report that to a guard captain?”
“Because, m’lord,” Cyrus said, and bowed lower, obscuring his upper body as he reached for his sword, “I have a further message to deliver, one meant for you and you alone.”
Hoygraf’s voice bled caution, and Cyrus could hear the man standing up straighter. “Oh? And what might that be?”
“That the westerner, Cyrus Davidon, even now rides for Caenalys and means to strike you down in your own throne room,” Cyrus said, his hand finding Praelior’s hilt even under the illusion.”
“Well,” Hoygraf said with dark amusement, “I doubt he’ll be getting through the hundreds of thousands of those beasts filling every square inch of ground outside our city gates, but I do welcome him to try. I don’t fear that petty coward, who hides his vileness and impotence behind western magics and wickedness.”
“I believe if you were to consult with your Lady, you’d find he’s anything but impotent,” Cyrus said, raising his head with a smile, “but you are quite right that he hides behind western magics. But only because sometimes … it’s the fastest way into your enemy’s throne room.” Cyrus stood, letting his blade hang by his side. “Oh, and not to correct the faux-King in his own chambers, but … you do fear me. You always have, since the day I put a sword in your belly and left you to die.”
Hoygraf reached for the tip of his cane and ripped it aside, revealing a narrow blade. “Perhaps you mistake hate for fear; I fear no man, especially not a man I have personally removed the head from in the past and shall again. Guards!” He called out, his voice reverberating through the chamber.
Cyrus looked left and right, and in the eye of every guard he saw the same dead expression, their faces blank, drool dripping down a few of their chins. “I don’t think you’ll be finding much help within their ranks at the moment.” He smiled, and with a nod at J’anda, said, “Western magic. You know how it goes.”
“So it’s to be the two of us, then?” Hoygraf said, wavering on his legs, from one side to the other, balancing tentatively as he held the narrow blade of his cane aloft. “I welcome the opportunity to have a chance to gut you as you’ve gutted me.”
“You cannot be serious,” Cyrus said, staring at him. “You can barely stand.”
“I will surprise you with my strength,” Hoygraf said. “My resolve is not to be questioned, nor is my prowess-”
“Much like the idea of you living to rule this puppet kingdom you’ve set up,” Cyrus said, “the idea of you lasting more than a second in a sword fight with me is simply delusion.”
“Puppet kingdom?” Hoygraf spat. “I will have you know that this moment is the culmination of a lifetime of planning, of waiting for so rich an opportunity. This land is mine, now, and no Arkarian filth is going to ruin my moment. I will finish you, and then my men and I will end this scourge that you and yours couldn’t find the balls to deal with. This is the beginning of a thousand year reign for my house!”
Cyrus looked at him blankly then blinked his eyes, twice. “When you called me impotent, earlier, you were really talking about yourself, weren’t you?”
Hoygraf’s hand made a swift gesture, waving at him. “Come at me, fool. Let us see what sort of power you have against a God-King. This is my destiny. This is the moment I was born for-” With a sudden choking noise, he looked down, then sideways.
“I agree,” Cattrine said, her hand on his shoulder, the other behind his back. “You were born for this very moment. You’ve lived your whole life leading up to it, and now you’re here. It is a culmination, husband of mine, a reaping of all the seeds of discord you’ve sown throughout the great and small moments along the way.” Her other hand came from behind his back, now, and a long, bloodstained dagger was clenched in it, and she rested it on his throat. “Enjoy the reaping, dear.” She ran it across his neck, opening his throat to a gasping noise as he collapsed. “Enjoy your moment.” He fell to the ground and blood washed out onto the blue carpet, his mouth still open in shock as his eyes went from her to Cyrus, then his face grew still.
“You all right?” Cyrus asked, staring at Cattrine. Her blue gown was stained with crimson she stared at the knife in her hands with empty, hollow eyes. “Cattrine?”
She looked up and found him again. “I didn’t dare to hope you’d come. I dreamed it, at night, when I hoped he wouldn’t hear me thinking it. I thought of you in the worst of moments, the darkest of them. I thought of you.”
“Are you all right?” he asked again, and closed the distance between them with two long steps. He took hold of her arms, gently, and watched the shock on her face dissolve as she leaned into him, kissed him, on the lips, and he could taste the spattered blood on her as she did it, smelled the court perfumes. His free hand ran across her back, gently, his gauntlet feeling the soft flesh beneath, and he wondered how many new scars she had now, how many he had let her acquire by abandoning her …
Cyrus broke away from her as Aisling cleared her throat. He turned and looked at the dark elf, who was back to her normal appearance, white hair and all. Her face was only slightly less inscrutable than of old, but he knew betrayal when he saw it. “We have to get out of here,” he said, and heard Windrider whinny in agreement.
“The city is surrounded?” Cattrine asked. Cyrus nodded. “There is a small dock in the bottom of the castle, there is a spiral ramp just outside the throne room-”
“The city is going to be destroyed unless we do something,” Cyrus said. “The scourge will consume it whole. We need to save these people.”
“Whatever we do,” J’anda said, his hands still waving vaguely in the motions of a seamstress spinning a tapestry, “may I suggest we do quickly? I grow weary of this, and I suspect these soldiers will not be happy that we are standing here in the midst of a floor covered in their anointed King’s blood.”
“Easily fixed,” Aisling said, and turned to the nearest guard, running a dagger across his throat. A spray of blood caused Cyrus to blanch, and by then she had killed three more the same way. “What?” she gave a caustic look over her shoulder at the silence as she killed another. “They would have happily done the same to us and still will when they awaken if we’re here and unwilling to fight them.”
Cyrus exchanged a look with Cattrine, who gave him the faintest nod of approval. He started toward the line of soldiers that was in front of the balcony, but Martaina ran swiftly and cut all their throats in seconds. Cyrus blinked at her. “I guess Terian was right about that one thing …” She gave him a frown, and he shrugged.
“In terms of a plan?” J’anda asked, grabbing the reins of his horse and turning it around toward the large bronze doors they had entered through. They were open, and braziers lit the antechamber outside, though the door beyond had been shut, the one that led to the main hall’s chamber.
“We rally the people of Caenalys,” Cyrus said, taking Windrider’s reins purposefully and striding forward. He looked back and took Cattrine’s hand with his other after sheathing Praelior. “With luck, the scourge will still be outside the city walls-”
There came the loudest of noises, a shattering that nearly defied explanation, as the doors to the main hall broke open off their hinges and skittered across the floor of the antechamber to the throne room. The floor shook as they landed, twelve-foot tall pieces of lumber that had been carved with intricate patterns that reminded Cyrus of fish and seas.
Replacing them was Drettanden, a beast that took up the entirety of the doorframe, from marbled floor to crown-moulded ceiling, breathing at them, flooding the antechamber with the smell of rotting flesh so rancid it made Cyrus nearly gag, infesting his very sense of taste and hanging on his tongue as though he had kissed a rotted corpse. A steady breathing filled the air like a starving dog panting for food, and there came a drop of sweat that rolled down his back, so acute he felt it, like the gentle kiss of a lover.
“Or,” J’anda said, breaking the quiet shock that permeated the antechamber, “we could just run for our lives.”
Chapter 95
Vara
She stalked across the lawns, green now at least, though footpaths had been worn between the front steps
