Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
HORNHALL
T he crowd outside the balcony doors could be heard from the opposite side of the room when Archer entered. Dagan had dismissed Drake, instructing him to join the other King’s Knights below in the courtyard.
His mother wordlessly crossed to a velvet chair and took a seat, face expressionless. Archer’s second had not been wrong. Something was definitely not right.
“That’s an interesting gown, mother,” he ventured. “I haven’t seen it before.”
Her head swiveled to him, eyes as dark as coals, but she remained mute, doll-like.
Dagan looked up from the glass of sherry he was pouring at the sidebar. “No need to trot around what’s really going on, nephew.” He straightened. “We’re taking over.”
Archer was fairly certain the phrase ‘ slipping down the rabbit hole’ had been inspired by a similar conversation at one point in time. He kept his eyes on his uncle, hoping his face read neutral, as he replied, “ We ?”
The Wolf of Ventus gave the amber liquor a swirl. Apparently finding it to his satisfaction, he looked at Archer. “Our bloodline, of course.” Dagan inhaled over the glass and his lips curled with satisfaction. “Surely Warelow told you.”
Archer watched his uncle take a sip. Of course, the bastard had him followed. By sources even Katarra’s superb senses couldn’t detect. What else had those sources seen and reported on? Archer resisted the urge to move his hand closer to his sword.
“Though I did expect you to go to the catacombs first,” Dagan continued, setting the glass on the table with deliberate care. Involuntarily, Archer’s fingers flexed. “Where is the stigmata tattoo he cut from his body?” His uncle canted his head, the movement more animal than fae. “And where is my bride?”
“I don’t recall her agreeing to the match,” Archer ground out, unable to curb the steel lacing the words.
Dagan merely shrugged. “She will. She knows the difference between a crown and…” he lifted his brows in irreverent cynicism. “… a toy .”
Archer didn’t take the bait, didn’t rise to the insult. Instead, he said, “Tell me about my father. Is what Warelow said true?”
His uncle regarded him. “You get the gifts of Pure Magic from the Astamere line.” He picked up the glass and refilled it. “Your father was a highly evolved practitioner. And observant enough to see where the unrest in the realm was leading–years in advance of the siege. When Aaron fell for your mother, he appealed to his uncle, the King of Arrowren, to start a life away from court. The king agreed, provided your father’s reclusiveness didn’t interfere with his duties to the crown.”
Dagan paused to study his glass of sherry. “That instinctive foresight is the reason you’re still alive. After the fall of Arrowren, Aaron used his influence and power to secure a lasting alliance with the new powers that resided over the land. He would marry either you, or your sister, to the King of Hornhall’s first born, ensuring any offspring from that union would have Pure Magic running through their veins. Obviously, you know the rest. The old king had a son, and your sister became the sacrificial pawn.”
“Are there any others?” Archer asked. “From the Astamere line?”
Again those cunning eyes assessed him. Dagan lifted the glass to his lips. “You have another uncle, the eldest of my two brothers. And two cousins, male and female. The female is once-removed, the late king of Arrowren’s only daughter. The male is my son.”
Archer didn’t try to hide his surprise. Not as a litany of questions lined up, one after another. How was any of this possible? If the late King Astamere’s daughter was really alive–she was the rightful heir of Arrowren.
When in the god’s underworld had his uncle sired a child? Surely not here in Ventus. It had to be born of some female from Earth, or…
“She didn’t tell you?” His uncle’s lips twitched, eyes alight–the wolf incarnate. “Katarra Diaboli is my son’s mother.”
Someone outside dropped something heavy. Shouted orders immediately followed.
“Ah, the show!” Dagan exclaimed, turning toward the balcony, as if he hadn’t just kicked the realm from beneath Archer’s feet. “Come, see how real change is achieved, nephew. Then you can go retrieve my bride and the king.”
Dread twisted Archer’s gut at the absence of one name. His sister’s.
Dagan offered an arm to his mother. She accepted, eyes vacant, and let him lead her onto the balcony.
“Don’t get any foolish ideas, nephew,” his uncle drawled over his shoulder, moving his hand to the middle of Archer’s mother’s back, as he pushed her toward the low railing.
Dagan looked him directly in the eyes. “We can’t afford to lose any more family members, can we?”
K atarra snaked through the crowd. For the first time in her life, she didn’t want the attention. If she knew how to summon any other form, now would be a handy time to do it.
Alas, she was stuck with her only two options. The Queen of Gerra. Or the champion.
She opted for the former, donning the scarf she’d stolen off the female rebel in the catacombs. The male, slower, and tasting of oxidized wine, died next. She had taken her time draining him, made it painful, punishment for not answering her questions faster.
Unfortunately for Archer, his sweet sister was dead. Had apparently been subjected to, and then possessed by, whatever darkness was laying siege on the land. Katarra hadn’t bothered grilling the rebels on the exact details. She wasn’t a godsdamned investigator.
She’d learned enough, though. The child king had been transported elsewhere. The fae blood-bag was telling the truth when he blabbered and cried, he didn’t know where.
All this bullshit meant Katarra now needed another way to win this fucking contest. She drilled her heel into an onlooker’s foot, breaking at least two toes. The male cursed, but she was already elbowing another idiot aside, working her way to the front of the crowd.
All eyes were trained on the scaffolding. Normally, Katarra would delight in a good execution. But given her current mood, she just wanted to get on with it, locate Archer, and restructure the game plan for taking back her kingdom.
She hadn’t told her current lover about her ex-lover. Still wasn’t sure she cared to. Dagan, the pompous prick, was delusional if he thought she would agree to his proposal. She didn’t need him to take back Gerra. She only needed him to stay the hell out of her way.
His influence here could certainly pose a problem. Another reason she needed to get this day moving along. She needed to determine how big a pain in the ass he was going to be .
As if she had summoned the fucker, Dagan stepped onto the Tower balcony three stories above the eager crowd. Archer’s mother stood at his side. Maybe the asshole had found a new bride. Katarra stepped behind a mammoth-sized fae and ducked her head.
“I have called you all here today to witness what befalls traitors to the crown.” Her ex’s voice boomed over the din of spectators. “Let this be a lesson; no fae is above the law.” He motioned to someone below.
Katarra peered around the male in front of her as the crowd parted just ahead. She couldn’t see shit, but the wave of movement abruptly stopped not more than a few feet into the throng of tightly packed villagers. Whoever was being called up already had premium seats for the show.
Interesting.
A third presence on the balcony caught Katarra’s attention and she looked up. Archer stepped up to the other side of his mother, spine straight as an arrow.
More interesting…
Katarra scanned the spectators again. Where were the King’s Knights? Her sights snagged on a broad-shouldered male near the scaffolding, muscles rippling beneath his thin shirt, twin swords strapped down the back of his leather-skinned vest.
One of Archer’s wolf pack. This was reading decidedly like a hostile takeover.
She glanced back up to the Tower. The Queen Regent was not in Hornhall colors–though she almost certainly would be for a public spectacle of this sort.
Katarra’s attention moved to Dagan. Same color green on his jacket. She looked closer. The bastard was wearing the Regent’s pin. Not Hornhall’s . Another house’s signet was displayed proudly over his heart.
The crafty motherfucker.
In another place and time, she would have found an insurrection daring and sexy. Not now. Not when she was this close to getting what she wanted. This close to having it all blown to smithereens.
Someone protested, their indignance too pragmatic, too well-spoken to be common. Another joined in, his accent rolling and rich, influenced by an ancient bloodline Katarra would know anywhere– the House of the Dragon . The speaker could be none other than her dear nephew.
She pushed around the hulking fae to get a better look. One of the wizards was being manhandled and pushed up onto the scaffolding. Sterling LaGoryen demanded, “Release him at once!”
“Any protest will be met with arrest,” Dagan countered sternly.
Archer’s gaze swung to his uncle. Apparently he thought the same thing as Katarra. Was Dagan foolish enough to throw Ashdon LaGoryen’s nephew in the dungeon?
Either Sterling didn’t believe him, or he didn’t care. The young immortal shouted, “You are not the king!”
Dagan’s grin promised violence. He nodded to someone on the ground. The fae with the twin swords and two others moved in, seizing Teakin’s son.
The wizard on the scaffolding declared, “He is an honored guest in our realm. You can’t–”
“Oh, Master Matthias,” Katarra’s ex said with blatant confidence, “…but I can .”
Another jerk of Dagan’s chin, and two more wizards joined Master Matthias on the makeshift stage.
“Make sure our honored guest has a front row seat.” Dagan’s teeth flashed. “I’d hate for him to miss a second of this.”
Instinct had Katarra taking another cursory glance around the crowd. Her gaze snagged on an unusual head of hair near the Tower wall. Curly red hair beneath a hood that was too big, round citrus-colored eyes peeking out.
A chill wind skittered over the top of Katarra’s spine. She had told the child to stay in her room. Fuck !
The girl couldn’t witness this. These were her people. She had come here for them. To see if her sister…
Katarra searched the faces gathered near where the wizards had been standing. She cursed under her breath. Oakley’s sister wouldn’t be tall enough to see. Katarra bent down, pretending to adjust a buckle on her boot, and looked through the sea of legs.
Sure enough, a set of little pink slippers stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the mud covered boots. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She straightened in time to see the first wizard forced to his knees before the executioner’s block.
She started moving. Toward the Tower wall. Dagan’s voice sliced through the air above her, “These men have been found guilty of plotting to kidnap the king. They are hereby sentenced to death by beheading.”
Katarra pulled the scarf further over her face, Oakley locked in her sights.
“Watch it,” a male snipped when she cut in front of him, his words getting tangled with the ones inside her head–reaching out to her, mind to mind.
She kept going. Sterling’s voice again shouted up to the balcony, real fear now creeping into it. “My father will kill you!”
Dagan laughed. The sound filled the crowded courtyard. She knew that calculated, cruel laugh well. The asshole knew something Sterling did not.
Her ex’s next words confirmed it. “You think that ring on your finger will alert him to your current situation?” A few low chuckles near the scaffolding resonated through the audience– his pack of wolves . “I hate to break it to you here, in front of all these witnesses, but…” he paused for effect. “That ring was spelled with family blood.”
Katarra didn’t slow her pace as she ducked around a female who smelled like she hadn’t washed in a week. Oakley still stared at the stage, paralyzed with fear. Katarra nudged a lanky teenager out of her way. Just a few more feet …
“It’s too bad really. For you . And the hope you’ve put in that band of metal. Because it won’t do any good.” Dagan continued taunting. “Teakin LaGoryen is not your father.”
K atarra’s steps faltered on her way to the girl and she bumped into someone, who bumped into another who grumbled angrily. Archer held his breath, praying all eyes remained on the scaffolding and the drama playing out there.
Thankfully, his uncle didn’t notice the commotion. Not as Sterling LaGoryen was forcefully shoved to his knees in front of the scaffolding. “Gag him if he speaks again,” Dagan ordered.
The King’s Knights were nowhere to be seen. The Hornhall soldiers stationed around the perimeter would be of no help. Not with Dagan wearing that blasted pin and Archer’s mother mute beside him. Surely, his uncle wouldn’t go through with this. He knew Warelow had acted alone. His spies would have told him. This display was for show, to prove something.
What, though, Archer wasn’t sure. He inched closer to his mother. Dagan had removed his hand from her back, in favor of gripping the railing when he started antagonizing Sterling. A small blessing.
The wizards were being lined up. Kastor’s hazel eyes lifted to the balcony, something like resignation residing in them. “Please, let my brothers go,” he implored. “I will gladly pay for any perceived sins.”
Unmoved, Dagan replied, “Who would you like to see take charge of the girl?”
Kastor shook his head in disbelief, but somehow managed to say, “The Temple. Master Warelow will–”
“Master Warelow has already been put to death for his crimes.”
All hope drained from Kastor’s face. His gaze lowered to the crowd in front of him, and he stared at no one and nothing. He mumbled, “They have nowhere else to go. ”
“That’s a shame,” Dagan said flippantly, and motioned the executioner forward. “An orphanage it is.”
Before Kastor could glance back up, the executioner’s sword cleaved through the air. One blow. That was all it took. The old wizard’s head hit the wooden planks with a wet, heavy thud.
The little girl in pink started screaming. Sterling bellowed, struggling against the guards. And Oakley…
Katarra’s cloak was still swaying from whatever effort she’d put into getting in front of the child, shielding her from the grisly sight.
Archer’s attention jumped back to the nightmare at the scaffolding. The girl in pink passed out in the mud. Sterling was still fighting like a caged bear. Master Matthias retched all over the block in front of him. Master Huron just closed his eyes, as the hooded fae moved behind him, ax raised.
Archer’s mother didn’t even flinch when the second head rolled across the makeshift stage.
Then the third.
The crowd had gone silent. The birds stopped chirping. The wind ceased its subtle moaning. Even Sterling LaGoryen’s screams died in his throat.
The only sound Archer registered, too soft for most to pick up on, was a door in the Tower wall below clicking shut.