Water sloshes against the walls, and wet sand squishes between my toes. The air is sharp with brine. It reminds me of the beach at Ventierra. I spent hours at those tide pools. Days. And when I grew tired, I would bury my feet in the wet sand to stand strong against the tide. I want to take Elisa there someday. I want her to know the place I came from.
The ground rises out of the water, and we wipe sand from our feet and put our boots back on. As we climb the stairs toward the catacombs, I expect to hear the clatter of Storm’s chains, but he has muffled them well.
The stair collides with a flat stone ceiling. I gesture everyone to stillness and listen hard. Nothing.
I reach up for the tiny lever, feel around blindly with my fingertips until I snag it. A stone slab lifts, pivots, reveals a gloomy chamber filled with candlelight and the reek of roses gone to rot. I poke my head through slowly, ready to charge out, sword drawn if necessary. The tomb is empty.
I signal that the room is clear and creep through the stone caskets. There are five. I can’t help pausing at one, the newest, for the banner covering it is untouched by moth or mold. At its center, a cluster of candles sits in a pool of frozen wax. Alejandro is laid to rest here. Dead less than a year.
I place my palm against the casket. There are a thousand things I’d say to him, if I could. Rosario is safe. You were supposed to outlive me. Elisa is ten times the ruler you were. I’ve stolen your wife. I’m not sorry.
I miss you.
“My Lord-Commander?”
I wrench my hand away. “Let’s go,” I say, striding toward the archway.
It opens into the Hall of Skulls, a massive cavern lined with ribs, craniums, and yawning jawbones, all lit by votive candles. Elisa loves this place. It brings her peace, somehow. It’s something I’ll have to think about when I have time, how death doesn’t always indicate a failure—of protection, of strategy, of character.
At the end of the hall is a tight stair spiraling up into blackness. It leads to a hallway near the inner courtyard. It will be guarded. Usually by only one man, but occasionally two. Knowing Conde Eduardo—a cautious man who leaves little to chance—I’m counting on two.
This will be the hardest part. We have the disadvantages of low ground and a difficult approach. We must sneak up a stair that’s only wide enough for one soldier and take out two guards before they can call an alarm.
It would be handy to have Belén with us now, but Elisa needs someone with her who would take a sword to the chest to save her. I sift through my catalog of men to determine who best to send on an assassin’s errand.
I settle on Guzmán, a small, sharp-eyed man with a quick blade. I’m about to call him forward when Storm puts a hand on my shoulder. “Let me,” he whispers.
I frown. “Elisa would be displeased if I let something happen to you. She is fond of you, though I can’t imagine why.”
Storm cracks a rare smile. “I can do it.”
“There are two men up there, at least. They’ll have the high ground.”
“I can do it,” he repeats.
We stare at each other. Storm says, “She restored my life to me. She treats me with more honor than my own people, my own family. If you let me do this, I will kill whoever is up there, and I will do it without making a sound. I swear it.”
“With magic?”
“Partly.”
I rub at my jaw. We’re running out of time. “Do it.”
Storm’s whole demeanor changes. His eyes turn to slits, he crouches low, and he slithers up the stairs like a hunting cat.
He disappears around a curve in the spiral step. I step lightly after him, gesturing for my men to follow. We halt just outside the view of the narrow opening. I draw my daggers and prepare to rush the hallway.
Seconds pass. Then a grunt. A muffled thunk.
Storm’s head appears. “I need help with the bodies,” he whispers.
We pour into the hallway like a tide held too long at bay. Two guards lie on the floor, their throats slit. Blood soaks into the padding of their armor, but it does not reach the floor. Almost as if Storm planned it that way.
“How?” I ask.
“Barrier magic,” Storm says. “When they were frozen, I slit their throats.”
“Well done,” I say, forcing it to sound more respectful and less grudging. Storm has earned it.
I allow a quick moment of regret for the two slain guards. They were my brothers-at-arms once, led into treason by a usurper. “Let’s get these men out of the hallway; lay them on the stairs. Then—”
The monastery bells peal.
We toss the dead men down the stairs and rush down the hallway. We pass the kitchens, and I signal for one of my men to peel off. I do the same at the laundry, at the entrance to the servants’ quarters, at the branching hallway that leads to the stables. They will all convey the same message to the palace residents: Stay where you are. The hallways and courtyards are dangerous right now. Warning them is a gamble, but it might pay off. Elisa has been a favorite with the servants from the day she arrived. I’m almost certain they won’t raise an alarm.
We reach the inner courtyard and stop. I peer from the archway into the breezy dark. It’s a square with hard-packed ground, large enough that I always conduct our more extensive training exercises here. Torches line all four walls. One wall is made up entirely of the palace garrison. It’s a long, flat-roofed building with multiple entry points, designed to allow the garrison to flood the courtyard at a moment’s alarm. In the corner is the prison tower, rising like a blight against the night sky.
Four soldiers march in time along the garrison wall. The night watch.
“Storm,” I whisper. “Can you . . . ?”
In answer, Storm closes his eyes, mutters something, and the marching soldiers freeze in place.
I tap two men on the shoulder and gesture them forward. They slink out into the courtyard, blades held ready. They glide soundlessly up to the helpless guards and slit their throats.
Four down.
I give the signal, and we pour into the open. I place two men at each entrance to the barracks. They take up positions just in time, for the alarm bells sound from the palace wall. Tristán and Mara have begun their assault on the city watch.
The garrison soldiers stream out of the barracks in response to the commotion, but my men cut them down at the entrances. The night air becomes a cacophony of shouting and pounding boots and ringing steel. Bodies pile up. The garrison has superior numbers, though, and it’s only a matter of time before we’re overwhelmed.
I spare a quick thought for Elisa and Captain Lucio, because as far as I can tell, none of the chaos comes from the direction of the residence wing. There should be some indication of a struggle by now. Dear God, please keep her safe. Running to her side is not an option. At least not until I’ve accomplished the task at hand.
This time, I choose Storm because I do trust him, and because his magic might provide our only chance to fight through a fully alarmed barracks. “With me,” I say to him and five others. “To the general’s quarters.”
I lead them through the entrance nearest the prison tower. The corridor is filled with panic, almost plugged tight with soldiers. More pour into the hallway from adjoining rooms. Fewer than half wear armor; we caught them sleeping.
They rush us at once, swords raised, and I bring up my shield. I’m not sure how we’ll get through the press of bodies, but Storm sends an orange firebolt streaming over their heads. A warning shot only, but several flee in the opposite direction.
It gives us just enough room to maneuver, and we push forward, hacking away at men who used to be our brothers.
Pain sears my upper arm. I spin in time to block a downward blow. The soldier grins. His sword strike was a distraction, and I’m too hemmed in to dodge the dagger near my gut.