14. Aemon
14
T he guard pounds the heavy wood door with his fist. “Principal Magi Leodin Valstrad, open up.” Then he kicks it in without waiting for a response.
Fucking half-wit. It’s our palace. Did he not think to ask for the key?
The mass of guards rush through the door like cockroaches fleeing the light. I push off the hallway wall where I’d been leaning while watching this debacle unfold and follow the males inside. The old magi is standing beside the bed in a white sleeping gown, his skinny legs poking out of the bottom like a bird. His face is beet red and twisted in fury, as he shouts at the guards currently ransacking his room.
“I demand to speak with the queen.”
“How dare you treat me this way.”
“Stop this now. ”
I’d probably feel sorry for him if he wasn’t such a self-important piece of shit. “Principal Magi Valstrad,” I say, approaching the man with my arms spread. I’m trying to appear non-threatening, but I’ve been told I’m not very good at it. Valstrad seems to be pleased by my presence, though. In fact, his whole-body sags in relief at seeing me. Yeah. The old male is playing a good game, but under all that bluster, he’s terrified.
“Lieutenant, please, what’s the meaning of this?”
I clap him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry for this intrusion, Magi, but there’s been an incident. The entire palace is being searched.”
Valstrad’s a shrewd one, though. You don’t get to be principal of one of the great houses by being naive and trusting. His eyes narrow. “What sort of incident?”
I’m saved from having to answer by the sound of soldiers crashing through the door to the neighboring room. Valstrad’s head snaps to the door. “Katya.”
I grab hold of his arm before he can even take one step. “She’ll be fine.” Because those soldiers know I’ll kill them if she isn’t.
Leodin’s concern for his stepdaughter lasts about half a second—which is, honestly, a half second longer than I thought it would, his attention drawn by the snap of metal cutters slicing through the lock on his steamer trunk. “Get away from there,” he shouts, lunging at the guard. Leodin doesn’t get far before two other guards grab him by the arms and haul him backward. The magi tugs and jerks against the hands holding him, but he’s fighting a losing battle. “Those are my personal things,” he says. “You can’t do this. ”
Ignoring him, the private sets down the bolt cutters and flips the lid open. It’s only a matter of seconds before he catches my eye over the top of the trunk. “Sir, you need to see this.”
Valstrad and I share a look. “See what?” he asks, craning his neck to peer over the lid.
I step around the trunk to stand beside the private, and I’m immediately struck by the coppery tang of blood. I already know what I’m going to see, before my eyes land on the knife laying atop a purple robe, blood and bits of tissue trimming the serrated edge. I pick up the blade and hold it up for the male to see.
His eyes blow wide, the look of justifiable indignation morphing to abject terror in an instant. “That isn’t mine. I swear,” he says. “I’ve never seen it before in my life. Please, if I can just speak to the queen, I’m sure we can clear—”
Shaking my head, I hand the blade back to the private to wrap back up in Valstrad’s robe. I would have expected the magi to be smarter than this. “Principal Magi Valstrad, you are under arrest for regicide.”
“No,” Valstrad shouts. He kicks and jerks and pleads his innocence, but I’ve had enough. I cross to him in two long strides and crack my fist across his face. Pain erupts in my fingers, but I shake it off. Backing away, I nod to the guards. One grips both his arms behind his back while the other punches him in the stomach. I leave them to their work and turn to the private still holding the purple robe and knife. “That goes to the prince in his apartments.”
“Yes, sir,” the private replies and scuttles off.
“We’re done here,” I shout, and with a wave of my arm, the guards drop what they’re doing and file out the door. “You too,” I say to the guards still beating Valstrad, even though he’s obviously already unconscious. They stop what they’re doing, and holding the bloody mess of a fae between them, drag him away.
I let out a breath and comb my fingers through my hair. This next part will be less pleasant, but she’s his daughter. I have to, at the very least, detain her for questioning. Exiting into the hallway, what strikes me is how quiet it is. Not that the guards aren’t making a holy racket tearing apart Katya’s room—they are—but I would have expected to hear her shout at them, or at the very least, demand to know what they’re doing. However, there’s no shouting or arguing of any kind coming from inside.
Has she left already? It’s a stupid thought. The girl couldn’t get out of the front gates without my knowing. Still, my blood pressure spikes at the thought of losing her, and I rush for her open doorway.
And there she is, sitting on her bed in a simple white nightgown, waiting. As if sensing my arrival, Katya looks up and our eyes meet, and that zing that always seems to accompany any interaction with her fires through my system. Her demeanor is calm, almost placid, but her trembling fingers and pleading eyes betray her fear. I want to tell her I won’t let anyone harm her. That I would slaughter any man that dared lift a finger against her. But now is not the time, and this is not the place.
I cross to where Katya’s seated. She has to tip her head back to look at me, and if a judge had to determine innocence based on only appearances, she’d be acquitted in a heartbeat. Of course, I know better than anyone that looks can be deceiving. “You don’t seem shocked to see me, Katya. Tell me.” I kneel so our eyes are level. “Were you expecting me?”
She gives me a flat look and cocks a brow. “Seeing as you show up everywhere else I am, why not my bedroom in the dead of night?”
I’d have been disappointed if she hadn’t fought back a little.
“Nobody touches the girl but me,” I shout over my shoulder, my eyes never leaving hers. I don’t need to check with the guards to ensure my command will be followed. It will. My gaze roams the planes of her face, admiring the smoothness of her skin, the fullness of her lips, then down to where the swells of her breasts peek out over the collar of her nightgown. She turns a pretty shade of pink, and I can’t help the smile that curls my lips at her response. Giving into temptation, I brush my knuckles across her cheek and tuck a silky black strand behind her delicately pointed ear. “It would be a travesty to mar this pretty face,” I say. My arms ache to hold her, but I ignore them. Instead, I stand and offer her my hand.
She takes it without argument and gets to her feet. “Turn around, witchling.”
She does as she’s told, and I secure the shackles around her tiny wrists. They’re too big. She could probably slip her hands free if she wanted to, but I’m not worried. She wouldn’t make it to the first guard station. I remove my jacket and lay it over her shoulders for modesty’s sake. “I’ll get some clothes to you later,” I say, then nudge her toward the door.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks so softly I barely make out the words .
“You know where.”
I’m fucking dead on my feet. Probably not the most appropriate use of the term given the current situation, but there you have it. I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. After placing Katya in a secure room, I still had to question Berezin, search the other rooms for accomplices and tend to Troi, who was whining like a little bitch over a couple of scratches on his arm. I’ve seen less crying from men who’ve had limbs chopped off.
So, now here we are, the queen not yet buried and already her “grieving” son has positioned his bony ass on her throne. The room is filled to bursting with every single fae who lives, works or is visiting the palace, and still more pile in, waiting for the prince—I mean, the king—to speak.
But he isn’t speaking. He’s sitting on that throne, his chin resting on his fist, watching the incoming crowd with murder in his eyes. I’ve got to admit, he’s doing a fairly good job of being intimidating, even with his arm in a sling.
Troi cradles that arm to his chest as he rises to stand before the crowd.
Instant silence.
It’s a bit unnerving.
“Last night,” Troi begins, his voice booming through the room. “The most grievous form of treason was committed. Assassins took the life of your queen and attempted to take mine as well.” He gestures to his injured arm and murmurs rise from the crowd. The bells last night signaled the queen’s death, but given the level of surprise Troi’s announcement has caused, I’m guessing the gossipmongers hadn’t had much of an opportunity to spread the whole story yet. I glance out the arched windows directly behind the new king. The sun is only just beginning to peek over the horizon. In a few minutes it will rise behind Troi, setting him to glow like a god. These royals are nothing if not dramatic.
Troi continues his speech, adding a touch of inflection to his voice now to rile up the crowd. “They attacked us under the cover of darkness, while we slept, like cowards. I managed to fight mine off, but my mother, the queen…” He pauses, turning his head and squeezing his eyes shut, as though he’s trying to hide his tears. It’s subtle but effective. I’ll admit he’s a much better actor than I thought he’d be. Then again, considering Troi has zero empathy, or really any emotions beyond rage, for that matter, he’s had a good bit of practice. Troi clears his throat and pretends to gather himself before speaking. “Our queen was not so fortunate. But the most difficult thing for me to reconcile is that this heinous act was committed by one of our own, in what we can only assume was an attempted coup: Principal Magi Leodin Valstrad of Dom Duje.”
The room erupts into a frantic chatter, but Troi doesn’t let that stop him. Raising his voice, he says, “The murder weapon was found in his possession, still covered in my mother’s blood.” The crowd grows louder with each passing second, the placid acceptance of a few moments ago morphing into a veritable tinderbox. “His accomplices are yet to be determined,” the king continues, the fervor in his voice building in a furious crescendo. “But I assure you, my friends and compatriots, we will not rest until every single one of them is found and brought to justice.” On that last word, he thrusts his fist into the air, while the sun rises behind him like a golden aura.
And the tinderbox ignites.