An hour and a half later, hidden in shadow by the second story window, Sir Alton Sienhin shifted his weight carefully to keep his armor from making noise. As he got older, laying in wait wasn’t as easy, or as comfortable, as it had once been.
The time he’d told Hu Dondon had come and gone, and no one came to ambush him or stop him. It seemed the Lord Chamberlain could be trusted; it wouldn’t be long before he found out whether he’d be able to say the same of Emon Turesti.
The thought hadn’t finished forming when the sound of boots scraping on stone came to Sienhin’s attention. He shrank farther into the shadows, his back pressed against the wall, his hand on the hilt of his sword, both in readiness and to keep it from making noise and revealing him. A moment later, two undead Kanosee soldiers came into view.
One of the soldiers walked normally enough that Sienhin wouldn’t have known he wasn’t a living man but for the red paint splashed across his chest. The second man’s leg dragged behind him like a dead thing, the side of his boot scraping the cobblestones as he hobbled along.
They stopped at the entrance of the lane and looked up and down the avenue. Sienhin gritted his teeth. Were they here by coincidence, perhaps on a regular patrol of the fortress’ streets? Or had his plan revealed another rat? Of the two council members, he would have preferred to find the oft-interrupting Dondon the traitor if one of them had to be.
The soldiers stood for a minute with their backs to the lane, neither of them speaking.
I don’t even know if the beasts can speak, Sienhin realized.
Two minutes passed. Three. Their eyes passed over Sienhin’s location more than once, but they must not have seen him hidden by the window. The general’s leg began to numb and he fought the urge to shift his weight for fear of giving himself away. If these two saw him, he wouldn’t know for sure whether to trust Turesti or not. He took a slow, deep breath and concentrated on holding his position. Luckily, he didn’t have much longer to wait; unluckily, the two undead men confirmed his worry.
With one last look up and down the street, the man with the dead leg shuffled down the lane, grasped the door handle and opened it inward. The two of them disappeared inside, closing the door behind them.
Sienhin leaned forward, relieving the pressure on his numb leg, and stared at the closed door. Every second of his decades of soldiering made him want to rush into the room and bring an end to whatever the two undead soldiers pathetically called a life. But he stopped himself, realizing the stakes were much higher than just these two men.
“Gods curse you, Turesti,” Sienhin spat with soldiers safely out of earshot behind the heavy door. “Why would you turn on your kingdom?”
The general’s lips squeezed into a tight line, his unkempt mustache hanging down, hiding his lower lip. He felt the color rising in his cheeks, the anger building in his chest, but nothing could be done about it, not now. Turesti’s time of reckoning would come.
At least now he knew whom to trust.
***
The pain of the wound in his abdomen flowed up through Emon Turesti’s chest and along the length of his limbs. He strained to move and relieve the pain, to roll onto his back and remove his cheek from the dirt, but no strength remained in his body. Another wave of agony rolled through him, tensing his body and making him hold his breath behind clenched teeth. When it subsided, he released the air from his lungs in a puff that sent ripples across the thin pool of his own blood in which he lay.
“He didn’t show.”
Turesti directed his eyes toward the voice, but only saw the toes of Hahn Perdaro’s boots. The man stepped closer and tapped his foot impatiently, splashing blood on Turesti’s cheek.
“Did you lie to me, Smoke? Did you send my soldiers chasing wild fowl?”
“No.” The word squeaked in his throat.
“But Sienhin didn’t show.”
The boots turned and paced away; some of the tension in Turesti faded, but as he relaxed, another bolt of pain from his wound grabbed him. He may not be a soldier, but he knew enough about gut wounds to know his chances of surviving diminished with each drop of blood that flowed out of him. He closed his eyes and fought back tears threatening at their edges. For all these years, he’d wanted nothing but to serve his kingdom and whatever king sat the throne; now he would die forced to betray it.
“He told you the truth, Hahn.”
The sound of the woman’s voice snapped Turesti’s eyes open.
“How can you be sure? He’s loyal to the king.”
“I know.”
A pair of bare feet strode into his view, the red painted toe nails bright against alabaster skin. The woman walked toward him, stopping a few inches from his face. Turesti stared at his blood squeezing between her toes and the fear gripping his heart made him forget the pain in his abdomen.
The woman stepped back and kneeled in front of him, heedless of her white gown pressed into the muddy floor. When she realized he could only move his eyes and not his head, she put a finger to his cheek and pivoted his face toward her so their eyes met.
The Archon was smiling, but the expression held not a hint of happiness or humor. Instead, satisfaction and disgust in equal measure seemed to drip from her teeth.
This is the last thing I will ever see.
“Know this before you die,” the woman said leaning in close. “No matter what, your kingdom will not survive.”
Somewhere inside Emon Turesti, her words lit a spark of hope.
She’s afraid. Afraid and unsure.
The Archon shifted her hand until her fingers splayed across his face and her palm pressed against his nose. Then she squeezed. It only took a few seconds for his skull to give way, and all pain and fear and hope disappeared.
Chapter Fourteen
The first thing Khirro noticed was how much his head hurt. The second was the sun and the cloud-scudded sky above. A bolt of panic jolted his chest and he sat up abruptly, the pain in his head magnifying and sending a wave of nausea through his belly.
“It is all right, Khirro. Be calm.”
Khirro blinked hard against the throb in his temples and drew a dry tongue across his lips. “Where are we?”
“Not far from where we were, but far enough to be safe for the moment.”
He felt Athryn’s hand on his shoulder but needed to rotate his head to see the magician, an operation his beleaguered brain resisted. His companion came around to stand before him, then kneeled so their eyes were on the same level. Athryn wore the white cloth mask over his face and Khirro noticed a dark streak across one cheek that might have been either dirt or dried blood; he couldn’t remember if it was there the last time the magician wore it.
Khirro looked away at the thin, leafless trees surrounding them. The smell of earth filled his nostrils, but not the odor of fresh-turned soil like on the farm, this was the old dirt of loam and decayed leaves. He shifted right, wincing at the pain it shot through his temples, then looked to the left. Something felt missing, but it took a few seconds for him to realize what.
“Where’s the boy?”
Athryn raised his arm and pointed over Khirro’s shoulder. With a deep breath in his lungs to protect against the coming discomfort, Khirro struggled to his feet and looked to where he indicated. The boy was sitting on a fallen log, feet dangling, swinging above the ground, as he fiddled idly with a leaf, rolling it and unrolling it between his fingers. He no longer wore the splint on his arm, nor did he look like a boy who’d been kidnapped by undead soldiers anymore; he simply looked like a boy out for a walk in the woods.