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“Nothing more is required,” Galt supplied smoothly. “Nothing except his own thumbprint, which is not missing.”
He was right, damn him. She had dismissed that smear of reddish brown as a wine stain. Now that she examined it, she could see the whorls of a broad fingerprint. Was it Armand’s? It had to be. Even Khandarr would not attempt to forge the king’s own imprint.
Or would he?
Galt attempted to snatch the paper from her hands.
Ilse struck his hand away. “One moment.” To the guards, she said, “I must be certain. Please. I can prove the king’s intent with magic.”
The guards held Theodr Galt back from further interference. Ilse allowed herself one hungry glance toward Raul. He seemed amused, or amazed. She could not tell which. Do you have a plan? he mouthed.
No, she replied. But I have an idea.
She laid her hands over both sides of the paper. Breathed in to capture that elusive sense of balance magic required. Her whole attention spiraled down to the paper, to the spot of blood that marked the king’s personal imprint …
Blood. That much she could tell at once. A magical signature overlaid the bloodstain, which surprised her. She had thought Armand knew no magic, which was why he required a strong mage councillor such as Markus Khandarr. The signature itself prickled at her memory. The scent of cold snow, overlaid by a sickly sweetness she did not want to examine closer. With a shock, she recognized it—Markus Khandarr’s. She probed deeper. Sensed a deadness connected to the magic. Her skin itched. Signatures were not dead things. Blood was not dead …
Not unless it comes from a dead person.
She broke her connection with the magic and staggered backward, rubbing fiercely at her fingers where the skin had touched the blood print.
“He’s dead,” she whispered. “The king is dead.”
“Liar.” Galt lunged forward, but the guards caught him.
The senior officer’s eyes narrowed. He looked unhappy and anxious.
“I don’t like this,” he said. “You came from the king himself?” he said to Galt.
“From the king,” Galt said hoarsely. “I swear it.”
“No need to swear. We will ask him ourselves.”
* * *
NADINE ARRIVED IN the vast wing where the senior councillors had their apartments. Mann had given her one name before he departed on his mad errand to lead the guards away. Lord Alberich de Ytel, he’d told her. Governor of Duenne City. Not the senior councillor, but a man of influence and power. He was the man to warn.
Muttering directions to herself, she turned down a side corridor, which supposedly connected this hall with another running at angles. Left and right, down three intersections …
… and skidded to a halt at the sight of palace guards with swords drawn.
She slithered back into the nearest doorway, her pulse thundering in her ears. Only when she was certain they had not sighted her did she peer around the doorframe.
Eight, no, ten guards were battling each other. In the bright lamplight, she could tell they all wore palace uniforms. Intruders? No, more mischief from Markus Khandarr, she was certain of that. Even as she came to that conclusion, one guard ran another through with his sword. The second guard jerked, then folded over with his hands clutched over his chest, blood spilling through his fingers.
Nadine did not wait. She darted back the same route she had come. She heard shouts behind her and swerved into the nearest servants’ passageway. Lamps spelled with magic flickered on and died away as she passed. She knew nothing of this region in the palace, but she had her instincts, borne of many years in unfamiliar and sometimes dangerous quarters.
She exited the servants’ corridor to find herself in an airy bell-shaped room, painted in vivid colors and gold leaf, with windows open to the night. And at last, a runner obviously standing duty, more proof of royalty’s spendthrift notions, to place someone here in this empty spot.
The runner started to attention. “My lady.”
“I must find Lord Alberich de Ytel,” Nadine said breathlessly. “The palace is under attack.”
Even as she spoke, the uproar from the skirmish reached them. The runner whispered, “I must get word to the palace guard.”
“Those are the palace guards,” Nadine cried. “Send word to the king himself. And tell me how I can reach Lord Alberich de Ytel. Quickly. We must find all the loyal people before it’s too late.”
That provoked the reaction she wanted. Without hesitation, the runner poured out directions to Ytel’s suite of rooms. Then she sped off to warn the king, and Nadine went in search of the royal governor.
