Sergeant Merts appeared from somewhere. He and Major Volek led her through the manor’s broken gates. The courtyard was a mess. Garbage lay scattered across the lawn; parts of the shrubbery were blackened from fire. Soot streaked the house’s facade, and a few of the windows were broken, but it appeared as if the structure had avoided significant damage.
Hubert beat them to the entry, jumping down from his steed with sword in hand. Sliding out of the saddle, Josey hurried up the short flight of steps, the soldiers just behind. The large door opened, and a man-at-arms in leather armor moved aside. As she entered the atrium, Josey started for the double staircase, but a choking sob brought her to a halt. They turned to the parlor, Hubert leading the way. Josey had to run to keep up.
Anastasia was inside. And alive, thanks the heavens! She sat on the same couch where Josey had poured out her heart on a cool autumn day that felt like forever ago, but she was not alone. On her lap lay the white-haired head of an old man, his eyes closed. He wore an antique military uniform from the days of the old empire. The folds of the jacket seemed to swallow him, the pants billowing around his legs. Hubert stood beside the couch, arms at his sides. The only sounds were the dripping of the water-clock on the mantelpiece punctuated by Anastasia’s sobs. Her friend glanced up, and the heart-wrenching look in her eyes stole Josey’s breath away.
“’Stasia,” she whispered.
She knelt beside the couch and buried her face into Anastasia’s shoulder, both of them crying. Words tumbled into her ears, but it was a long time before she could make them out.
“I’m sorry,” Anastasia mumbled again and again. “So sorry, Josey.”
Josey lifted her head from the sodden patch she had made on Anastasia’s sleeve. “Hush, hush. Don’t say another word. There is nothing to be sorry for-”
“I held it against you, Josey.” Anastasia drew in a ragged breath. “I held Markus’s death against you. I didn’t mean to. I know he wasn’t the man I thought he was, but I loved him, Josey. I really did.”
Josey touched her friend’s cheek. “I know you did. And I don’t blame you for a moment.”
Anastasia smiled, but it was a smile tinged with melancholy. “When they started throwing things at the house, father’s heart couldn’t stand the strain.” She smoothed the front of his jacket. “He hasn’t worn this old thing since I was a little girl. I didn’t even know he still had it. Doesn’t he look handsome?”
“Very handsome,” Josey said, her throat thick with emotion.
In her mind she saw her foster father, the earl, sitting in his bedchamber with a gaping hole in his chest. She wrapped her fingers around Anastasia’s hand, needing to feel that warmth.
“I promise he’ll have a hero’s funeral. But you must come back with us to the palace. It isn’t safe here anymore.”
Tears ran down Anastasia’s face as she gazed down at her departed father and nodded. Relieved, Josey looked up to Hubert.
“Tell the staff to prepare for the move. Quickly, before the mob returns.”
With a firm nod, Hubert hurried out of the room. There had been an expression on his face when she glanced up, a look of sorrow she wouldn’t have expected from him. He returned moments later with a troubled frown.
“Majesty, I think you had better see this. It’s Master Hirsch.”
Josey got up and followed him out of the house, to where a squad of bodyguards waited. At a gesture from Hubert, they led the way back to the street. Josey glanced at Hubert, but he said nothing until they turned down the alleyway running alongside the mansion. Two soldiers standing in the narrow lane made smart salutes. Sergeant Merts sat beside them, holding a bloody rag to his side. The other man was partially covered by a muddy cloak. As Josey approached, she saw it was the adept. She pushed through the press of guards to get to him. Hirsch was on his back, eyes closed. His face was such a pale shade for his normally bronzed skin, she thought he was dead. She braced herself as she knelt down and started to lift the cloak, but the adept took a shuddering breath.
“He’s alive!”
Hubert eased her to her feet. “Yes, but perhaps not for much longer.”
“What happened?”
Sergeant Merts shook his head. “I saw him come down this way, following someone maybe, but when I got here he was on the ground. Looks like someone struck him from behind.”
Josey looked down the alleyway. “All right. I want everyone mounted up and ready to leave in ten minutes. Understood, Lord Vassili?”
Josey left with her escort as Hubert called for stretchers to be fashioned. She was beyond tired. She wanted to collapse where she stood. Instead, she steeled herself and headed back to the mansion, to her friend, and to all the problems piling at her feet.
Brilliant light flashed in the oriels high above the great hall, casting stark shadows across the walls as Sybelle lay upon her back, one bare foot resting on the leg of the throne. The thunder soothed her nerves. Distant shouts and occasional screams whispered in the stone beneath her head. She smiled at her lover.
Erric, my love. So strong. So handsome. Why don’t you smile for me?
She sat up with a pout, and then the memory crashed down upon her. He was dead, and she was alone. She’d been alone as long as she could remember, growing up in a palace of cold black ice where no one ever sang or cried, in her father’s court where she’d been expected to play the role of the silent princess. Everyone abandoned her eventually. Just like Erric.
When a voice in her head whispered that the Duke of Liovard had not left her, that she herself had slain him, she clawed it to pieces and tossed it to the winds. She would never harm her sweet love. She had brought him to this chamber where they often sat in state together. He even had an audience-palace servants, rebellious prisoners, and even her son’s Northmen. The power of their blood thrummed in her arteries as their dripping heads orbited around the throne on sorcerous tethers. She did not know how much time had passed save that the torches around the room had gone out. The shadow play on her lover’s face gave the illusion of life. She could almost believe…
Sybelle crawled up the throne and climbed onto Erric’s lap. Ignoring the strange way his legs shifted beneath her, she caressed his face. His whiskers tickled her palm. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his mouth. Though his flesh was cool, there was fire enough inside her for both of them. Tears ran down her cheeks and into her mouth.
Sybelle did not notice the pressure in her chest until the pain was almost overwhelming. She looked around to see the shadows of the chamber oozing forth, gathering in the center of the floor. They spun in a spiral, faster and faster, until a hole formed in the air. Her blood chilled. With Erric and Soloroth dead, there was only one who would contact her.
She slid down from the throne as a figure appeared in the window. Her lord and father, seated on his basalt throne. His stern voice seized hold of her heart.
“Sybelle. You have not made contact in days. Tell me why.”
She let out a shuddering breath. “Great lord, my son, Soloroth-your grandson-is dead.”
The image blurred, and Sybelle realized she was crying, something she hadn’t done since she was a child. It was a strange sensation, almost like rage but wrapped around a core of hopelessness.
“Compose yourself and tell me whom you allowed to slay your progeny.”
“The scion, Lord.”
There was a long silence before he spoke. “Why have you not told me of him before? I am disappointed in you, Sybelle.”
She bowed her head, fighting back a sob. “I had no choice. I knew your lordship would intervene.”
“You were correct. I would have taken steps. Perhaps I could have prevented this. But now I leave it to you. Eliminate this threat to our plans, Sybelle.” His face loomed larger, his refined features daubed in shadow and starlight. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, my lord.”
As the aperture darkened, the pressure lifted from her chest, but the intoxicating tang of sorcery remained in the air. The shadows continued to spin, extending outward with dark tentacles until they formed a circle of darkness ten paces across. Sybelle stepped back as figures emerged from the gateway, six warriors encased in suits of dark armor. She knew them on sight. The Talons were her father’s personal cadre of assassins. Said to feel no pain and no emotion, they were completely loyal to the Lord of Shadow. The last time she had been in their presence was nearly two decades ago, when a squad had accompanied her and Levictus on the night they retrieved her sister
