Her gaze scanned the area, passing over the soldiers without noticing either them or the citizens of the fortress. Did the boy really matter anymore? She needed him to ensure Therrador’s acquiescence, but he wouldn’t know the boy had been rescued. Truthfully, if she killed him now, the king wouldn’t know until it was too late.
That is it, then. I will kill him when we have him back.
No, it troubled her more to find out the bearer and his magician friend yet lived. How had she not known? After Shariel, she’d trusted they wouldn’t survive Poltghasa and Kanos instead of taking care of things herself; she’d been too distracted with Therrador and other matters to concentrate on them.
“What threat is a dead king to me, anyway?” she said aloud.
No, they weren’t worthy of her concern, not when she still controlled Therrador and they would have to face the entire army of Kanos to reach her or use the boy to manipulate the king.
She smiled to herself, satisfied things were going the way she wanted despite these small setbacks. Her vision would not be denied by anyone, certainly not a farmer and a dead king. She leaned out the window and filled her lungs with cold air.
At the edge of her vision, the Archon caught sight of the six riders and their prisoners again. She leaned father out the window, following their ride through narrowed eyes until they disappeared around a corner and out of sight.
What is it about them?
She continued to stare until a drunken voice distracted her.
“Lookit ‘em teats, Rawl!”
She glared at the men standing below the window looking up at her. The man who had spoken grinned, his eyelids drooping with too much drink, a line of saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. His companion seemed more sober, his face taut with an expression that suggested he wished he was anywhere else in the world.
The Archon smiled and held her hand out toward the men, like she would wave to them. The drunken letch raised his hand in return and his companion fell back a step. A grim smile pulled at the Archon’s mouth as she snapped her hand into a fist and jerked it toward her chest. The drunken man spasmed once and fell twitching to the ground.
With a smile on her lips, the Archon spun from the window and walked across the room.
***
Emeline hugged Iana tight to her chest, grateful they’d arrived at the fortress and the end of their arduous journey, but worried at what might happen next. The one soldier-the leader of the band of Kanosee-had had his way with her every night of their trek while the others left her alone, but she didn’t know what he’d expect of her now their trip was done.
“Everything will be all right,” Lehgan whispered leaning toward her. Emeline didn’t respond or even raise her eyes to look at her husband.
The lead rider slid out of his saddle and Emeline tensed. At times, he’d treated her almost tenderly, but she also bore not-yet faded bruises as a result of his passion. As he approached, she looked down at her daughter, avoiding his eyes. He stood before her, hands on his hips, regarding her for a few seconds before he drew his knife from the sheath on his belt.
Emeline flinched away, though it didn’t escape her notice that Lehgan again made no move to protect her. The soldier brandished the knife between them, holding it close enough to her to ensure she saw it. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed he wouldn’t hurt Iana.
The pressure of the cord around her wrist increased as though someone cinched it tighter, then it disappeared. Emeline opened her eyes and looked at her wrist; the soldier had cut the cord tethering her to his horse and had turned the blade to freeing Lehgan.
“You can go,” the soldier said.
Lehgan took a step away, but Emeline didn’t move immediately. She stared at the man, disbelieving that he would let them go like this. Surely, after all he’d put her through, this must be some sort of trick. She took a tentative half-step away and he moved forward. Emeline froze as the soldier leaned toward her until his face was only inches from hers.
“I’ll miss you,” he whispered. She felt his breath on her cheek, smelled the rank odor of the dried pork he’d eaten for lunch. “My name is Hektor. Remember it; maybe we’ll see each other again some time.”
She stepped away from him, her eyes wide. The soldier smiled and his companions laughed. Emeline felt a sickness in her stomach, but not just for what these men did to her.
This is what people think Khirro is. Because of me.
Lehgan’s touch on her arm startled her out of her stupor; she hurried away down the boulevard without him, leaving her tormentors behind and her husband to catch up. He did after a moment and walked beside her, silent at first. When they were around a corner, out of sight of their captors, he grabbed Emeline by the arm, forcing her to stop.
“Emeline, I-”
“No.” She jerked her arm from his grasp and stepped away a pace. Their eyes met and she glared, neither of them speaking for a few seconds. “We have to find Khirro.”
Lehgan looked surprised. “What? Why should we find Khirro? No. I need to talk to you.”
She shook her head.
“Emeline.”
“You could have done something.”
He looked at her, his shoulders sagging, eyes turning watery. When he spoke, he did so in a whisper filled with emotion she didn’t trust to be real.
“I should have.”
“We have to find Khirro.”
She walked away, Iana gurgling and cooing against her chest.
Chapter Thirteen
Emon Turesti watched the man emerge from the lane, look both directions like he had something to hide, then scurry down the boulevard toward him. Turesti shrank back into the shadows and waited for the man to pass, catching a look at him as he did. Dark, scraggly hair; down-turned eyes.
Hu Dondon.
Sir Alton Sienhin had summoned the Lord Chamberlain as well, though he met with them separately. Why would he not meet them together? Turesti shook his head and peered after Dondon, realizing he would never completely understand the military mind of a man like the general. He’d spent his life in the service of the king-no matter whose ass polished the throne-and sat in on innumerable strategy meetings and war councils, but his role in those was limited to note-taking and nodding agreement, his opinion neither asked for nor wanted. He’d learned much over the years, but many things still remained unclear.
Turesti stepped out of the shadows and hurried to the mouth of the lane, where he stopped and looked back over his shoulder, aware his action bore a striking resemblance to Hu Dondon’s a few minutes before. His limp gray hair brushed the shoulders of his robe as he glanced the other direction to ensure it was also clear of curious eyes. No one followed him. He darted down the narrow lane, sandals scuffing through garbage strewn across the brief path leading to the plain wooden door at the end: his destination.
“Gods,” he murmured, wishing he’d chosen to wear breeches and boots, as the cold weather demanded.
He hiked up the bottom of his robe to prevent it from trailing through the trash, and picked his way toward the door, pausing when he reached it. A rime of frost glittered on the door’s handle and he felt the chill of it melting under his fingers as he grasped the handle, wondering if the door would be locked.
It wasn’t.
Turesti pushed the door open, stepped across the threshold, and quickly swung it closed behind him to shut out the cold and any prying eyes.
“Ah, I see you received my invitation, Smoke.”
He spun around, instinct throwing his hands up defensively. The light of a taper sitting on a shelf mounted high on the left wall illuminated the bushy mustache and ruddy face of Sir Alton Sienhin, commander of the king’s army.