Chapter 51 Fray
FRAY
KIT
Kit vaulted over a toppled table in the palace hallway, slipping in something she didn’t dare look too closely at as she slid across the marble floor.
The palace was in ruins. Cracks spiderwebbed through the high marble columns.
Hallways were half-lit, the sconces having guttered out.
The air was thick with smoke, the scent of singed cloth, and the coppery tang of blood.
Just ahead of her, Tenebris Nox shadowstepped through a shattered doorframe. The cultist who had been rushing the nocterrian from behind couldn’t stop in time, so they collided with the jagged edges of the door, screaming as shards of glass and wood raked across their skin.
A quick thrust of Nox’s sword had the screams stopping.
“Left or right?” they asked, wiping the bloody blade on the back of the cultist’s robes.
Kit pressed a hand to the wall, steadying herself as she tried to catch her breath. “Throne room’s to the east. But we need to find the others first.”
And then they were moving—down twisting halls, over strewn bodies. At one point, Kit took to the air, floating just a foot or two above the ground to avoid slipping in any more blood.
There was so much blood.
There were also too many servants among the dead. So many who hadn’t had a blade to lift in their own defense.
“How did this happen so quickly?” Kit’s voice cracked as she and Nox turned another corner.
“We don’t know how much we missed. They placed silencing runes around our rooms for that exact reason. The attack could have been triggered the instant we broke into his safe.”
“This is our fault then.”
“No.” Nox slowed to a stop, grabbing Kit’s dangling wrist and forcing her to land in front of them.
“This is no one’s fault but Varyth Malchior and his followers.
Remember, this was planned. Our finding the crown may have been the spark that lit the match, but who knows how long ago the kindling was set. ”
Kit only nodded as the two of them continued on, turning another corner—and immediately leaping out of the way as a bolt of lightning forked through the space between them.
Sephone stood at the end of the corridor, arms raised, hair wild and black eyes blazing.
Sanguinagi cultists screamed as the lightning she commanded surged through the air.
It licked at their crystal weapons, shattering them, before striking at the enemies themselves.
Three went down in an instant. A fourth managed to raise a shield with one hand, conjuring a blood-red whip with the other.
Kit reacted, ice crystallizing in her palm, turning into something long and sharp and spiked. She readied it, moving to toss her icy spear into the cultist’s back.
She didn’t need to.
Not when Sephone was a blur of motion, forgoing her magic entirely to leap upon the sanguinagi’s shield, shattering it with one strike of her brass knuckle-covered fist.
Another hit had the cultist’s face caving in.
A third, and they stopped moving entirely.
“Remind me never to piss her off,” Kit whispered.
“If it helps, I think she is probably always a little pissed off,” Nox replied drily.
And then they were moving again, falling into step with one another as Sephone pivoted to join them.
“Where are we headed?” she asked, not even pausing to wipe the blood from her fist.
“To the king,” Kit said. “Have you seen anyone else?”
“Not yet, I—”
A labored yell rang through the hall, and all three of them ran ahead to find the bodies of two guards slumped against the wall, blood coating their armor.
A shattered serving tray lay beside one of them, half-buried beneath a fallen tapestry.
And beside that, sitting on her knees, was Cedric’s attendant, Addison.
“No, no, no, no, no,” said Addison, the words blurring together, as though she wasn’t wholly conscious of the fact that she was saying them.
Kit’s gaze roamed to Addison’s arms, clutching a body that was far too pale and far too still.
“Kymber?” Kit choked out, her heart clenching as she took in the sight of Elyria’s attendant, blonde hair caked with blood, eyes open but sightless.
“A little help here!” Tristan appeared from a doorway halfway down the hall, half-carrying Gregor, who clutched at a bleeding wound in his side.
One second, Nox was next to Kit, their palm on her back, grounding her amidst the carnage. The next, they had shadowstepped to Tristan, hauling Gregor’s other arm over their shoulder.
Kit ran to meet them, winding a wisp of healing magic into Gregor’s open wound as soon as she got her hands on him. The man nodded gratefully, though any color that he might have regained was gone as soon as he caught sight of Addison and Kymber. He fell to his knees beside them.
“That won’t be enough to heal him,” Kit told Tristan. “Where is the infirmary? Is there a saint there?”
“No idea what state the infirmary is in,” Tristan said, his expression grim. “But Tenny is a saint.”
“Is she safe?” Kit asked, panic rising in her chest.
The knight nodded, his jaw tight. “I have her in the east solar. Set up as a kind of safe room. It’s her and some others I found on the way. I left them with guards that I trust.”
Kit exhaled. “Good. That’s good.” She turned back to Gregor and Addison, her voice soft when she said, “I’m so sorry. But you can’t stay here. We need to get you somewhere safe.”
“But Kymber—” Addison wailed.
“C’mon Addie,” Gregor said, even as tears rolled down his dark cheeks. “She’s gone. We have to move.”
When Kit looked to Tristan again, his eyes were closed, his lips moving with a silent prayer for Kymber and the felled guards. Then, they snapped open. “I’ll take them. Meet you—where?”
“The throne room,” Kit said, and with a final nod, Tristan, Gregor, and Addison left.
“All right, let’s go. We’re almost there,” Sephone said.
Together, Kit, Nox, and Sephone sprinted farther into the castle. They turned into the grand hallway that led to the throne room and—
“Hargrave!”
The guard was mid-duel with a cultist. Blood ran from a gash across his brow, and Kit cursed inwardly at having potentially distracted him.
It turned out, the only one she distracted was the cultist. The man’s eyes went wide as he took in the trio of Arcanians sprinting down the hall, giving Hargrave the perfect opportunity to skewer him with his sword just below the wolven medallion hanging over his chest.
The cultist died with a low moan.
“Where’s Thibault?” Sephone asked as they skidded to a stop in front of Hargrave.
“Fucking damned if I know,” he replied, looking around wildly. “Thought he was right behind me. Maybe he already went in?”
As if on cue, cries rang from behind the massive throne room doors. Sephone and Nox hauled open the double doors and Kit ran inside, only to halt mid-step at the sight of the chaos within.
Broken glass and torn banners littered the floor.
Each and every window had been smashed in.
In the center of the room, the throne was toppled, King Callum cowering behind it with Barcroff and three members of the king’s council huddled around him.
Four king’s guards stood in a semicircle in front of them, a shield wall.
Two additional guards lay on the floor, arms and legs askew at grotesque angles, blood spilling onto the white marble.
And in front of them . . .
Dentarius stood alone, his silver doublet splattered with blood, arms raised, wrists rotating in endless circles, wind swirling around him—a vortex that was keeping the four cultists he fought at bay. No, not four cultists. Three. Three and . . .
“Thibault!” Hargrave’s yell was barely audible over the roar of Dentarius’ wind, but Thibault’s head jerked up as he caught sight of his compatriot and immediately ran his blade into the side of the nearest cultist.
“About damn time, my friend,” said Thibault, flashing a grateful smile.
Kit blinked. For a second, it had looked like—
Her eyes went to the now very dead cultist on the floor at Thibault’s feet, and she shook her head. She must have been mistaken.
There was little time to analyze what she thought she had seen anyway. Not as the two remaining cultists realized what had just happened, realized they now had a threat at their back. And realized they were very, very outnumbered.
The first man took one look at his fallen comrade and bolted straight past Kit and out the door.
The other took longer to decide. Looked from the cadre of knights guarding the king to Kit, Nox, and Sephone behind him, then to the living storm that was Dentarius Jaen.
Finally, he looked to Thibault and Hargrave, both of whom had moved farther into the room, and with his palms raised in surrender, he shuffled toward the door . . . and ran.
Dentarius dropped his hands, and the whipping wind subsided. Kit exhaled—a breath of relief.
“Sent some of them running, did you?” Tristan quipped as he came up beside her, taking in the destruction of the throne room. “Don’t worry, I got one.” He lifted his bloodied sword to show off the smear of blood on the point. “The other was too fast though, sorry.”
Nox cast a disinterested look at the doors. “I shall return shortly.”
“Retreating cultists are not our main concern,” Kit said, but the nocterrian had already stepped into the shadows. She rolled her eyes, turning back to Tristan. “How many more do you think are in the palace?”
Tristan shook his head, the bravado he’d managed to muster quickly fading. “I don’t know. I don’t know. There were so many at first. So many of us at first. They turned. Friends. Fellow knights. Men I knew for years.”
“What are you saying?” The king had finally gotten to his feet, one hand gripping his fallen throne as he navigated around the dead guards on unsteady feet.
He waved his hand at the bodies, and the remaining guards immediately set about moving their fallen comrades.
“Are you insinuating that my palace was infiltrated by these wicked people?”