Something crawled across Geder’s skin. A tiny black spider drenched in the priest’s blood, tiny feet leaving a trail of red as it scrambled. Geder pulled his hand back with a shout, but Basrahip was already pushing toward the east, bullying him along like a child. The revelers were on their feet, the mass of bodies surging forward and back. The crash of a table overturning came from behind him, and shattering glass, and the clash of steel against steel.
They reached the far door and Basrahip forced his way through, bellowing like an animal in pain. The tiny spider or another one like it bit Geder at the soft flesh inside his elbow. He cried out, slapping at it, and Basrahip lost his grip.
“Come, Prince Geder! Come quickly!” the priest shouted, and Geder was about to follow when a terrible thought came to him like icewater running through his heart.
“Aster!” he shouted. “Where’s Aster?”
“Come to me, Prince Geder!”
“I have to… Wait for me. I’ll be right back.”
Geder ran back into the chaos of the bloody revel. The violence had spread. To his left, a wide arc of blood spattered the wall. To his right three of his guardsmen were surrounding two of the attackers, but two more enemy were pelting toward them, bloodied blades at the ready. Geder jumped over the body of a middle-aged man, unsure whether he was alive or dead. His focus was set on the high table, and Aster cowering under it. Geder ran as he hadn’t in months. When he regained the high table, he barely had the breath left to speak. He pulled Aster from his crouch, yanking the prince by the arm as Basrahip had to him not a minute before.
“What’s happening?” Aster cried.
“You’ll be fine,” Geder said, asserting it as if certainty of tone could make it true. “But you can’t stay here. You have to come with me.”
Only when he rose, the path east was blocked. A dozen attackers were overwhelming what was left of his personal guard. And in the center of the attackers, Dawson Kalliam hewed alongside the enemy with a sword in his awkward left hand. As Geder gaped, Kalliam caught sight of him.
“There! He’s at the high table.”
Geder turned north and bolted. The hall was less than half full now, men and women fleeing into the Kingspire shrieking. Geder’s heart was going so fast that he thought it might begin a beat before the last one was finished, seize up, and kill him on the spot. An old man in servant’s dress saw him running with the prince. For a terrible moment, Geder saw the fear in the man’s face, and then determination. The servant scooped up a soup ladle, brandishing it like a mace.
“For Aster and Antea!” the old man screamed as he charged the swordsmen pursuing them. Geder didn’t pause to watch the man die.
The corridors outside the feast hall were a stampede inside a slaughterhouse. People were running in all directions, dodging each other, turning, fleeing without any sign of knowing where they could flee to. And Geder was as lost as any of them. Basrahip could be anywhere by now.
“You’re the Lord Regent,” a voice beside him said. The pale woman. The banker. Her gown was ripped at the sleeve and something dark but not blood spattered her snowy skin. Soup, maybe. “What in hell are you doing? It’s a coup. You have to get away.”
“I don’t know where to go,” he said. “They could be anyplace. I don’t know where’s safe.”
The woman stared at him, and he thought there was a moment of bright madness in her eyes. She grinned, perfect pearl teeth in pale gums.
“I do,” she said.
Cithrin
Following the Lord Regent when the knives came out had been more a matter of instinct than judgment. She certainly hadn’t meant to save him or the boy prince. She’d only wanted to see what happened. But when at last she’d caught up with him, the man standing in the corridor outside the hall with the boy on one hand and eyes as round as coins, he’d said he didn’t know where would be safe.
Her first thought was
Her second thought was
Escaping the Kingspire itself was easy. She had the prince, and the prince had all the knowledge that young boys acquire of shorter routes and secret ways. The Kingspire had always been his home, and once she had tasked him with finding the way out to darkness and night, the hardest part was keeping pace.
Outside, men were shouting and torches flared all through the gardens and along the gates. They made their way, careful but swift. Around a long hedge and then over a wall and into the street beyond. As she helped the Lord Regent crawl over the rough stone, Cithrin wondered how many times Prince Aster had used this route to escape his tutors.
In the gloom of the night street, Cithrin paused. The shouting was both louder and more distant, the riot of swords and voices still rising. The prince wore a robe of white sewn with threads of gold and a ceremonial crown. His sleeves were sewn with pearls, and gems studded his cuffs. He’d stand out in the darkness like a candleflame. The Lord Regent was somewhat better. His garnet-colored tunic wouldn’t grab the torchlight. He was a round-faced man, not much older than her true age. His build said he’d been strong not long ago, but was well on his way back to soft.
“We’ll get to the Division,” Cithrin said. “And then move south to the Autumn Bridge. I think the house we’re looking for is on the far side, but I’m not sure of that.”
“What if they’re holding the bridge?” the Lord Regent asked in a high, tight voice.
“We have enough trouble right now,” Cithrin said. “Let’s not borrow more.”
They set out, trotting through the dim streets. Once, when a half dozen horsemen pelted down the road, Cithrin had to haul them all into the shadows of a great marble statue of a Firstblood man putting the sword to a particularly bestial-looking Yemmu woman. Another time, the square she’d hoped to cross was filled with men shouting at each other and brandishing swords. They hadn’t come to blows yet, but she heard the violence in the timbre of their voices. Cithrin pulled the prince by the hand, and the Lord Regent followed them both down into the darkness, searching for another path.
Cithrin felt the fear, breathed it, but it seemed almost to be happening to some other woman. Her footsteps didn’t falter, her decisions were swift and unhesitating. The men and women who saw them only looked confused, not alarmed. They were running ahead of the violence like a seabird out-pacing a wave. Even if they were seen now, the citizens of Camnipol didn’t know what it meant, a man, a woman, and a child all dressed in the clothing of wealth and running through the night. They tacked through the dark and treacherous sea of alleyways and courtyards, aiming—she hoped—for the bridge she’d been pointed to once, and in daylight.
It stood at the edge of the cliff face, arching slightly upward as it leaped the wide air. Ancient trees had given their bodies to the making of the bridge. It was wide enough that two carts could pass each other and a man still walk between them. The upward curve meant she couldn’t see the other side, hiding it like the arch of a hill. There could have been a dozen men charging at them, swords bared, and she wouldn’t have known it until they met in the center.
Beside her, Lord Geder Palliako was panting. She turned slowly, looking for something that might have been a tap-room or a wayhouse. All she saw was a thick flicker of smoke to the north.
“All right,” she said. “We have to cross.”
“We can’t do that,” Palliako said. “We’ll be seen. We’ll be recognized.”
“We can stay here and see who finds us,” she said. As if to punctuate her words, the sound of shouting floated across the broad, empty air and echoed against the Division’s walls.
“It’ll be all right,” the prince said.
“Wait,” Cithrin said. She plucked the thin crown off the boy’s head. From the weight, it was silver throughout. She heaved it over the edge, sailing it out through the wide air. “Lie down. Help me rub muck over this. Do it quickly.”
It was a long, breathless minute, but the white formal robes of the Prince of Antea was reduced to rags. The
