Chapter 58
Carver
Carver couldn’t ignore his growing unease as he hid in the darkness of the emperor’s treasury.
With no windows, and Keats’ brusque order to douse their lanterns once they’d gotten into position, Carver couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.
The only thing that kept him grounded was his palm pressed against the wooden base of the large display case in front of him, which he knew would completely shield him and Ford from the rebels’ view.
The darkness would be a weakness when the Rising arrived with their lanterns to steal the Dagger of Hafsin.
Carver and the other soldiers would be momentarily blinded by the light, but it was the cost they had to pay for setting this trap.
The ambush would only work if the rebels gathered around the case that held the dagger—something they wouldn’t do if they caught a hint of light and realized someone else was in the treasury.
In the pervasive darkness, Carver heard the faint sounds of men breathing evenly around him, along with the occasional whisper of fabric or light scuff of a boot as a new stance was taken.
The soldiers were all hidden among the room’s many displays, just as Carver was.
But he doubted they felt the same level of nerves he did.
With every second that ticked by, Carver’s tension mounted.
Come on, Amryn . . .
He’d removed his gloves, though he still wore his uniform.
He flexed his grip on the dagger in his hand, keeping his muscles as loose as he could without moving more than absolutely necessary.
The space between display cases was too narrow for an effective sword fight, but his longsword was secured at his side, ready to draw if needed.
Soldiers with crossbows would hopefully be enough to persuade the rebels to give up without a fight.
Soft light glowed in the doorway on the far side of the room. The men around him went utterly still, perfectly trained and utterly prepared. As the light grew brighter, Carver winced. But he refused to close his eyes completely. The sooner his eyes readjusted to the light, the better.
Quiet voices drifted toward them, echoing faintly against the stone walls of the chamber just beyond this one. Carver recognized Ivan’s. “. . . understand my concern.”
“Of course. But orders are orders.” The rolling accent—so similar to Amryn’s own—made Carver assume the speaker was Bram.
“I am no longer needed here,” Ivan said. “Samuel can guide you the rest of the way. Let me go to—”
“No,” Bram said. “We finish this. Then I’ll happily go with you.”
The light increased to a painful level as the rebels entered the room holding the Hafsin collection. Eyes watering, Carver blinked rapidly. He didn’t understand the context of the conversation, but his hold on his knife clenched. He glanced at Ford.
His friend was crouched at his side and also squinting against the light. But when he met Carver’s stare, his furrowed brow made it clear he wasn’t liking the undertones of the conversation, either.
“How much farther?” Bram asked, impatience riding his tone.
“It’s just on the far side of the room,” Samuel assured the rebel.
Say something, Amryn. Let me know you’re all right.
Carver didn’t get his wish. Silence fell among the rebels.
Their footsteps echoed through the vast chamber, growing louder as they drew nearer.
Carver looked to Keats. The older general was positioned a fair distance from Carver, but they were still able to lock gazes.
As the rebels approached, Keats raised one hand, making a fist.
Adrenaline coursed through Carver’s veins as he copied the sign, showing it to the soldiers hiding among the displays on his other side. The faces he saw were filled with resolve as they gripped their weapons and prepared for the order to move.
Carver looked back at Keats so he wouldn’t miss the final signal, but his focus was on the men he couldn’t see—and the woman who owned his heart.
Light drenched the space now. The footsteps finally stopped.
“The Dagger of Hafsin,” Bram breathed out. “It’s ours.”
Keats dropped his fist. Carver echoed the signal, and then he rose with Ford and the other men, weapons in hand.
It was pure military precision as soldiers moved fluidly from their hiding places and formed a tight ring around the rebels.
Loaded crossbows were leveled at their targets and drawn knives shined in the glowing lantern light.
The rebels reeled back in surprise, but there was nowhere for them to run.
Carver’s eyes raked over the group. Five rebels, a grim-looking prince, and one icy-gazed Wolf. Carver’s heart stopped. Amryn wasn’t among them.
Keats stepped forward, his authoritative voice booming. “In the name of the emperor, you’re all under arrest for treason. Resist, and you will be killed.”
The rebels were frozen, their shock and panic clear. They all wore the uniform of the palace guard, but none had drawn weapons. Their eyes darted to their leader—a man Carver knew instinctively was Bram.
Carver barely spared him a glance. His eyes slashed to Ivan and Samuel, who had taken a step away from the rebels. “Where is she?” he demanded.
A muscle in Ivan’s jaw ticked. “There was a secondary mission. Amryn was sent to help free King Jamir.”
Shock slammed into him. “She’s at the prison?” Freeing Jamir?
“Yes.” Tension rode Samuel’s voice. “We tried not to let her go alone with them, but—”
“Traitors,” Bram hissed, glaring at Ivan and Samuel.
“I was never one of you,” Ivan said flatly. “Therefore, I cannot be a traitor to your cause.”
“Put down your weapons,” General Keats ordered.
The rebels hesitated. Bram was seething, his hands curled uselessly at his sides.
“Now!” Keats barked.
Grudgingly, the rebels began to comply. Even Bram, though he continued to glare.
Carver was still struggling to process the fact that his wife wasn’t here. She was across the palace, with rebels. Unguarded. His gut twisted. “I’m going to the prison,” he told Keats.
“I’m coming with you,” Ford said at once.
“Three rebels are with her,” Ivan said, he and Samuel already moving to join them.
Keats called three men over to accompany them. Then he caught Carver’s gaze. “Good luck.”
Carver didn’t need luck. Nothing would keep him from his wife.
He’d just turned his back on Keats when Ford yelled, “Carve!”
He spun, but not fast enough to completely avoid Bram’s lunging strike. The man’s dagger sliced over his ribs, rather than lodging in his spine.
Bram snarled, his knife stabbing for Carver’s heart.
It was instinct to dodge. To grab hold of his wrist to halt another attack. Just as it was reflex to plunge his own dagger into Bram’s stomach.
Bram grunted. His eyes flew wide and his nostrils flared. Anger, shock, and pain filled his expression as he glanced down, seeing the dagger buried inside him, still held by Carver’s hand.
Carver’s stomach rolled. He could tell from the smell alone that he’d hit something vital.
Bram’s breath rattled through clenched teeth.
The dagger in his slackened grip clattered to the floor.
Carver was aware of Ford kicking it aside, but his focus was on Bram as the man raised his head, furious fire burning in his eyes.
“You tainted her,” he rasped. “You turned her against her own people.” Panting, trembling with agony, he gritted out, “I pray my death opens her eyes. That she’ll finally see you for the monster you are. ”
Carver swallowed. “I’m sorry. Your death wasn’t necessary.”
“No. But yours is.” Bram spat in his face.
Carver flinched as blood and spittle landed on his cheek.
Ford swore, but Keats was already there, wresting Bram away from Carver. His blade slipped free of the man’s gut, his knuckles coated with the same blood that stained his knife.
Even held by Keats, Bram glowered at Carver. “With my stolen lifeblood, I mark you for death. With my dying breath, I curse your life. May you lose all you love, and when your death comes, may you rot forever in the fiery pits of Azurell.”
The words held the air of a curse. The hairs on the back of Carver’s neck lifted.
He took a step back and wiped his cheek with his sleeve. He looked at Keats. “Make him as comfortable as possible.” It was the only thing he could do for Bram now. For Amryn’s sake.
Keats nodded once, his expression grim. “Go. Get your wife.”
Carver gripped the bloody knife in his hand and turned on his heel. He glimpsed Ford’s concerned look, Samuel’s pale face, and Ivan’s penetrating stare.
None of them hesitated to follow as he ran for the exit.