27
In my final year at the Academy, my “Etiquette & Noblesse” class went on a tour of the palace.
I remember the impossibly high ceilings, the beautiful stained-glass windows, the art galleries and the libraries.
I recall the throne room, too, dominated by the huge royal seat, intricately wrought of dark metal and inset with more panes of thick stained glass in crimson, blue, and violet.
The throne room looks the same, but there are different banners hanging from the pillars, featuring ebony serpents instead of the stained-glass crown that has long been the emblem of the Molloi dynasty.
And on the throne itself, wearing a mask covered in diamond snakes, with one leg arched over the other, is the Exemplar.
He’s less imposing than I imagined. The man standing behind the throne, slightly to his right, is bigger and broader, wearing the silver-toothed helmet that marks him as the Paladin, the Exemplar’s second.
Looking at both of them, judging by their body language alone, I suspect that the man standing behind the throne is the true power here.
My suspicion is confirmed when the Paladin subtly taps the edge of the throne.
The Exemplar sits upright, laying aside the object he was fiddling with—some kind of scepter, inset with jewels…
but it isn’t metal. It appears to be made of bone, and there’s a spiral pattern to its surface. Why does it look familiar?
“Heim Cordall, the artist?” The Exemplar speaks in a deep voice, but it sounds somewhat fake, like he’s feigning a lower register than his natural tone.
“Yes, Mighty Exemplar.” Cordall bows low. “I come bringing joyful word of the Naughty Prince’s demise.”
“Joyful indeed, if it is true. Show us the proof.”
Cordall slides a canvas out of its protective case and presents it with a flourish. It’s the second image of Vawn’s feigned death, the one we’ve been circulating throughout Belavrin for the past several days.
It didn’t take long for the rumors to travel. Once we got the image and the story to the gossip runners, most of the work was done for us. And as I predicted, it wasn’t long before Cordall was accosted by Redeemers and presented with a summons to appear before the Exemplar.
The moment the Exemplar sees the painting, he exhales beneath the helmet, and his shoulders relax. The Paladin leans forward, inspecting the magical portrait. Then he taps on the throne again.
“We, um…” The Exemplar glances over his shoulder. “Ah yes, we want to see you produce images of the Naughty Prince’s death live, right now. That way we can be certain that you actually witnessed it.”
“Of course.” Cordall beckons to me and I step forward, carrying his easel and a pair of canvases. The locks of the brown wig conceal my face as I prop the wooden legs of the easel in place and set one of the canvases on it.
I can feel the eyes of the Paladin and the Exemplar on me.
There’s no way they should perceive me as a threat, dressed plainly as I am, with nails that appear to be bare of glyphs.
Both Cordall and I were searched for weapons and glyphs when we entered the palace.
The guards even brought over a glyph lexicon to ensure that the five visible glyphs on Cordall’s right hand were solely for his art and posed no threat to the Exemplar.
I turn the easel to face the throne and step behind it, my fingertips placed lightly against the wooden frame as if I’m ready to support it.
Cordall moves in, his back to the throne, facing the canvas and me. His eyes meet mine briefly. Then he pricks his left thumb and touches the blood to each fingernail on his right hand. He plants that hand against the canvas.
Judging by the exclamation from the Exemplar, the image of the death scene is beginning to form on the canvas. But I see Cordall tuck his left hand against his chest and slide that bloody thumb across four fingertips that appear to have no glyphs at all.
He blinks three times at me.
I find the splinter on the easel’s frame, the one I created just for this purpose, and I press my thumb against its sharp tip. Blood beads there, and behind the shelter of the canvas I sweep it across each fingernail of my left hand.
“We’d like to see another angle,” says the Paladin from behind the throne.
His voice tugs at my memory, like the shape of the scepter does. They are two pieces of a terrible puzzle that’s very nearly complete.
“The second canvas, please,” says Cordall to me. He whips the first one off the easel with a dramatic flourish. As he moves, I drop the canvas I’m holding, and both of us throw our intent behind the activated glyphs on our fingernails.
The eight guards in the throne room go rigid, but they do not fall. Vawn altered the standard paralysis glyphs, creating a version of his own that freezes the guards in position rather than making them go entirely slack.
I fling my right hand toward the throne, using two of the same glyphs. The Exemplar’s body locks up, the man behind the throne ducks just in time, and when he comes up again, he twitches a finger toward Cordall. The artist chokes and collapses, his body shaking and seizing with pain.
But I trigger my right-hand shield and fend off the incoming pulse of pain magic.
“Severin,” I whisper. “Severin, hurry.”
I’ve used all five paralysis glyphs on my left hand, and the shield glyph on my right index finger, leaving me with only a few more options.
I activate an attack glyph, but the Paladin deflects the burst of nerve magic and charges past the throne, drawing a broadsword, seemingly intent on dispatching me personally without the aid of glyphs.
I shift aside a bit of wood at the end of the easel’s trough, and I draw out a long, narrow knife. The resident carpenter at Anyssir Castle carved that hiding place for me and oiled it, too. I bless his name as the weapon slides out easily, fitting comfortably in my hand.
My attacker’s blade descends in a heavy arc, and I meet it with mine—but the impact jars my very bones, and pain flares through my right elbow, echoing in my side.
I duck and spin, jabbing toward the Paladin’s kidney, but he twists out of the way with shocking speed for such a large man.
With one long arm, he reaches out and grabs at my wig, which rips free along with some of my real hair.
I yell, but I take the opportunity to rake the blade along the underside of his upper arm. Despite his leathers, I think I hit flesh, because he flinches and draws back.
A quick glance in Cordall’s direction reveals that he’s no longer writhing in pain. He’s sweating, and he looks weak from the torturous spell, but he’s alive, pulling himself into the shelter of a pillar.
The paralysis on the guards won’t last long. “Severin,” I say under my breath.
The Paladin is panting beneath his helmet, and though I can’t see his eyes, I know he’s glaring at me. I can practically feel the rage emanating from his body.
“You. I fucking knew it.” He points his sword at me. “You have been a problem since that first night.”
The cadence of that voice—I remember it in the context of someone giving me directions, instructions, guidance—
As I circle him, my brain flits through all the professors and trainers I’ve had. None of their voices match. “Who are you?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re dying at my feet.
” He lunges, and I parry a hail of mighty blows, barely managing to sustain the force of them.
I dodge behind the easel, and the Paladin angrily smashes it to pieces, as I calculated he might.
The force of his blow frees the two small blades hidden within the upright part of the frame.
I throw my long knife at the Paladin, without looking to see if my aim is true, and I roll across the floor, snatching up my claw knives. They had to be sealed into the easel, so I didn’t have time to extract them before. Now that they’re in my hands, I feel a fresh surge of confidence.
Spinning them around my fingers, I face the Paladin.
He’s touching the side of his neck where my thrown sword nicked him. Not a mortal wound, or there would be more blood.
“I’ll admit it.” He shakes his helmeted head, renewing his grip on the broadsword.
“I underestimated you. I dispatched Kresser so I could replace him with someone less loyal, less capable—a weak link, easy to eliminate. But you’re tenacious, I’ll give you that.
Who would have thought you’d last this long?
You’d never even killed anyone, or drawn blood outside of class or a practice ring. ”
The way he says it, the inflection…
A harsh chill breaks out over my skin. “Renfrow?”
He pauses, then pulls off his helmet and pitches it aside. It hits the floor with a metallic clang, chipping the tile.
“I watched you die.” I blink at him, trying to re-interpret my memories of that first night.
“Did you? Or did you see me fall into a cluster of enemies?”
“But that sliver of red light—the attack magic—it was aimed at you. I protected you.”
“Or did you foolishly dodge in front of me to block a spell sent by one of my own men? I would have easily deflected it.”
“Why the show? Why pretend to fight your own people?”
“I had to be seen defending the prince. I was too well known to openly turn against the Crown—I had to die before I could take up this helmet, this role.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No, you wouldn’t betray Vawn. You took care of him. You were his bodyguard for years.”
“Oh yes. For fucking years. And when I chose you for that lineup, I knew he’d pick you.
I know him, inside and out. Every stupid thought, every selfish impulse.
I know what his asshole looks like. I’ve heard him vomit.
I’ve had to guard him through orgies and binges and drugged stupors. Trust me, he’s not worth protecting.”
“You don’t know him as well as you think you do.” I move carefully toward Renfrow, my knives still flicking back and forth.