The Bitter Kingdom

Hector’s men cheer softly all around us, and we separate, both of us wearing shamefaced grins. “That was for just in case,” I say.

“Promise me you’ll live,” he insists. “Because when this is all over, we must discuss how you sometimes kiss me to shut me up, and how I’ll no longer stand for it.”

I reach up to trace his jaw with my fingers. “I’ll promise to live if you will.”

His lips press into a firm line, and he says nothing.

Tristán declares his men ready, and I step over to wish him and Mara luck. “Just one more tunnel, right?” she says as she adjusts her robe. “And then no more. Ever again.”

“Just one more,” I say, and the tip of her bow jabs me as I hug her tight.

Belén joins us. “Ready?” he says to me, and I nod. “This might be your last chance, Mara,” he says. “Say you’ll marry me.”

“You know I can’t.”

He smiles sadly. “Worth a try.” He leans over and kisses her cheek, then takes my arm and escorts me toward Captain Lucio’s group.

I stare across the cavern toward Hector, shoring myself up with the sight of him.

We lock gazes. The rest of the world fades away, and without saying a word, we say good-bye.

Then he and his men turn toward the tunnel leading to the catacombs, and the rest of us climb the stairs toward the Wallows.

If Blacksmith Mandrano, formerly captain of King Nicalao’s Royal Guard, is surprised to see us, he does not show it. He ushers us all inside his shop, bars the door, and lifts the trapdoor that leads to the tunnel and the king’s suite in the residence wing.

“Is there anything I can do, Your Majesty?” he asks in a soft voice that belies his enormous frame.

“Just guard this tunnel as always,” I tell him. “If our efforts tonight are unsuccessful, we may need it to make a quick escape.”

He knocks his chest with the flat of his fist, indicating a sworn oath. “I’ll leave a candle burning at the base of the stair,” he says. “If it is a white or ivory candle, the way is clear. If it is any other color, the exit has been compromised.”

“Thank you, Mandrano.”

“Go with God, Your Majesty.”

We file down the stairs one by one—about twenty of us. Captain Lucio takes the lead; Belén and I are somewhere in the middle. The tunnel is dry and dusty and reeks of rodent urine. Last time I was here, a cave scorpion scuttled over my boot, glowing Godstone blue. I try not to think about it.

The tunnel takes us under the palace and winds us through stone walls in a series of rickety steps. No one speaks, and we wince at every groan and creak of the stair, for beyond the wall are servants’ quarters, a busy laundry, storerooms, offices. So many opportunities for the denizens of the palace to hear something odd in the walls and raise the alarm.

We reach a landing that dead-ends in darkness. Lucio holds up his candle, revealing a wood-panel wall. He presses something, and the panel slides noiselessly aside, revealing more dark, empty space. My late husband’s wardrobe. All we have to do is walk through the double doors to find ourselves in Alejandro’s bedroom.

Lucio puts up a hand, signaling for silence. No one dares to breathe.

We all hear it. Footsteps. Men’s voices, pitched low. The clink of glass and decanter.

Someone has taken up residence in the king’s suite.

Captain Lucio gestures frantically, mouthing, “Back, back, get back!” and we retreat on tiptoe into the dark. Once we are staggered on the stairs a safe distance from the wardrobe, Lucio says in a low voice, “Majesty, we assumed the suite would be unoccupied.”

“It has to be Eduardo,” I murmur. “It has to be.”

“It’s a bold move, even for him, to usurp the king’s suite,” Belén says.

I stick my thumbnail between my teeth and start chewing. If Eduardo has claimed the king’s suite for his own, it is undoubtedly filled with attendants, maybe even a few bodyguards. We had hoped to sneak through the hallway and take each suite one by one, blocking them in, saving Eduardo’s rooms for last. But we can’t pour out of a wardrobe into an occupied suite without raising the alarm.

“Majesty? We don’t have long until Nicandro rings the monastery bells,” Lucio says.

Which means we can’t wait for the palace to sleep. If I had more time, I could arrange for a distraction, anything to reduce the number of people in that room and improve our chances.

“We’ll squeeze as many men as we can into that wardrobe,” I say. “And wait. When that bells sounds, we still wait. We’ll have to be patient. Hector and Tristán will cause a ruckus eventually, and people will leave to find out what’s going on.”

“What if it is the conde in there?” Belén says. “We don’t want him to leave. We don’t want him to slip from our grasp.”

My heart thuds. I just came up with a very bad plan. Of course we can’t let Eduardo get away. Everything hinges on capturing or killing him. “Excellent point. Anyone have suggestions?”

The tight stairwell is growing hot and musty with our collective breath. Something scuttles nearby, probably a rat, though I hope to never know.

Finally a gruff voice I don’t recognize says, “We just need to storm the place and get it over with.”

I gape into the dark, in the general direction of his voice. I’m about to protest, insist we’ll find another way, but someone else says, “There’s no time for anything else. At least we have the element of surprise.”

Murmurs of assent echo around me.

But the strategy feels foreign and clumsy. I’ve always made decisions based on efficiency, on as little loss of life as possible. Never have I considered a plan that I knew would result in heavy casualties.

“Majesty?” says Lucio. “Do we prepare to charge?”

The word lodges in my throat, and I have to try again. “Yes,” I manage.

Back up the stairs we go, toward the wardrobe. Lucio puts a hand up to stop me when I try to follow after Belén. “You’ll enter last, Majesty,” Lucio whispers in my ear. “After we’ve cleared the room. Otherwise the commander will have my head.”

I nod, wishing for the hundredth time that I still had the power of the zafira at my call. I could have frozen everyone in that room where they stood. I could have burned them to ash. I could have reached in and stopped their hearts.

Soldiers filter into the wardrobe. It’s large, made for a king, and more than half fit inside. The rest stand with me on the dark landing, waiting for the monastery bells to give us the command to charge.

Brassy triplets rend the air. My Imperial Guard bursts from the wardrobe. Swords clash, furniture shatters. Someone yells, and I wince, praying, Hurry, hurry, hurry. We must secure this room before the palace garrison comes running with reinforcements.

The second wave of guards follows the first, and I hate hanging back, hate not being able to see. It’s agonizing to wait, wait, wait until the storm of swords has subsided, until the patter of footsteps has stilled.

“All clear!” comes the voice. I move through the wardrobe, glad it’s over so quickly, grateful for my brave, fierce Guard. I’ll find some way to reward them, something memorable and . . .

My Guard has not been victorious, and it’s too late to dart back into the safety of the tunnel, for they have seen me—Conde Eduardo, several frightened attendants, and two white-haired animagi who stand at either shoulder, amulets swinging hot from their hands.

40

HECTOR

ELISA trusts Storm, and I should too—I know I should.

Maybe I will, after this.

Forty of my men follow me into the tunnel. They walk in tight formation, two abreast. The Invierno, though, I keep at my shoulder.

The tunnel leads downward, to a sandy bottom ankle-deep in water, and I utter a curse into the dark. I knew the tunnel flooded at high tide, and I didn’t think to check on it.

A solution snaps into focus. “Everyone, take off your boots. Hold them above your heads.” It will be hazardous; the tunnel is full of molted crab shells, barnacles, and all manner of things that could slice our feet to ribbons. But better that than leaving sodden footprints all over the residential wing of the palace.

The men repeat the order down the line, and they all comply quickly. I set off again, barefoot this time. Chains rattle, a metallic clink that echoes and re-echoes. I whirl.

Storm grimaces. “My manacles,” he explains. “My boots keep them muffled.”

It’s gloomy in the tunnel, with only a few candles to light our way, but the water is crystal clear and I can see—though I wish I could not—the discoloration and bruising around Storm’s ankles and raw sores where scar tissue has not yet had a chance to form.

My wrists tingle with phantom pain. I suffered hemp rope for only a few weeks. But we have been to the edge of the world and back together, and never once has Storm complained about them. I had forgotten he bore them.

“Likely no one can hear us down here,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.” And I set off again, determined to ignore the rattling.

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—”