The Skull Throne

She leaned in, eyes hard. “But I have watched this cycle long enough. Two years ago Jasin Goldentone killed Rojer’s master and put Rojer in my hospit. Then Jasin tries to finish the job, and Rojer is imprisoned for defending himself. Now Rojer is dead, likely at Janson’s command, and Janson is dead in return. How many deaths does it require to end this?” She shook her head. “Nothing can bring Rojer back to me, and so I want nothing more than to take him back to the Hollow and lay him to rest.”

“Perhaps you have the luxury of letting things go,” Lorain said, “a week’s ride to the south. But the murder happened in the palace. The killer must be found, and Rojer’s body is evidence.”

Leesha visibly lost patience, slamming her teacup down on the table so hard it rattled and spilled. It was an act only, but she thought Rojer would have been proud of her performance. “Unacceptable. My people and I have been held prisoner in Angiers too long. Baron Cutter will be in the city soon with thousands of Cutters. When he gets here, he’s going to have questions about how his best friend was murdered in your care, and one way or another we will be leaving.”

“Is that a threat?” Lorain demanded.

“It is a fact,” Leesha said.

Lorain shook her head. “Angiers is no longer weak …”

“Don’t think your little trick impresses me, Princess,” Leesha said. “I know more of the secrets of fire than you. You’ve saved Angiers, but what you’ve unleashed may be worse still. We do the demons’ work for them when we should be banding together.”

Lorain snorted. “You can’t possibly believe all this Demon War Deliverer business.”

“I don’t believe in the Deliverer,” Leesha said, “but there can be no denying the demons are mounting against us. I felt one in my mind, and know what they are capable of. Your new weapons will be worthless against them.”

“We shall see,” Lorain said. “But we stood against the demons for three hundred years. It was not us who attacked.”

Leesha nodded. “All of us have been … compromised in this battle. There is blood enough for all our hands.” She looked at each of them in turn. “I saved your son’s life, Araine. And yours, Lorain. Both at the risk of my own, and the life within me. Pray, let us part in peace, as allies.”

The two duchesses looked at each other, already speaking volumes by expression alone. Araine nodded to Leesha. “Take Rojer and your new apprentices and go in peace.”

New apprentices. Jizell would be closing her hospit to take position as Royal Gatherer to the Duchess Mum, and sending the rest of her apprentices south with Leesha to train in the Hollow. Among these “apprentices” was the pregnant Duchess Melny, and—unbeknownst to Araine—Amanvah and Sikvah.

The duchesses would have questions when those two reappeared back in the Hollow, but those were questions best answered by Messenger and not face-to-face. Leesha had no intention of leaving the Hollow again with anything short of an army of Cutters to escort her.

CHAPTER 31

WHISTLER

334 AR WINTER

Abban had never seen Sharum flee before. Everam his witness, he was not could not remember a time they ever had. It was an ugly, disorganized thing, born of panic.

Thousands of dal’Sharum, the elite of Jayan’s forces, had ridden into the city. Only a handful made it back out, screaming and bloody. Those who did abandoned the field entirely, racing their chargers back the way the army had come without anything approaching a plan. They left the rest of the forces—siege crews, kha and chi’Sharum, and Jayan’s personal guard—standing confused in the churned mud of their passing. Others took their cue, abandoning their posts and following.

“Everam’s beard,” Abban breathed as the enormity of the defeat began to dawn on him.

He turned to Earless. “Fetch my trunk.” As the mute kha’Sharum rushed from the tent, Abban turned to his other bodyguard, his son Fahki. “The maps and papers, boy, quickly. We must flee before—”

Just then the tent flaps burst open and Jayan stormed in, followed by Hasik and two kai’Sharum Spears of the Deliverer.

“So much for your bold plan, khaffit!” Jayan barked.

“My plan?” Abban asked. “I merely agreed with the wisdom of the Sharum Ka. It was the dama’ting who seemed to promise victory.”

“The chi’Sharum cowards are surrendering,” Hasik said, peeking through the tent opening. He stepped outside, and shouting and chaos filled the tent until the heavy flap fell back in place.

“Better than turning their spears on us,” Abban said. “Without spoils or dal’Sharum whips to propel them, there is nothing for them to gain in sharing our defeat.”

“I will kill that lying witch when we return to Everam’s Reservoir,” Jayan said.

“She did not lie, precisely,” Abban noted, still gathering papers and stuffing them into a satchel Fahki held. “She promised you would shatter the gates and enter the city, and indeed you did.”

“Leaving out that my men would be slaughtered moments later,” Jayan growled.

“I have never cared for dama’ting prophecies,” Abban said. “They never tell all.”

“Don’t they?” Hasik asked, entering the tent once more.

Jayan turned to him. “What’s that?”

“The dama’ting prophecies are not meant to tell us what we wish to hear,” Hasik said. “They are to tell us Everam’s will. I did not truly believe it before today.”

“Everam’s balls, Whistler!” Jayan shouted. “What you are babbling about?!”

“I asked Dama’ting Asavi if I would ever have my revenge on Abban the fat khaffit,” Hasik said. “She told me there would come a day of smoke and ruin, when the Sharum Ka would lose Everam’s favor.” He slipped a curved blade from his sleeve. “And on that day, none could stand against my wrath.”

“What are you doing?!” Jayan gave a shrill whistle. “Whistler! Heel!”

The two kai’Sharum were fast, moving instantly to stand side by side in front of Jayan, weapons at the ready.

Hasik charged in fearlessly, his face stone as he swatted away a spear thrust and kicked hard against the kai’Sharum’s shield, knocking him across the floor to crash into Abban’s table, landing in a flurry of papers.

Hasik stepped into the space before the other kai could adjust position. He pivoted, thrusting his curved knife into the armpit of the warrior’s shield arm where there was a small seam in the impenetrable glass armor all the Spears of the Deliverer wore.

Jayan launched his own attack before Hasik could withdraw the knife, a spear thrust for his unarmored throat. Hasik saw the move, ducking away from the thrust. It skittered off the helm under his turban instead, taking part of his ear with it.

Hasik laughed, grabbing the spear shaft just under the head and pulling it aside while he punched out hard, fist wrapped around the heavy knife handle. Jayan’s nose crumpled, and he fell back, senseless.

“Flee, Father!” Fahki cried, shoving the satchel into his hands and propelling Abban toward the exit. His intent was good, but the boy was still an idiot, continuing to push even as Abban’s crippled leg buckled. He fell to the floor, Fahki landing on top of him.