now. He pulled until his tendons strained and his legs shook. The wound in his side ached, but he didn't let up until, inch by inch, the stone came free of its bed. With a groan he heaved it away.
Pale worms wriggled in the damp earth where the stone had lain. Kit crouched beside him as he pulled a moldy leather sack from the soil. He cracked it open to pull out the items inside, and set them on the ground with reverence. The first was a square of sturdy broadcloth. It unfolded into a dirty gray tabard. A great sablewood tree was stitched onto the breast in black thread, the sign of his father's house. The second item was wrapped in oilcloth. Caim pulled away the covering to reveal a portrait in a plain wooden frame. Calm's father was tall and imposing in the picture. His mother looked tiny beside her husband, like a dark-leafed sapling growing in the shade of a mighty rowan. Her hair was long and lustrous black, her eyes mysterious pools of obsidian.
While Kit mooned over the picture, Caim took out the third item. The sword's leather scabbard was in bad repair. He wiped away years of grit from the whorls carved into the pommel. This had been his father's blade. Though the hilt was cool to the touch, holding it produced a burning heat in the pit of his stomach. He had pulled this weapon from his father's corpse. Now, he would use it to sever the chains of death that had bound up his life for so long, or he would die. In either case, the matter would finally be resolved.
Caim set the sword aside and pushed the other items back into the hollow. Getting behind the boulder, he heaved it back into place.
Kit watched him with an intent expression. 'You can't keep running from your past. It's part of who you are.'
He snatched up the sword. 'I'm not denying it. I'm finally accepting my true inheritance and everything that goes along with it.'
He started back toward the trail. 'You coming?'
She fell in beside him, but said nothing. He was glad for the silence. He had planning to do. The trees swayed over their heads as they followed the rutted path back to Othir. The tang of wet copper stung the back of his throat. A storm was coming. Good. Let the heavens pour out their tears. I'll give them a slaughter worthy of their misery.
Over the plain, flickers of lightning danced through the shroud of purple-black clouds and echoed with the growls of thunder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
osey's hands, clenched in the folds of her skirt, trembled as she stood before the painting. A regal man astride a fierce charger gazed down at her. His wavy black hair was cut at shoulder length in the masculine style of the previous generation. Thick brows met over a prominent, aquiline nose. And the eyes-she knew them with intimate familiarity. They were her own.
Is this really my father?
A brass plaque below the portrait read: Leonel II of the House Corrinada Emperor of Nimea
She whispered the name, adding her own. Josephine Corrinada. The jumble of thoughts warmed her body like a hot bath. Then she thought of Earl Frenig's kindly face and the languor evaporated in a cool shiver. So many secrets, so many lies, all to preserve her identity. How am I supposed to feel? She didn't know, and that was the scary part. And on top of that, what had happened to her at the cabin…
She bit back tears as a wave of images crashed over her. The rough grasp of strange hands. Markus's face in the dim firelight, sweat dripping from his nose as he took her. Josey folded her hands over her stomach. She wanted to curl up into a ball and die.
No.
She pulled her hands away and stood up straight. With a sniff, she drew back the tears. To hell with them all. She wouldn't succumb to the terror. Father hadn't yielded when they took his post away. He was an old man, far past his prime, but he'd continued to fight unto his last breath, and so would she.
Angry voices interrupted her thoughts. Josey turned toward the center of the chamber. The Grand Hall of the Luccian Palace, named after the famous architect and composer Luccio Fernari, who had spent the last years of his remarkable life involved in its construction, was a masterpiece of traditional Mitric architecture. Once, vibrant frescos depicting significant events and persons of the empire's history had covered the domed ceiling, but they had been replaced by scenes of inferior quality showcasing the Church's rise to power. She recognized them from her catechism: the Hanging and Decapitation of Phebus, Conquest of the Nimites, and, finally, Revolution Day. Each picture was bordered in ornate molding of curling vines and leaves chased with gold. Enormous, hand-woven tapestries hung on the walls, separated by brass lanterns with frosted glass panes that bathed the chamber in stark, ghostly light.
On the floor, a dais of marble steps dominated the eastern wall. A semicircle of massive thrones, fashioned of deep-stained redwood and upholstered in purple silk, crowded the highest tier. The seats of the prelate and Elector Council, they represented the highest powers in both the spiritual and temporal worlds. On the wall above the dais, a giant sunburst was emblazoned in a mosaic of tiny white-and-gold tiles. Once, that august symbol of the Church's authority would have instilled a sense of awe within her. Now, knowing what she did about the Council and their murderous deeds, she felt only a touch of melancholy, as if for a treasured thing lost beyond recovery.
Thirteen wooden boxes rested on the bottom step of the dais. She had no idea what they were meant for, but it could be for nothing good. She harbored no illusions about why she was here. The Sacred Brotherhood had taken control of the palace, apparently under the command of the man who stood at the foot of the dais, and she was his captive as surely as if she wasted away in some dark dungeon cell. She shook her head at the uncomfortable image. There would be rats and lice, all manner of crawling things…
Caim will come for me.
That hope huddled close to her heart, and yet reminders of her dire predicament were all around. She had cried as they dragged her, naked as a babe, from Kas's cabin and tied her over a saddle. Then, she began to hate. Jarred and battered, she fantasized about Caim killing the men who had abused her, cutting them into pieces for the carrion birds to devour. Hatred sustained her on the long ride back to Othir. By the time they reached the city she was a teary, sodden mess, bruised from thigh to collarbone. More soldiers met them at the gates and provided an escort to Celestial Hill. She had been appalled to see the state of her beloved city. People rioted in the streets, destroying property, burning and looting. Bodies lay in the gutters, both commoners and soldiers alike. She wished she could put a stop to it somehow, but trussed over her steed like a sack of parsnips, all she could do was watch the carnage.
Up the Processional they rode, each clop of the horse's hooves on the hard cobblestones driving the saddle horn deeper into her ribs, until they reached the palace. There she was taken down from her humiliating position and hustled through a number of gates to a small chamber where an old silent woman in a black shawl washed her with stubborn disregard for her comfort and shoved her into new clothes.
Josey looked down at the garment she had been forced to wear. Layers of white silk brocade trailed on the floor. Rows of tiny seed pearls were sewn to the low-cut bodice and down the puffy sleeves that encased her arms, but left the shoulders bare. She felt scandalous in the gown. It reminded her of a wedding dress for a virgin bride, something she would never be. That part of her had been stripped away. Just thinking about it made her feel sick.
The only other people in the hall were Markus and Ral, who was also an assassin, according to Caim. A dangerous man, supposedly, but he hardly looked the part. He wore a fine suit of black with starched white cuffs and collar. A slender blade with a silver guard hung at his side. Josey couldn't imagine Caim wearing such an extravagant weapon. Then, she spotted the assortment of blades hidden about the man's person, tucked into the tops of his boots and under his sleeves, and reconsidered her opinion of him. Maybe he wasn't such a dandy.
'I don't care.' Ral's words rang across the hall. 'Drive them away. Kill them, if need be. Just get them away from the gates.'
Markus saluted and stalked out of the hall. When Ral looked over, Josey met his gaze without backing down.
'A vast improvement.' He treated her to a slick smile as his gaze wandered up and down. 'Now you look the
