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THE SENIOR GUARD sent a runner ahead to the king’s chambers. Galt protested loudly until the guards threatened to arrest him as well. He subsided with a sour grin, but Ilse’s skin rippled with cold when his gaze flicked over to her. You kept your character a secret in Melnek, she thought. You were the respectable merchant, wealthy and influential. I had no reason to fear you except for rumors. If I had ignored my instincts, if I had obeyed my father and acted the part of the good daughter to marry you, I would have lived in torment the rest of my life.
She wondered how many other young women, told that their fears were foolish, entered into marriages such as the one she had escaped.
She kept as close as possible to Raul’s side during the long trek from the prison quarter and along a plain corridor that she guessed was used solely by the palace guards. No one objected to her presence, not even Galt, who continued to favor her with that eerie grin. But the guards did not remove the manacles from Raul’s wrists, and they insisted she keep an arm’s length away from him. They do not trust either of us, she thought.
Once on the ground floor, they exited the guards’ corridor for a short broad passageway of plain brick and stone. At either end of the passageway, the ceilings rose higher, the walls were faced with mosaics, and she saw what appeared to be more of the palace’s grand public spaces. Raul’s eyes widened slightly as he took in their surroundings. “So our king has come to see as his grandfather once did,” he murmured. “That is … interesting.”
Two armed sentries stood outside a plain wooden door. When the guard made known their errand, and gave the passwords, the older sentry shook his head. “Lord Khandar
r made it clear. He wants no one to pass except Maester Galt.”
“It’s a matter of treason,” the senior guard said. He continued in a low voice, obviously explaining the difficulty. The sentries conferred with each other. Judging by their expressions, they were uneasy about disobeying the king’s order, but Ilse’s accusations obviously made them uncertain.
She glanced toward Raul. What can we do?
He shrugged, but she could sense the tension in his stance. He was about to try something desperate. So was she.
A clatter of running footsteps snagged her attention. A runner pelted around the corner, missed her footing, and crashed into the wall before she could right herself. “Treason!” she cried, scrambling to her feet. “There’s fighting on the main floor. They say the king’s in danger.”
The younger sentry immediately vanished through the plain door. The senior guard pressed forward. “If it’s a matter of treason, we must speak with the king as well.”
He tried to push past the sentry, but the man set his back against the door and drew his sword. “Not until Lord Khandarr or the king tells us so—”
A muffled shout sounded from within the king’s offices. Ilse felt the air draw tight over her skin. She had just registered that someone had used strong magic, when she heard a thumping noise, then a thin screech, which broke off suddenly. “Stand back,” the second sentry said. He opened the door a crack and glanced inside. “Oh, sweet gods.”
He flung the door wide open. “To the king!”
All the guards poured into the room. Ilse linked her arm around Raul’s and they followed.
Once, the room might have been as exquisite as all the others in the palace. Once. Ilse could see nothing but the man who lay sprawled on his back, his throat torn open and the blood soaking into the carpet. It was the first sentry, the younger one. Lord Khandarr leaned against the wall opposite, next to a door that swung on its hinges. The air was heavy and rank with the scent of magic, and Ilse had the sense of falling through the ocean and the weight of water pressing against her chest.
“Lord Khandarr,” the second sentry said. He stopped. Stared down at the dead man on the floor. “Lord Khandarr … I … I must speak with the king.”
“The king is dead,” Khandarr said heavily. “Killed by assassins.”
“Who laid his thumbprint on these orders?” Ilse demanded. “The king? The dead king? And why haven’t you raised the alarm?”
“Yes,” Raul said. “Why haven’t you, Markus?”
Khandarr gave a shout, a stuttering cry in Old Erythandran. Only a syllable behind him, Ilse cried out an answering summons. Magic burst against cold bright magic. The air rang with its explosion. Ilse fell to her knees, blinded and gasping for breath. She scrabbled against the hard tiles until she gained a purchase and crawled forward to where Raul lay. It took another precious moment before she could lift her hand to lay it over his chest. She felt the pulse of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest, and she almost wept with relief. Yes, yes, he lived.
She dragged a hand over her eyes and muttered another invocation to magic. Her vision cleared, the sight horrified her. It was too much like the scene after Leos Dzavek’s death. The room in shambles, its walls scorched and burnt. And worse. Five guards lying in a bloody heap, among them the other sentry and the senior guard. Markus Khandarr had vanished. There was no sign of Theodr Galt.
A shadow wavered to her right. It was the single surviving guard, obviously terrified, but determined to do his duty to the king. “Go for help,” she told him. “The captain of the watch, anyone you know is loyal to our king.”
She did not wait to see if he obeyed. She was already searching the dead senior guard for his keys. She unlocked the manacles from Raul’s wrists and those fastening the chains to his ankles. He stirred under her touch. “Ilse. My love.” Then his eyes blinked open. “Markus.”
Ilse helped him to stand. He staggered on his feet, stared around at the destruction, and muttered a curse under his breath. “Where is Markus?”
“Through that door,” Ilse said. “We must be quick, my love.”
Raul caught up a sword from one of the dead guards and plunged through the doorway. Ilse started after him, but a hand seized her arm.
“Do not argue,” Galt said. “And you will have an easier time.”
He expected her to be the same as she was three years ago, terrified and unable to defend herself. That was his first mistake, Ilse thought. She darted toward him, and dug her thumbnail between his fingerbones. Galt let go, cursing. Before he could attempt to recapture her, Ilse loosed her sword from its sheath and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch as it glittered in the lamplight.
