I had been driving my gig to neighbor’s estate and came across a man sprawled upon the road, thrown from his horse. Sir Paul Denby, one of the Wary Brotherhood. I went to his aid, fearing I was too late, but at my touch, he opened his eyes and grasped my forearm.
“Thank God,” he rasped, red spittle wetting his lips. “My knife says I’ve a minute left. It is willing. Are you?”
“Willing? To do what?”
“Partner it. Say yes or it will be untethered. It will kill everything in its path, including you.”
When the wary knives first emerged from the Celestial ships, the carnage had been horrific. Fifty knives powered by some unimaginable sorcery, flying through the air and dismembering everything in their path. Eventually, it was discovered that the knives had to be tethered to a living being to control them and, one by one, they were captured by brave men willing to risk death for such power. And so, the Wary Brotherhood was founded: thieftakers, peacekeepers, and undefeatable force, sworn to uphold the Crown.
“Yes. I’ll partner it,” I had said. What else could I do?
A second later, excruciating pain blazed along my arm and into my head, slamming all the breath from my body. That is all I remember for I woke up upon the road with Sir Paul dead beside me and a wary knife quiescent within my arm, her sentience a curled kernel of potential inside my mind.
The uproar had been both private and public. It did not seem to matter to my husband, the Church, or the Crown that I quickly controlled Havarr. That was beside the point: a woman with a wary knife was, by nature, a threat to public safety. The Prince Regent politely asked me to retire to the family estate. The Wary Brotherhood was not so polite. They banned me from their membership: a woman had no right to hold a knife or sully their righteous order. Without support from any direction—including my own family—I retired to Grayle Hall. For the past three years I had studied every theory about the Celestials, trained to fight with Havarr, and received those friends who trusted my strength of mind enough to take tea with me and my knife.
Would all that training be enough to save me now?
The older RCP soldier leaned to the transmittere. It let out a mechanical crackle and I heard, “Lady Carnford has arranged for your horse to be stabled. Please go to the main entrance.”
If my horse was to be stabled, Isabel expected the call to last more than half an hour. Or perhaps she did not expect me to leave. I felt Havarr stir along my arm, roused by the quickening of my heart.
Her question formed in my mind. Slice?
I mentally shrugged. Perhaps. Then, added: Probably.
The gate ground open, rattling across its tracks. I flicked the reins and drove through into the sound-protected roadway that led to the main buildings. The transparent walls and curved roof provided a view of the lift-off grid and the bustle of men and carts loading cargo into the ship. It did not, however, shield the unearthly caustic odor of fuel that hung over the area.
Although not generally known, the supply of the Celestial fuel around the world was all but gone. The Royal Society had been frantically working to find a combustible replacement—a way to keep our English ships in the air and perhaps one day fly to the stars—but so far nothing adequate had been found.
At the very end of the safety area stood the scout ship, the manifestation of the fuel problem. It had been an escort to the plague fleet, smaller and with weaponry, but its fuel source was even more incomprehensible. So much so, the engineers and scientists had never managed to spark any kind of life within it. And so it had been left to languish at the port, all its potential deteriorating into ruin.
I felt some empathy.
I drew up outside the front portico and waited for the RCP soldier-groom to go to my horse’s head. Above us rose Grayle Tower. I craned my head back to take in all twelve floors of the neoclassical façade. My sister-in-law waited at the top and I did not know if I would be meeting Forgiving Isabel or Vengeful Isabel. The odds were even.
To outside eyes, I knew I looked composed—it was the Grayle way—but every nerve in my body had coiled into readiness. If Charles was dying, or already dead, then his social and political protection was gone. My time had run out. Vengeful Isabel may have already called the Brotherhood. If she had, then forty-nine men and their forty-nine wary knives would be waiting for me inside, all intent on prising Havarr from my dead abomination hands.
I paused in the tower doorway, listening. The immense marble entrance hall stood empty, the butler’s desk unattended.
All quiet. Rather too quiet.
Seek the others, I ordered Havarr.
She phased out from her skin-sheath, the sudden loss of her weight within my arm a familiar jolt. Her elegant length hovered at eye level—no handle or hilt, just blade etched with its singular starburst design—then arrowed towards the back wall and disappeared through the marble. I felt her phase and solidify, phase and solidify as she swept through the building to the very edge of our energy bond—a radius of about three hundred feet——each shift like a tiny ebb and flow of power through me.
No other wary knives. No Brotherhood.
Yet I felt her unease as she resheathed into my forearm, only one layer under the skin instead of her usual three. Battle ready.
I stepped into the hall and looked up the impressive marble staircase. Shall we see what this is about? I asked. Her tense assent twanged across my mind.
Onwards, and upwards, then.
To add to the strangeness, Isabel stood at the top of the twelve flights waiting for me, impeccably dressed in a garnet silk gown and a delicate lace cap. No footmen and no butler. But then each floor had been empty of staff too. The building had been cleared.
She watched me ascend the last few steps. I expected a comment about my breeches and boots, but she only squinted in sartorial pain and gave a nod of welcome.
“Mathilda.”
I returned the nod, but before I could say anything she added, “Charles is dead. You should have given him the knife.”
Two years ago, at our last encounter, Isabel had demanded that I give Havarr to Charles to ensure his survival and the family’s fortune. A wary knife changed a person, their constitution enhanced in many ways including increased stamina and strength. But there has always been only one way to separate a wary knife from its partner: death. I suppose a good and dutiful wife would have at least considered the demand. I, with a regrettable lack of propriety, told her to piss off.
Now, she observed my silence with pursed lips. “Still the same Mathilda, I see. Come, we have business.” She turned and headed down a corridor, the walls lined with portraits of glowering Grayle forebears.
Although I had not seen Charles for nigh on three years, it still felt like I could not breathe. I pressed my hand to my chest as I followed my sister-in-law, feeling my steady heartbeat. One did not spend twelve years alongside a man without some emotion becoming attached to him, good or bad. In our case, good and then very bad.
Isabel stopped outside her private chamber. Her face—so alike her brother’s with its jutting nose and broad forehead—was composed, but bore the swollen evidence of past tears. If Charles was dead, she should be wearing mourning black. The news had not been released.
“When?” I asked softly.
“Early this morning.”
“His heart?”
She bent her head in stiff acknowledgment.
Charles had been born with the Grayle weak heart. “I’ll not make old bones,” he often said in the early years of our arranged marriage. The prophecy had upset me then, when we were still trying to like each other. Later, when I hated him, it had been a hope and a wish. Now it was a piercing regret. We had lost the chance for anything else: forgiveness, friendship, even perhaps an odd sense of family.