The grounds themselves were filled with tents, soldiers and camp followers moving between them, and Lydia suspected the barracks connected to the palace must be full to the brim.
“Do they have water?” she asked Quindor during a break in Emmy’s chatter. “Food?”
“The King is aware of how the blight infects,” the Grand Master answered, his clipped tone suggesting he saw the same danger as she did. “Food and water are being brought in from Abenharrow.”
Even so, having this many in Mudaire was folly. All it took was one of the blighted willfully tampering with a water barrel and the disease would sweep through the ranks like wildfire. And these weren’t common citizens, but armed and trained soldiers who knew how to fight. Trying to purge their ranks of blighters wouldn’t just be difficult, it might well be impossible.
“He needs to send them away,” she said softly. “This is no place for an army.”
“It is not your place to give advice to a king,” Quindor answered. “You will speak when spoken to and answer only questions posed to you. Is that understood?”
The only thing she understood was that stymieing good advice for the sake of protocol was willful stupidity. But Killian, at least, would listen to her. And the King would surely listen to the man he’d put in command of his armies.
A servant wearing crimson-and-gold livery met them at the palace entrance, bowing to Quindor and Lydia. “The King will see you straightaway, Marked Ones.”
While the wreckage and bodies had been removed from the palace, along with the bloodstained carpets, little else had been done to repair the damages inflicted the night of the ball. A strong smell of smoke permeated the air from the fire in the ballroom, the walls and floors bore deep gouges, and there was a strange lack of furniture, though whether it had been stolen by the civilians or removed because it had been damaged, she didn’t know.
The servant led them down the hallway to the council chambers, and Lydia’s gaze latched on the scorpion gilded onto the heavy wood doors. The armored guards outside eyed her and Quindor, deemed them not a threat, and their attention returned to the corridor beyond.
The servant entered the chamber, Lydia faintly heard him announce them, and then the door swung fully open to reveal the room. She’d seen the inside before only at a glance, but she swiftly marked the changes that had been made. Gone was the large table inlaid with a map of Mudamora and the heavy chairs that had encircled it, each with the symbol of a Great House carved into their backs. In their place was a narrow crimson carpet that led to a dais, on which sat a throne of oak and gold.
Serrick Rowenes, King of Mudamora, sat on the throne, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, fingers steepled. Standing before him were several men, one of whom she recognized as High Lord Damashere. There was a tall woman dressed in a long tunic cinched at her waist by a sword belt, her dark hair twisted into a knot, the base shaved to reveal a falcon tattoo. Even before she turned to regard them, Lydia knew this must be High Lady Falorn.
But none of them were Killian. Why isn’t he here?
She and Quindor approached, both of them bowing low when they reached the dais.
“Grand Master,” the King said to Quindor. Then his amber gaze flicked to Lydia. “Marked One.”
Despite his scrutiny, Lydia found her gaze drawn to the older woman standing behind his right shoulder, instantly recognizing Cyntha, the King’s personal healer. Her white robes were pristine, her forehead marked with the half-moon tattoo. Her grey-laced dark hair hung in a simple braid over one shoulder, and her upturned eyes had deep crow’s feet at the corners. The last time Lydia had seen her had been right before Killian had been speared in the side at Alder’s Ford.
The healer’s nose wrinkled at the sight of Emmy. “That thing is dead. Why you keep it as a pet is a mystery to me, Grand Master, but at the very least, you should keep it in chains.”
Emmy began to cry, and Quindor patted her absently on the shoulder. “Cruelty is unnecessary, Cyntha. While her mind might be gone, the body you see once belonged to a little girl with a good heart. For that girl’s sake, we will treat her with kindness.”
Cyntha made a noise of disgust, but the King stepped off his dais, brow furrowed as he inspected Emmy. Reaching out, he wiped the tears from her cheeks, then shook his head. “She appears to me a normal girl, Quindor. You’re certain she’s dead?”
“Quite. There is no more life in her than the stones beneath your feet, Your Grace.”
“I don’t feel dead.” Emmy wiped her nose on her sleeve, looking pleadingly up at the King. “Please don’t let her put me in chains, Your Grace. I’ll be good, I promise.”
King Serrick’s lips drew into a thin line. “I see you,” he said softly. “And I will burn every last one of your puppets to ash. I swear it in the names of the Six.”
A terrified little scream tore from Emmy’s lips, and she twisted away to bury her face in Quindor’s robes, her shoulders shaking. And despite knowing this was the Corrupter at work, it was all Lydia could do not to demand the King to cease in his cruelty. Mercifully, Quindor gestured to one of the guards that had accompanied them. “Take her to one of the sitting rooms to wait. Have the servants bring her something sweet to eat.”
And as the man led the weeping Emmy away, Lydia saw she wasn’t the only one moved by the girl. Nearly everyone in the room looked ready to leap to her defense.
“Your return to Mudaire is unexpected, Your Grace,” Quindor said once the door closed again. “I was of the belief
