The Bitter Kingdom

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.

The air shimmers. The dagger collides with something invisible, and the soldier stumbles, overbalanced. I heave the edge of my shield into his face and crush his eye socket.

Beside me, Storm sways, his eyes glazed. A dagger flies toward him. I bring up my shield just in time, and it bounces away.

“Thank you,” he mutters in a voice barely audible over the clash of steel.

“You all right?” I shout, even as I block another blow.

In answer, he straightens, then jabs the nearest soldier in the upper abdomen, just below his ribs. The soldier crumples, and we step over him. “Until the zafira refills me . . .” he begins shouting, but then, with a grunt and heave, he grabs the next soldier’s arm, pins it to the man’s back, and slams him face-first into the stone wall. “I must fight like an ordinary man,” he finishes as the man puddles at his feet. Then he grins. “Like you.”

Together we fight our way down the hall, the other guards at our backs. My shoulder grows numb to absorbing repeated blows against my shield. Blood drips down my arm, but the pain is gone. There is only the next swing, the next strike, the next dodge. We step over bodies as soon as we fell them. The hallway grows humid with blood and offal.

At last we reach the general’s quarters. We burst inside to find him surrounded by attendants who rush to get him into his armor. Six bodyguards stand between him and us. We are vastly outnumbered.

“How dare you?” Luz-Manuel says. I’ve always known him to be a slight man, but with his armor only partly donned, his breastplate hanging from one slender shoulder, he’s even smaller than I thought. “I’ll have you beheaded for raising a weapon to a superior officer.”

“You’re under arrest for treason.”

Luz-Manuel signals to his guards. “Kill him.”

They spring forward.

Storm freezes them in their tracks.

The general stands as tall as his meager height will allow, but fear flashes in his eyes. “You’ve always resented me, haven’t you? The only man who outranks you. Alejandro made the biggest mistake of his life when he appointed you commander of—”

I dart between the frozen guards, pull back my fist, and send it crashing into the general’s face.

He buckles to his knees, head swaying.

“Drag him outside,” I order, shaking out my hand. I may have broken my middle finger. It was worth it. “We’ll display him publicly and call for surrender.”

As soon as the soldiers outside see their general—half dressed, heels dragging in the dirt, a sword leveled at his neck—they lay down their arms. I’m certain I don’t imagine the relief on many faces.

Victory fills me, and I close my eyes a moment, breathing deep. Your turn, Elisa.

I look up toward the king’s suite. One of its windows faces the courtyard, three stories high. Light flashes—the queer blue-white of an animagus’ fire.

I start sprinting.

41

“WELCOME, queenling,” Eduardo says, his close-cropped beard twitching with amusement. Or maybe triumph.

I step backward. I must make a run for it. They’ll probably catch me, but I have to try.

My rear collides with a solid wall, and I gasp. Barrier magic.

“Please, come in,” he says, as if inviting me for tea and pastries.

There is nowhere else for me to go. Reluctantly I step forward into the relative brightness of my dead husband’s bedchamber.

Captain Lucio lies collapsed and bleeding out on the floor. Others slump against the wall, their armor smoking, their flesh melted from the animagi’s fire. Still others stand frozen. The standing ones are alive, I note with relief, with eyes wide open, but they are unable to move against the sorcerer’s magic.

I scan the room for Belén, and when I spot him a sob bursts from somewhere deep inside me. He lies on his side, half hidden by the edge of a divan. His eye patch is askew, revealing his ruined socket. Half his hair has been singed away. Blood pools beneath his shoulder.

Oh, Belén.

“Surrender,” Conde Eduardo says. “If you sign and seal a proclamation that cedes the throne of Joya d’Arena to me, I’ll let everyone else go.”

“Why, Eduardo? Why have you done this?” I ask, stalling.

He looks genuinely surprised that I would ask. “Because our nation suffers. After generations of weak rule, we are at the brink of ruin. Now we are ruled by a seventeen-year-old foreigner. I knew the moment Alejandro died that I had to wrest the throne away from you in order to save it.”

“You just admitted treason.”

He shrugs. “I am only treasonous if I fail. But I won’t. History will judge me a brave visionary for having succeeded.” I stare at Belén’s tortured body. Whether traitor or visionary, the desire to kill Eduardo is so powerful I almost choke on it.

“So?” he prods. “Do you surrender?”

Maybe I should. Maybe he’ll imprison me instead of kill me right out. Maybe it would save the other guards, the ones who are merely frozen.

But his eyes glint keenly, wide with passion or mania or insanity. I’ve seen that look before, and I know I can’t trust it. I can’t trust him. If I surrender, we die anyway. “We Joyans are such filthy liars,” I mutter.

“What?”

“I said I can’t surrender. I’ve bargained for peace with Invierne, you see. And for the treaty to proceed, I must sit the throne.”

Eduardo looks at me like I’ve just molted and turned into an iguana. He turns to the animagus on his right. “Is that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard?” To me, he says, “I am the one who has bargained for peace. Several Inviernos are currently in my employ. They agreed to a cessation of hostilities if it meant ridding the world of you.”

What an idiot. “You have no idea, do you? Who did you bargain with? Franco? He’s dead, you know. You were a pawn in their bid to weaken Joya. But I journeyed to Umbra de Deus and spoke with the Deciregi themselves. My agreement is with them.”

“You speak falsehood,” hisses one of the animagi.

“I do not.” I step forward, hands raised to show I mean no harm. “I journeyed—”

My body clenches up, and suddenly I can’t move, can’t even blink. The sorcerer’s barrier tightens around me until it feels as though my ribs will splinter into my gut.

“Kill her,” Eduardo says.

Instinctively, I fling my awareness into the earth, seeking the zafira. But there is nothing.

The other sorcerer swings his amulet toward me, and his Godstone begins to spark blue fire from within its tiny iron cage.

I’m frozen, hands raised, one foot in front of the other. How did Hector struggle through this? I can’t even flex a muscle. I can only watch, horrified, as the animagus’ Godstone grows brighter and brighter.

“Some say you are immune to magic,” says the Invierno. “Let us see, shall we?”

I am not immune, not without the Godstone living inside me. I will burn like everyone else. And I will die young after all, like most of the bearers before me.

Oh, Hector, I hope you live. I hope you flee this place, find someone else to grow happily old with. I hope—

The door to the suite bursts open.

The animagus looses a firebolt.

A warrior’s cry, a blur of gray in front of me, a large body crashing at my feet.

I can’t turn my head to look, to figure out what has happened, but the smell of burned flesh fills my nose, and bile creeps up my throat.

“My sky,” someone whispers from the floor.

My heart caves in on itself, as if the firebolt did hit me. Tears flood my eyes, blind me, for the barrier is so tight against me they’ve nowhere to go.

The animagus who loosed the firebolt swears loudly. He put too much into the blast, thinking it would impact the bearer. Now he must wait to fill up again.

I can’t sense him calling on the zafira. But I recognize his grounded stance. It does not flood his stone with power the way it did before, in spite of the blood everywhere. He needs more time.

And in the slight relief that comes with knowing I have a few moments more, the realization hits: If I can’t sense him, he can’t sense me either. I no longer have my living stone.

I take a shallow breath, for that is all the barrier will allow, and I say, “I am not the queen.”

Conde Eduardo’s head snaps toward me. But the shock leaves his face as soon as it comes. “Of course you are.”

“I’m her decoy. Her Majesty has been using decoys for months.” Like the one Franco killed.

Both animagi are studying me carefully now, and I press my case. “I can prove it. Look at my belly. You’ll find no Godstone there.”

One of the animagi steps close, peers into my face. I try to lurch backward, but the barrier holds me tight. “She speaks truth,” he hisses. “I sense no power in her.”

Eduardo glares at me. “The resemblance is preternatural.”

“The queen is hiding in a secret passage,” I insist. “I can take you to her.” Maybe I can draw them away from this room and save my remaining men.

Breath fills my lungs in a whoosh of air. The tears trapped in my eyes stream down my cheeks. The animagus indicates the doorway. “Show us,” he says.

But Conde Eduardo is out of patience. “Fine. I’ll kill her myself.” He pulls a knife from a sheath at his belt.

I try to dart away, but his arm hooks my neck, and he spins me around so that my back is pressed against him. He’s going to slit my throat, but he doesn’t want to be splashed with my blood.

“Good-bye, queenling,” he says, and raises his knife.

I lift my heel and slam it into his instep. He bellows, and I grab his arm, shove my shoulder into his, and flip him over onto his back. Just like Hector taught me.

The animagi raise their amulets toward me as they draw on the zafira. But they struggle, for both have recently used too much power. Their dependence on magic makes them vulnerable.

I am not dependent on magic.

I draw my own daggers, launch over the conde’s sprawled form and Ximena’s burned body, and plunge the blade into the stomach of one, right where his Godstone used to be. I gut him hard, twisting with my knife until he crumples to the ground, sliding from the blade.

The other looses a firebolt, but it’s weak, and I lift my forearm to block. Pain explodes on my skin and I’m knocked back a few steps. He flings another bolt, but I’m already diving for his knees.