feel? Are we all a bunch of trumped-up phonies prancing on a stage? The thought made her feel a little better.
When the door opened and her bodyguards-up to six now, every minute of the day and night-stood aside, Josey walked out into the hallway. The trek from her apartment to the audience was silent save for the clomp of heavy boots on the marble tiles. Josey kept her hands clasped together over her stomach, which fluttered like a bag full of bluetail flies. Decisions needed to be made to restore order to Othir-that was her first priority. She hoped she could find the answers her people needed. Otherwise she would have the shortest reign in Nimean history.
Two of her bodyguards halted outside the Great Hall, and two inside the doorway. The last pair escorted her across the broad chamber. The hall was almost vacant except for a sparse handful of ministers already in their seats. Lord Parmian stood at his appointed place and gave her a commiserating smile as she entered, but the lord chancellor’s desk was unoccupied. Where is Hubert? And where’s the rest of the Thurim?
Her anxiety threatening to burst into a full-blown panic, Josey climbed the steps to the throne. She took a deep breath before sitting down to face her truncated court. When she asked for the day’s first order of business, Ozmond started to approach until a side door opened. Quick footsteps echoed across the hall. Hubert, looking uncharacteristically disheveled, hurried over to take his rightful place. After coughing into his hand, he addressed the court.
“My apologies, Majesty. My noble lords and ladies. The first order of the day is the disagreement between our realm and the kingdom of Arnos over the annexation of Mecantia. Lord Gherova has the floor.”
While Gherova, a fussy sophist who had spent many years living in Arnos, stood and read from what looked to be an exceedingly long roll of notes, Josey motioned for Hubert to approach. He climbed the steps with a hung head. She’d meant to show him the sharp side of her tongue, too, but he looked so pathetic she let him go with a stern scowl.
“You look like a bad dream,” she whispered. “What happened?”
Hubert put a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a parchment packet, which he handed to her.
“Not much, but we found these.”
“By the river?”
“No. We went back to the original scene hoping to discover something we missed before in our haste.” His mouth bunched up. “The theater is in shambles.”
A pain of sympathy stabbed Josey’s heart for the city’s loss. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No one died, which is a miracle.”
Josey opened the packet and spilled out two thin flakes of what she first thought was some kind of leaf. Then she noticed their brittleness.
“Scales?”
“That’s what we think. Master Hirsch believes these will help us track the assassin.”
A weight lifted from Josey’s chest. “Thank you, Hubert. This is the first bit of good news I’ve had in days. Give Master Hirsch whatever he needs.”
“Yes, Majesty. And two new dispatches arrived this morning.”
“News from the north?”
“I’m afraid not. More settlements have been burned along the western border. And the commanders of the Parvia and Wistros regiments have not reported back yet. At best, they couldn’t make the march to Othir in less than six days.”
“Six days!” she blurted, a little louder than she intended. Lord Gherova paused, and then continued after a nod from her. To Hubert, she whispered, “Never mind. Where is everyone?”
Hubert looked away as if he didn’t want to answer, but Josey waited him out.
“Some of the ministers are afraid to leave their homes because of the violence in the streets.”
Josey bit down on her bottom lip. So much for a day of good news.
